Chumbawamba – Swingin’ With Raymond (1995)

SWINGIN’ STUFF

CHUMBAWAMBA ON THIS RECORD ARE:
LOU: ROSEGROVE INFANTS, LOWERHOUSE JUNIOR
HARRY HAMER: ON THAT WE AGREE
PAUL GRECO: THE SIMPLEST THINGS YOU SEE ARE ALL COMPLICATED
BOFF: ROMBALD’S MOOR 1990
DUNST: BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE
MAVIS DILLON: DAVE LENTIL
DANBERT NOBACON: 666
ALICE NUTTER: OH I WAS JUST ABOUT TO PHONE YOU

OTHER PEOPLE:
ENGINEERING ON ALL SONGS: NEIL FERGUSON. HE’S ACTUALLY MORE THAN AN ‘ENGINEER’, HE GETS VERY INVOLVED.
ASSISTANT ENGINEERING AT WOODLANDS: PAT, DRINKING WHISKEY, PHONING UP AT THREE AM TO DISCUSS CATHOLIC GUILT
ASSISTANT ENGINEERS AT WYNDINGS: SIMON & STUART
VIOLIN ON LOVE SONGS: DEE SCHOLEY
SLEEVE PHOTOGRAPHY: CASEY ORR
EXTRA VOCALS ON SALOME: SIMON COMMONKNOWLEDGE
LIVE TAPE IN THE MIDDLE OF SALOME: BABS FOX AT THE FFRWD
KNUCKLE DUSTER PHOTOGRAPH: GINNY SCHOLEY
DESIGN: BAADER MEINHOF
THE DOG: BRANDY
THANKS TO BOTH RAYMONDS
THE HANDS BELONG TO: RAYMOND MILLS

ALL SONGS WRITTEN AND ARRANGED BY CHUMBAWAMBA
PRODUCTION BY CHUMBAWAMBA & NEIL FERGUSON
ALL SONGS PUBLISHED BY CHUMBAWAMBA SONGS (LEOSONG)

Swingin’ With Raymond is two seperate recordings put together and given a name: it’s the Lovin’ It record and the Loathin’ It record.
The Love songs were recorded & mixed at Woodlands Studio, Castleford in April 1995. The Hate songs were recorded & mixed at The Wyndings, Wrexham, in June 1995. Woodlands is in an industrial estate and adjoins a lard factory. On hot days the fat stinks and you never see the daylight, ever. The Wyndings is a converted Mineworks in Welsh farmland, it’s always sunny there and they have a dog and some football nets.
So. For a few years we’ve been mixing up all the ragtag dog-ends of everything we listen to, calling it “influences” and cramming it all into every song. Stealing by any other name (just being modest, y’know). This time we go for the straight split-down-the-middle Cooing and Barking thing. No Lou’s voice on the hate stuff, no loud guitars or shouting on the love stuff. Hearts laid open (as usual) diving headlong into the boiling pool which is popular culture. This record is another installment in our plan to prove that there’s room for contrary bastards in rock n roll.

“Speak softly… and carry a big stick” (Theodore Roosevelt)

THIS GIRL

THIS GIRL
SHE DIDN’T TURN OUT
QUITE THE WAY SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO DO
OOH
THIS GIRL
SHE GOT BORED OF ALL THE THINGS
THEY BROUGHT HER UP TO SAY
SHE NEVER MEANT THEM ANYWAY

THIS GIRL
SHE GOT CAUGHT OUT
ON THE MULTI-STOREY CAR PARK
THROWING GOODBYE NOTES
WRAPPED UP IN BRICKS
WHEN THEY PUT HER IN THE CAR
SHE SAID “JESUS MADE ME DO IT”
BUT ALL THE PRIESTS IN ALL THE WORLD
COULDN’T SAVE THIS GIRL

THIS GIRL
CONTENT WITH ALL THE BLOODY NOSES
SCABBY KNEES
YOU GET FROM FIGHTING WARS LIKE THESE
RUNNING PAST THE TIDY HOUSES
PULLING FACES
THIS MATERIAL WORLD
COULDN’T TEMPT THIS GIRL

