Monday, 9 May 2011

Cliff Diving

This one sounds a bit thin in context now but is a perfectly effective 80's pop tune with some tasty Duran Duran brit-funk guitar from Doug (and some tasty everything else from Doug, really). My offering is a bit meage here but the lyrics have some appalling puns and excrutiating rhymes so it's business as usual really...


I may be suffering from dementia,
As I pursue this Posiedon adventure,
Slipping under the ocean like a stone,
But I'm not going fishing,
I'm on a fact-finding mission,
Trying to find the crab's base on my own,

And it's dark, so very dark,

With the surface so far above me,
Come on in the water's lovely,

Once that surface tension's broken,
I'm free, free to be me,
Under the sea,
And with that undulating motion,
I'm free, free to be me,
Under the sea,

I'm not unaware of the danger,
There's a dog-fish in the manger,
With the sort of claws,
That are a liability,
But the sea gives a sense of freedom,
Albeit one with one with rocks and weeds in,
With a powerful undertow,
Of liberty,

And it's dark,
So very dark,

Got my confidence in the water,
I won't be like a lamb going to the slaughter,


Once that surface tension's broken,
I'm free, free to be me,
Under the sea,
And with that undulating motion,
I'm free, free to be me,
Under the sea,

But what's this?
Labarynthine caves,
An under-water maze,
And who's this?
Behind these rocks and boulders,
A plethora of crabby dozers,
And as I hide behind these rocks,
Here's a sentry with his eyes on stalks,

Bartholomew's Fare

This and Drinking constitute the breakaway pop-hits from the The Night of the Crabs. Which is odd because they are rather unconventional tunes; the former a music hall folly and this a folk ballad or shanty. That said it's
one hell of an ear-worm, with those shimmering weed fronds singing backing vocals and that shimmering African pop guitar on the chorus.

The title is a three fold pun: it riffs on the ancient London fair held on the 24th of August within the precincts of the Priory at West Smithfields. But also at this point in the stories narrative, and rather pointedly by the end of the song, Bartholomew becomes "fare" (in the sense of "fine fare") for the crabs. And lastly it's the price he pays for being deformed and disabled in Guy N Smith's peculiar world; where Pat thinks he's evil and Cliff genuinely considers shooting him because he's ugly. It's the ugliness that forces him to live on the beach and puts him in the front-line of the crustacean/human war. Lastly I hope he has his fare for Charon the ferryman to deliver him over the river Styx. Which as we know is just down the coast from Barmouth.

See, I don't just throw these things together. That's craft mate. You think puns just happen?


Oh my name is Bartholomew,
And don't let me collar you,
Cause I'm so very hard on the eyes,
My body is twisted, my palms often blistered,
From combing the beaches at night,
My teeth are ill-fitting,
My brows always knitting,
Though it looks like my stitches have dropped,
And the stench of putrescence,
Is my oily essence,
I stink like a squid gone to pot,

But I'm happy, I'm so happy,
Patrolling the beaches at night,
Flotsam and Jetsam; when I want some, I get some,
And who is to say I'm not right?

Oh my name is Bartholomew,
And don't let me follow you,
Cause I have an agenda concealed,
My secret passion is the splishing and splashing,
Of tanned lady tourists, un-peeled,
Their hot golden hides,
Hips narrow or wide,
Their bosoms that jiggle and bounce,
My ony goal when I go on a stroll,
Is tallying big nipple counts,

But I'm happy, I'm so happy,
Patrolling the beaches at night,
Flotsam and Jetsam; when I want some, I get some,
And who is to say I'm not right?


Oh my name is Bartholomew,
But don't ever holler "You!",
Cause on top of it all I'm quite deaf,
It's the thing that hurts most,
I'm as deaf as a post,
It'll probably contribute to my horrible death,
To give you an example, If I were to be trampled,
By a giant crustacean horde,
I'd not know a thing, till I'm sliced up real thin,
In fact it's just happened...Good LORD!

Hangover Hospital & Chicken in a Box that you Eat on the Bus

Well I've excused The Nude Scientists previously so you know what you're getting but I mean really...there is no excusing song number two here! Number two being appropriate. Radio-4-Mitch-Benn-Middle-class-middle-aged-smugness-by-numbers and, unforgivably, not that funny. But then...the chorus really works as a sort of shield-battering call to arms and really I used to hate those little fuckers when I lived in London. So fuck 'em.


Oh my my aching head,
As I resolve to get out of bed,
My tongues as dry as Ghandi's sandal,
Hanging on to the toilet's handle,
Why do we do it to ourselves?
Joylessly sinking pint after pint,
My teeth are veined with purple stains,
Monday's Valpolicella night,

I wish that there was a hangover hospital,
Where a normal life lived was sort of possible,
I could dry out, try out for the human race,
Leave behind this state of disgrace,

I run a razor over my tongue,
My nose is crusty and my eyes are stung,
My hands are shaking and here come the sweats,
My skin is yellow and it's sopping wet,
The bathroom floor is an oasis of calm,
But my stomach won't let me be,
Lurching forward with mounting alarm,
I grab the loo seat like a steering wheel


I wish that there was a hangover hospital,
Where a normal life lived was sort of possible,
I could dry out, try out for the human race,
Leave behind this state of disgrace,

Doctor, Doctor please come quick,
It's not natural to feel this sick,
You've got to help me to shake this disease,
"Son I'm not sure you can meet my fees,"
I can take the empties back to the shop,
And I'm collecting all the bottle-tops,
"Let me tell you son what I'm thinking,
Your best bet is to give up drinking!"



Chicken in a box that you eat on a bus

Hot date over on the estate,
Oh how to get there - I don't want to be late,
I'm looking bare good,
You can see my pants from space,
The only thing is,
I haven't fed my face,

Chicken in a box that you eat on the bus,
Chicken in a box that you eat on the bus,
It stinks and it's greasy and it doesn't half smell,
And you can leave it on the bus as litter as well,

I've made an effort,
I'm a ladies man,
I play my tunes on my phone,
And as loud as I can,
And no one better tell me,
I should turn it down,
Ain't grease on my phone,
For you you clown,

Chicken in a box that you eat on the bus,
Chicken in a box that you eat on the bus,
It stinks and it's greasy and it doesn't half smell,
And you can leave it on the bus as litter as well,

I tuck my trackies,
Into my trainers,
Wear my gusset,
Down to my knee,
Walk like i've been buggered,
In a prison shower,
And nobody can say to me,
This isn't cool,
Or this isn't chic,
Or that I dress,
Like a mental defective,
Looking as shit as possible,
Is the teenage prime directive,

Thursday, 5 May 2011

Child Stars

...in a continuing series entitled "Poor man's Luke Haines" John commemorates the death of someone he has never met by writing a song all about himself. Slow hand-clap to fade....



Desperate times call for desperate measures,
So make mine a double, a triple, a pint,
Corey Haim never made it to forty,
I'm drinking to child stars tonight,
I saw MacCauley Culkin in the theatre,
Cast alongside Irene Jacob,
The oddest pairing I had ever witnessed,
He spoke like he had marbles in his gob,

Child star where did it all go right,
Was it simply dimples, were your teeth always so white?
Your'e dead and buried but the films live on,
And i have to live with these songs,

Wednesday, 4 May 2011