Tuesday, 15 February 2011

Boaster's Bar

This is Boaster's Bar another Club of Queer Trades song and written around the same time as The Hip Replacement Priest and like that song it comes out of that period where I was trying to write songs about London pub-life and barflies and dole uncles and that whole shabby no longer genteel milieu. I had been reading Dickens' "Sketches by Boz" at the time so there you have it - my literary antecedent is Charles Dickens. Obviously.

This was actually written in the King's Head in Crouch End a pub known for its thriving comedy scene and its comically truculent bar staff. In fact London bar staff has finally managed to kill off my enthusiasm for pubs. Better than hypnotherapy. Well done, rude pricks - you may have saved my life. Though I didn't ask you to!

Boasters’ Bar

Listen to me and I'll tell you about them all in here
No stone left unturned for the price of a pint of beer
The apogee of idiocy, you'll see more tits than Rigby and Peller
Like a petri-dish, it's a slice of life but with comedy in the cellar
I don’t know if you've realised this is a fashionable part of town
So keep your hands in your pockets and your valuables nailed down
There's an actor from the telly on his way back from the gym
Showily drinking Guinness until you notice him
He'll catch your eye, tut loudly, whisper something to the staff
And they'll all turn round to stare at you with a sycophantic laugh
I'm not sure who those hipsters are, could they be in a band?
They've an air of sneering confidence and they're dressed like Russell Brand
I'm not jealous of the fellas, but I hope they haven’t peaked
They've shifted seven units on i-tunes this week
This part of town is famous for theatrical residents
And here they are, at the bar, shy and hesitant
Three actresses in harem pants, dramatically ill-starred
Trying to pay for a small house-white with a fucking credit card
They bray, they coo, they whinny, they canter and they snort
They'd exit stage left pretty fast if they could read my thoughts

I don’t know who you think you are but I'm the star of the Boaster's Bar

There's a couple of T.V. folk; he's florid, she's not bright
But he keeps buying all the drinks and she's doing alright
Her days of being a runner are heading for the tape
If she calls it a career move you couldn’t call it rape
In the corner by the window, fairy-lighted in the rain
Two sallow men are sitting drawing up sketches of pain
They've an infant in the ice-box, a dog straining in the yard
They've killed a dozen men in here and never yet been barred

I don’t know who you think you are but I'm the star of the Boaster's Bar

Over in the booth and I promise it's the truth is the worst man you could ever hope to meet
He's a legend around here and before you get the fear be thankful you didn’t meet him in the street
His smile is like a shark’s and I'll tell you before you ask that not a single tooth of his is filled
He used to be a soldier and every sparkling molar is from the mouth of somebody he's killed
His eyes are black as night and his skin is deathly white and his body's dimpled with a thousand scars
He shaves with broken glass, living relatives are sparse and he drinks the fucking petrol out of cars

I don’t know who you think you are but I'm the star of the Boaster's Bar

No comments:

Post a Comment