NOW SHE ENTERTAINS THE WORLD
AND ALL IT’S MATES
BUT SHE DOESN’T FIT IN
EVERYBODY THINKS THIS GIRL IS GREAT
BUT SHE’S LACING ALL THE PARTY DRINKS
WITH VENOM FROM A POISON PEN

THIS GIRL
SHE MADE A HABIT OF HABITUALLY LYING
DOES EVERYBODY’S HEAD IN
SHE KNOWS WHAT HAPPENS
WHEN THE NEXT STOP THAT YOU SEE
IT’S NOT THE ONE
THAT EVERYONE EXPECTED IT TO BE
THIS GIRL

HAPPY FAMILIES
ROUND THE SUPERMARKET CHECK-OUT
SHE LOVES TO BE THE ODD ONE OUT
THE PARTY GIRL WHO STAYED UPSTAIRS
PLAYING MUSICAL CHAIRS
LA-LA, LA-LA-LA
SHE DOESN’T CARE
THIS GIRL

NOW SHE ENTERTAINS THE WORLD
AND ALL IT’S MATES
BUT SHE DOESN’T FIT IN
EVERYBODY THINKS THIS GIRL IS GREAT
BUT SHE’S LACING ALL THE PARTY DRINKS
WITH VENOM FROM A POISON PEN

THIS GIRL
SHE DIDN’T TURN OUT
QUITE THE WAY SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO DO
OOH

“Traveler, there is no path; paths are made by walking.” (Old Spanish saying)

NEVER LET GO

THESE RED AZALEAS
NEVER GREW SO TALL
THIS WELL OF LONELINESS
COULD RISE AND DROWN US ALL

THERE IS NO RIGHT OR WRONG
THINGS FALL AS THEY DO
PULLED BY THE SUN & THE MOON
FOREVER COMES TOO SOON

PEOPLE COME / PEOPLE GO
BUT STILL I’LL NEVER LET GO
IDEAS COME / IDEAS GO
STILL I’LL NEVER LET GO

I’VE FALLEN FOR THE GIRL
BEEN MAD ABOUT THE BOY
WHEN YOU’VE KISSED AN ANGEL
THERE’S JUST NO CHOICE

THERE IS NO RIGHT OR WRONG
THINGS FALL AS THEY DO
PULLED BY THE SUN & THE MOON
FOREVER COMES TOO SOON

PEOPLE COME / PEOPLE GO
BUT STILL I’LL NEVER LET GO
IDEAS COME / IDEAS GO
STILL I’LL NEVER LET GO

LYING WITH THE SQUARES
ON THE KITCHEN FLOOR
WATCH THE CLOCK’S POINTING FINGERS
THEY’VE SEEN IT ALL BEFORE

THERE IS NO RIGHT OR WRONG
THINGS FALL AS THEY DO
PULLED BY THE SUN & THE MOON
FOREVER COMES TOO SOON

PEOPLE COME / PEOPLE GO
BUT STILL I’LL NEVER LET GO
IDEAS COME / IDEAS GO
STILL I’LL NEVER LET GO

“When I have shaken off my passion, somewhat as a dog shakes off an unexpected plunge into the canal, I find myself without any understanding of what it was that ravaged me.” (Jeanette Winterson)

JUST LOOK AT ME NOW

DON’T TELL ME LIES
I DON’T NEED FINGERPRINTS, SO
BUTTON UP YOUR COAT
BEFORE YOU CATCH YOUR DEATH OF COLD

THROW AWAY YOUR BOOKS
THEY’RE BUILDING WINDMILLS
THREE MILES UP
OUT ON THE MOORS
THERE’S AN EMPIRE WAITING

LOOK AT ME NOW!
I CAN TAKE ON THE WORLD – AND WIN
LOOK AT ME NOW!

TOWNY GO HOME
WHISPERS IN THE TOWER OF BABEL
BUT I HAVE ALL I NEED
I HAVE SHOES WITH SHARPENED SOLES

AND EVERY SIMPLE JOY
WE MAKE IT ALL SO COMPLICATED
WHEN ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW
IS PUTTING THE MEAT
AROUND YOUR BONES

LOOK AT ME NOW!
I CAN TAKE ON THE WORLD – AND WIN
LOOK AT ME NOW!

