Fleance (as played by Keith Chegwin in Roman Polanski's "The Tragedy of MacBeth or "The Scottish Film")

Bit of a long title that one. Possibly trying to win a bet. I don't really remember who this would have been presented to, possibly CQTs as Martin was getting everything I was writing at that time. Though it doesn't really fit that idiom. Maybe Knock-Knock or Nude Scientists then; it's pretty academic at this point.

More Morrissey kicking.


Fleance (as played by Keith Chegwin in Roman Polanski’s “The Tragedy of MacBeth or “The Scottish Film”)

“He has killed me, mother”
Is a line that Morrissey,
Would probably have killed for,
Passive-aggressively,

But those Northern tones were never his,
But Cheggers’ off the telly,
Gambolling in his empty hose,
A bare-bodkin in his belly,

The Devils of London & Goodbye Stroud Green Road

More Club of Queer Trades songs about London. I had no idea then, of course, that I would be leaving London, and under what circumstances; so these seem like parting shots to me now.

The Devils of London is, of course, a pun on The Devils of Loudon by Aldous Huxley and the the first line puns on the name of the protagonist of that novel Urbain Grandier. So far so pointless. Grandier was played by Oliver Reed in Ken Russell's film version (called simply "The Devils")and that is why the middle eight is entirely constructed of the titles of Oliver Reed films including the Jukebox Jury appearance that Russell saw and which persuaded him to cast him as Debussey.

I'd forgotten I'd done this until I came to type this up and I suppose the real question is: why? No idea.

Stroud Green Road is the high street bisecting Finsbury Park and leads directly onto Crouch Hill where delicious and popular celebrities live (Simon Pegg! David Tennant (though not any more!) Arabella "Does my bum look big in this?" Weir! And Bernard Butler.) The song is my fantasy, and by criminy it IS a fantasy, of moving into that salubrious yummy mummified enclave and breathing the same rarified air as Caitlin Moran and Peter Paphides! Imagine!


The Devils of London

All this urban grandeur,
Black stone books, finger-printed with smut,
If these too, too solid walls could talk,
What would they say to us,
Here's a burly boulevadier,
A neat scar torn across his cheek,
Has a ring on every finger,
A conscience that plays hide and seek,

The devil's in the details,
In the dovetails overhead,
A trumpet sounds and the walls come down,
This is the city of the dead,

A jug of orange with a vodka chaser,
And a pint closing the gap,
Ten to one that he can't make it,
To the bathroom without mishap,
I've seen them all come through here,
My gift of vision doubly strong,
Like Silenus, this drunken prophet,
Admits his losses and is never wrong,

The devil's in the details,
In the dovetails overhead,
A trumpet sounds and the walls come down,
This is the city of the dead,

A right royal flash in the pan,
In this shuttered room with the shattered damned,
No love for Johnny and an angry silence,
A hunting party that ends in violence,
Spasms, venom and days of fury,
Hello London, hello juke box jury


Goodbye Stroud Green Road

I needed a refuge when the floodgates opened,
After the deluge,
You can't trust your friends,
When the port-cullis of fame descends,
I woke up one morning to find myself famous,
And rich as Croesus,
And by the light of a new day dawning,
I ripped my address book into pieces,

So goodbye Stroud Green Road,
It was fun but now I've had my fill,
With all the success I've won,
Now i'm moving up the hill,

My face is so banal, it's everywhere,
On posters and towels,
I'm in the papers everyday,
My clippings library is off the scale,

Please don't get me wrong,
I've lived hand to mouth for so very long,
I've followed so many pursuits,
I'm not entirely sure which one bore fruit,
I'm on Dragon's Den,
I'm sneering at desperate deluded men,
And I guess it's sort of funny,
As i've no idea how I've got so much money,

I was an actress, held a criminal practice,
Before being called to the bar,
I was an actor, temporary contractor,
Model and valet driver, blood and sperm provider,
I was a battery hen, sold my body now and then,

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

What I did on my holidays

This is another Club of Queer Trades tune. It should be fairly obvious who it's about. Or you're not paying attention.


What I did on my holidays


I really used to stand for something
The desperate man with his tail trapped in the door
Now I’d sooner sit down with a cup of tea
I’m not fussed about standing anymore
I was so thin, skin translucent under arc-lights
Now I look like a mafia Don, on a transatlantic flight

I’ll write a song about Mexico
I’ll write a song about Rome
I’ll write a song about anywhere
As I no longer have a home
I’ve lost my sense of humour
And I’ve lost my sense of place
Now I just write about
What I did on my holidays

I was the King, I truly was the King
The face that lunched a thousand shits
My Karaoke road-show’s all go
I sing along to all my hits
I ran the show, each and every practise bon-mot
Reached the dizzy heights right? So how’d I ever get solo?