JUST LOOK AT ME NOW
BOTH FEET ON THE GROUND
MY SIGHTS ARE FIXED ON THE HORIZON

“It’s like a dam in the brain… which bursts.” (Edna O’Brien)

NOT THE GIRL I USED TO BE

WONDERING
HAVE I GIVEN UP DREAMING?
COME DOWN FROM THE CEILING
I WON’T DO THAT AGAIN
THINKING
MY MISSPENT HISTORY
MISTAKES TO TEACH ME
I WON’T DO THAT AGAIN
DREAMS I KEPT AS A CHILD
KEPT ME QUIET AND HYPNOTIZED
COOKED AWAY MY VALENTINES
SERVED MYSELF UP EVERY NIGHT
COULDN’T SEE ME FOR THE TREES
AND ALL THAT HALLMARK POETRY
I’M NOT THE GIRL I USED TO BE
WONDERING
HAVE I GIVEN UP DREAMING?
COME DOWN FROM THE CEILING
I WON’T DO THAT AGAIN
THINKING
MY MISSPENT HISTORY
MISTAKES TO TEACH ME
I WON’T DO THAT AGAIN
TRYING TO BREAK THE FAMILY TIES
CHOCOLATE HEARTS AND TACKY LIES
HEARD A THOUSAND CRAPPY LINES
AND I BELIEVED THEM EVERY TIME
SO I BEG TO DISAGREE
LOVE’S NOT TAKING ALL OF ME
I’M NOT THE GIRL I USED TO BE

“The most vital right is the right to love and be loved… and if partial emancipation is to become a complete and true emancipation of woman, it will have to do away with the ridiculous notion that to be loved, to be sweetheart and mother, is synonymous with being slave or subordinate.” (Emma Goldman)

THE MORNING AFTER (THE NIGHT BEFORE)

UNHOLY SUNDAY – A WINTER’S DAY (MINE IS THE KINGDOM)
CHURCH BELLS RING A MILLION MILES AWAY (FOREVER AND EVER)
NOWHERE TO GO, NOTHING TO DO
BUT STAY HERE WARM IN BED WITH YOU
THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE

ICE ON THE WINDOWS, LET’S THAW IT AWAY (IT’S A HELL OF A WINTER)
SO MUCH TIME TO WASTE, SO MUCH TO SAY (PEPPERED WITH LAUGHTER)
NOWHERE TO GO, NOTHING TO DO
BUT MOVE JUSTALITTLEBITCLOSER TO YOU
THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE

SUNDAY AFTER SATURDAY
THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE

PLASTICINE PEOPLE WE COULD BE (DO WHAT YOU WANT TO)
SQUEEZING TOGETHER FOR NOW OR FOREVER (FOREVER OR NEVER)
NOWHERE TO GO, NOTHING TO DO
BUT ROLL UP INTO A BALL WITH YOU
THE MORNING AFTER THE NIGHT BEFORE

“She laughed. She didn’t know what it was, but it was forbidden and she liked it.” (Jeannette Winterson)

LOVE CAN KNOCK YOU OVER

HERE’S THE DEVIL IN DISGUISE
HITS ME RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES
LIKE A THIEF OUT OF THE NIGHT
SOMEONE TAUGHT HIM HOW TO FIGHT
LOVE CAN KNOCK YOU OVER
LOVE CAN KNOCK YOU OVER

TONGUE-TIED & CRUCIFIED
CROSS MY HEART & HOPE TO DIE
BUT I’LL GET UP AGAIN
AND I’LL FALL DOWN AGAIN
AND I’LL GET FOOLED AGAIN
LOVE CAN KNOCK YOU OVER
LOVE CAN KNOCK YOU OVER

BEATEN BY THE SUCKER PUNCH
AND I DON’T CARE ABOUT GETTING UP
YOU CAN COUNT ME OUT THIS TIME
AND I WON’T MIND

SO USED TO USELESS METAPHORS
LOST THE BATTLE, WON THE WAR
WORDS TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY
PASS AWAY
LOVE CAN KNOCK YOU OVER
LOVE CAN KNOCK YOU OVER