I’ll write a song about Mexico
I’ll write a song about Rome
I’ll write a song about anywhere
As I no longer have a home
I’ve lost my sense of humour
And I’ve lost my sense of place
Now I just write about
What I did on my holidays

How to describe the indie-scribe-able?
Devious, Truculent; Unreliable

The Drunkest Man in the Room

This is another Club of Queer Trades "number" and therefore it was written in 2010 as I suspect all of them were. 2010 was a bumper year for me in terms of songwriting and personal devastation, writing upwards of 60 songs, most of them for The Club. Drinking is one of the mainstays of my ouvre and public and private drunkeness is one of my areas of expertise. Not that I'm an expert drinker my any means; I've always been rubbish at it, as I was at smoking when I gave that a go. I'm currently viceless, not even snuff at parties. This is why:



The Drunkest Man in the Room

I came here to party but the party's petered out
I'm drinking alone in the coat room
the hum of strangers; a strip of light under the door
I'll need another drink soon

A fat couple burst in from the party
she's flushed, he's amorous
I try to speak, slur my words, spill my drink
it's less than glamorous

Once again the drunkest man in the room
A fixed point, the party pivot
Always drinking to forget my life
And my failed attempts to live it

How much I drink, well, it's staggering
‘Round the room with my glass
Around the room with my top up
An own goal from a pretty pass

I'm John and I'm the party pole-star
My light is growing dim
Everybody navigates around me
"At least I'm not as pissed as him"

Once again the drunkest man in the room
A fixed point; the party pivot
Always drinking to forget my life
And my failed attempts to live it

I really like the flavour
I savour every drop
I like what drink does to me
I just can’t seem to stop
I've got a decent palette
And I can be a snob
I sleep upon the sofa
With wine stains around my gob
Once again the drunkest man in the room
A fixed point; the party pivot
Always drinking to forget my life
And my failed attempts to live it

Tell them I said something

One of the neatest, most concise lyrics I've written and one of Martin's sweetest and simplest tunes - I love this one.

The title, of course, comes from Pancho Villa's famous last words: "Don't let it end like this. Tell them I said something."



Tell them I said something

And if you find me, small and yellow
On a pillow
On some hospital ward that can’t afford
A working nursing staff
Tell them I had the last laugh

And tell them I said something

And if you ask me, semi-conscious
In a taxi
In sotto voice but sort of blotto
And maudlin in my cups
For heaven’s sake make something up

And tell them I said something

Short Man Blues & Fat Today

These too are jokes. Short Man Blues was written about a friend who, while claiming that she was desperately lonely and would try anything for love, maintained an aggressively heightist agenda. Men under 5'11" were simply not up for consideration.

Fat Today is me channeling my own woes through a "Loose Women" filter.

Short man blues

I’ve got the short man blues
I’m drowning myself in yellow fizzy booze
I’d cheer myself up with some impractical shoes
But then I’d tower over him

I’ve got short man syndrome something rotten
I’m Miss Woeful, Miss Wistful and Miss Begotten
A blue eyed boy in my bed seems somehow verboten
Replaced by something grim

Here comes another knee- high Napoleon
His bony-parts exposed, there’s no consoling him
Lying on his back on the linoleum
I’ll need to get out the vim


fat today

I felt fat today; it was hanging over my belt
How I wish, to paraphrase the bard
This solid flesh would melt

I pinch the flesh above my hip
Soft beneath my thumb and knuckle
I think I’ll join a gym, I muse
But pour a gin and then do fuck all

Come friendly bombs and fall on blokes
Their farting and their dirty jokes
The loo seat left up every time
Our partners in a life of grime

If we could break them in like horses
Send them off on umpteen courses
Till Stepford boyfriends were returned
Much humbled by lessons learned

Manicured and ripped and toned
Empathic skills all neatly honed
We’d learn to hate this new edition
We couldn’t stand the competition

The Hip Replacement Priest

This was written for The Club of Queer Trades. You can tell that really, I take time over the club songs because i can write them from scratch. with virtually all the other bands the music comes first and you sort of join the dots. this is an excellent way of working; a guide vocal gives you the timing, stresses, the syncopation and then you can go away and work backwards from that. When i'm working on Big Marker or KNOCK-KNOCK songs I'm singing them almost at the same time as hearing them so there is an immediacy and an energy to them: they're quite vivid. But with The Club I like to seat back in an armchair with a good single-malt and a loaded churchwarden and let the inspiration billow out of my nostrils.