“The best work is done with the heart breaking, or overflowing.” (Mignon McLaughlin)

ALL MIXED UP

SITTING ON THE SHELF WHEN SOMEONE CALLED MY NUMBER
A TEMPLATE IN ONE HAND, SCISSORS IN THE OTHER
“WHAT LUMP OF CLAY IS THIS?” SAID THE KINGMAKER TO ME
DULL, GREY MATTER, PERFECT FOR HIS ALCHEMY
THE FUTURE FLESH AND BLOOD ON THE BONES OF THE BIG LIE
A NO-WIT WHO’S FACE FITS – AND NEVER WONDERS WHY;
I MET MY MEPHISTOPHELLES, THE PAPERS SEALED IN BLOOD
LIKE I GOT A TRANSFER DEAL: “THE LAD DONE GOOD!”

GOOD KING DANBERT AT THE HELM
HIS FACE ON EVERY COIN OF THE REALM
AND EVERY TIME WE SING, IT’S “THREE CHEERS FOR THE KING!”
SIRHAN SIRHAN, WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?

ALL MIXED UP
WE TAKE A FOOL FOR A KING
ALL MEIXD UP
MISTAKE A FOOL FOR A KING

THE WASHING POWDER ADVERT
THAT EVERYBODY HATES
BUT ALL THE RESEARCH SHOWS THAT’S HOW BRAND NAMES ARE MADE
SQUEAKY CLEAN, NO SKELETONS,
IN OTHER WORDS: I’VE NEVER LIVED
MAKES ME HIGHLY-QUALIFIED
TO DECIDE WHAT GIVES
ROUGH-SHOD, RIDING RAIL-ROAD
OVER ALL THE AWKWARD QUESTIONS
QUEEN VICTORIA OF GRANTHAM
TO GIVE ME HER BLESSING
IT’S WRITTEN ALL OVER ME;
I’M TOUCHED BY THE HAND
I AM THE SOMETHING VERY ROTTEN
IN THE STATE OF LITTLE ENGLAND

GOOD KING DANBERT AT THE HELM
HIS FACE ON EVERY COIN OF THE REALM
AND EVERY TIME WE SING, IT’S “THREE CHEERS FOR THE KING!”
SIRHAN SIRHAN, WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?

ALL MEXID UP
WE TAKE A FOOL FOR A KING
ALL MXDEI UP
MISTAKE A FOOL FOR A KING

“Fools had ne’er grace in a year,
For wise men are grown foppish
And know not how their wits to wear
Their manners are so apish.”
(Shakespeare, The Fool talking to King Lear)

How to turn shit into gold? The alchemists have been doing it all along under the cloak of the Divine Right of Wannabe Kings. Touched by the hand that gives the enema. Worming tablets, flea powder and disinfectant baths for the heir-apparent politician who will show most willingness to go one lower: “I’ll do anything to be on television.” Pull out all the stops. Whatever it takes to make him fit the Bill: “I smoked but I didn’t inhale; my face turned red and then blue! I sent my son to Public School and even the Wicked Witch of the West approves.” And so the Fool as professional idiot has been outclassed and made redundant by the genuine stupidity of these smart Alecs… but the Fool worth his salt finds out where the wise man is ticklish – and laughs with him as he drives the knife home into the soft, yielding underbelly…

“There is more force in names than most men dream of; and a lie may keep it’s throne a whole age longer, if it skulk behind the shield of some fair-sounding name.” (Anonymous)

THIS DRESS KILLS

I’M JUDAS/JUDY, PANICKING, GOT EVERYTHING AND NOTHING
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR PRESIDENT! I’M HERE TO CALL YOUR BLUFF!
FROM THE TOP OF THE WORLD I’M GONNA JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!
SO IMPERFECTLY IMPERFECT AND I DID IT FOR YOUR LOVE

I’M AS SMALL AS THUMBELINA, SUGAR FAIRY ON THE CAKE
BECAUSE THE THINNEST OF EXCUSES LEAVE THE BITTEREST TASTE
BRITTLE-BONED, BARBIE-CUED, TAKE A PIECE OF MY HEART
WHEN YOU KNOW YOU HAVEN’T GOT IT, DOES IT MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD?