The obvious reference for the song is The Fall's "Hip Priest" but really, lyrically it's a cross between Jarvis Cocker, Jake Thackray and the spoken word bits from Dexy's "Dont Stand Me Down" (specifically "What's she like" in the running to be one of my favourite ever songs).

The notion of making old people the vanguard of media culture is one that's close to my heart but it's a pipe-dream. Old people look funny.



The Hip Replacement Priest

A lot of people, they
Come up to me, they say
John, you’re a pretty cool guy
Well you must have been back in the day
I say “Sure, I had my moments
I wasn’t captain of the team, you understand
But the skinny boys, the readers
I took them by the hand
I told them what to read and why
And how to comb their hair
Which rock and roll bands were cool
And which of them were square
A long time ago and far away
There was a magic land
The sun was always shining so
Desert boots were in demand
There were feminists, vegetarians and hunting saboteurs
Seven inches, hand-pressed and dressed
Were always “de rigueur”
Fringes, badges and Crombie coats
Were non-gender specific
And no one ever had a fuck
But the wanking was terrific,
And I bestrode it like a colossus
They called me Iron John
Because of the solid principles
I built my empire on
But not any more friends
Fisherman’s caps no longer doffed
I’m super-annuated
My rep’s been pensioned off
My jowls have dropped like shopping
Beauty’s become the beast
My bed-side manner’s moribund
As the hip replacement priest

What is it, do you think
That first starts to go?
The first crack in the windscreen
First empty seats at the show
When did it first slip from my grasp
Could I place the date?
That I first tested my muscles
And found they couldn’t take my weight
I looked like I was off somewhere

Less crowded, dark and cramped
But the travelers’ cheques stayed in the drawer
The passport’s left unstamped
Now my thoughts are never sought
My opinions not required
I still get the odd enquiry
Like “Are you feeling tired?”
“Do you want a sit down?” “Shall I stick on the kettle?”
My carers all have tattoos
And their faces pierced with metal
I shift the tartan blanket
I rearrange my shawl
And think “I could have been the king
I could have had it all”
I’m swaddled in self-pity
Tight as a miser’s cigarette
But I don’t think it hasn’t happened
But that it hasn’t happened yet
I’ll reverse the polarities
I’ll turn things on their head
Popularise pot bellies
Eroticise the wed
They’ll colour their hair grey
With a dye called “Just for Boys”
They’ll be tutting at the live shows
Asking to turn down the noise
Hand-brake turns at the whist drive
They’ll swap the crack den for the snug
The only stimulant sanctioned is
An ounce of ready rubbed
Cardigans and crosswords
Youthful beauty lined with age
It’s not your cataracts; it’s dry ice
As I appear onstage
I’m seated in a rocking chair
Dressed in corduroy and tweed
At my feet sit leggy lovelies
All pretending to take heed
The orchestra starts to swell and
Once the applause has ceased
I croon my theme; my anthem:
The Hip Replacement Priest







http://www.myspace.com/clubofqueertrades

I Am Beset By Angels

This is in a sense the definitive The Club of Queer Trades song: plangent, almost maudlin; full of bad puns and self-conscious cleverness. I stand by the first verse though. It's a true story too: as i was walking back from a pub in Finsbury Park (probably the Old Dairy) with a girlfriend, an older feller, in the days when there still were older fellers, was staggering all over the road ahead of us.One of the bollards had been knocked over in the road ahead of him, the huge lightbulb beneath it exposed and beaming up into the night. He went over to investigate, bent over to look at it and fell flat on his face. We went to assist, looping arms under his and dragging him to his feet, and causing him to complain "I am beset by angels!"

I thought it was one of the oddest and most beautiful expressions I'd ever heard and wrote a song about it 7 years later.


I am beset by Angels

I walk home slowly, by the scenic route
The shortest points between each letter of the alphabet
My snail’s pace leaves a shiny trail
As I leave the pavement black and wet
There’s silver in my water
There are subterranean lights
In the distance booming voices
Filter through the ochre night

I am beset by angels
As I rise above the lights
Strong hands will try and stop me
From dying here tonight

Three times they came to visit me
To save me from the glare
Icarus in factor 50
On a wing and a prayer
The first one took me by the cock
The second by the hand
The third one took a soft boy
And made a gentle man

I am beset by angels
As I rise above the lights
Strong hands will try and stop me
From dying here tonight

These angelic kick-starts
Bring water to the eye
Like the peeling of an onion
I’m a pretty layered guy
Sedimentary, my dear Watson
Tearing at the seams
Three angels at my table
Making me eat my greens








http://www.myspace.com/clubofqueertrades