THIS DRESS IS KILLING ME!
FROCKANOIA*

I WON AND THEN I LOST AND THEN I WON AND THEN I LOST
AND NOW I KNOW HOW MUCH A POUND OF FLESH CAN COST
AND THE QUESTION ISN’T IF, IT’S A DEFINITE WHEN
DO I THROW MY ACHY HEART INTO THE GUTTER AGAIN?

THIS PARTY ISN’T OVER ‘TIL THE THIN LADY SINGS
CRITICS DRESSED AS WAITERS ARE WAITING IN THE WINGS
WHERE THEY’LL GATHER LIKE VULTURES TO PICK AT THE BONES
I WON AND THEN I LOST AND I GOT NOTHING AT ALL

THIS DRESS IS KILLING ME!
FROCKANOIA

*A FEELING OF BEING CONSTANTLY FIGURE-WATCHED

No matter how close women come to the ideal body, when it’s your own body it never quite feels close enough. The pressure to be perfect is intense: Karen Carpenter, Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe… but it’s not just the famous who binge and starve themselves towards self-destruction. At 22, weighing in at just under eight and a half stones, I went on a diet. Obsessive would be an understatement. I could have gone on Mastermind with a specialist subject of “how many calories?” (a tomato has fifty and has to be paid for with a walk across town to burn it off). Every woman I know had dieted at one time or another, so food phobia, and never feeling thin enough to measure up, didn’t seem weird. Knowing the feminist theory and the easy lines about self-acceptance wasn’t enough to make me feel good about my body. There’s glamour in wasting away; I wanted to be glamorous more than I wanted to fight the stereotypes. There’s no point claiming appearance doesn’t matter. A woman spends her whole life being judged on it. There are a few women for whom weight isn’t an issue. The big lie is that women diet because they suffer from individual neurosis; in fact, the struggle to be thin isn’t one of asserting individuality, but of desperately trying to fit in.

SALOME (LET’S TWIST AGAIN)

PART PUNK PART GOD ALMIGHTY
PART FUCK YOU PART MR X RAY EYES

I DIDN’T CHOOSE TO BE
SHOUTING FOR A LIVING, IT HAPPENED
SOMETHING SNAPPED: AND I DON’T KNOW WHY
TOO MANY SLAPS? TOO MANY PRIESTS?
FUMBLED SEX IN PARKS?
OR JUST A PART OF THE ME ME ME GENERATION
THE THATCHER YOUTH
COMING HOME TO ROOST

IF THE OLD SCHOOL CAP FITS, WEAR IT
BUT I’LL TAKE MY CAKE AND SHARE IT
BURNING DOWN A BONFIRE MADE OF TEACHERS
PAY YOUR VAT BILLS ON THE CINDERS
JUST YOU AND LITTLE MOLLY FLINDERS
DOING THE TWIST AT ALL THE DANCES
DON’T LOOK TO ME FOR ANSWERS

LET’S TWIST AGAIN, SEE THEM SING
LET’S TWIST AGAIN, HEAR THEM SING
LET’S TWIST AGAIN
BRING ON THE DANCING GIRLS!

PART SUSSED PART AMATEUR
PART LOVE YOU PART MR BLEEDING HEART
I SINGALONGA, JUMP UPPA-DOWNA,
WATCH THIS SPACE
I’VE GOT LUNGSFULS OF THIS STUFF
BOTH SIDES TOGETHER IN THE COMMONS BAR
JUST WHO THE FUCK
DO THEY THINK THEY ARE?
I AM NOT A POP STAR –
I AM A PART OF THE CLASS WAR

“EVERY REVOLUTIONARY
IS MOTIVATED BY LOVE” *
I SEE THE NEWSREELS: 200 BODIES
IN A SHALLOW GRAVE IN EAST TIMOR;
WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO?
FORGET IT? PRETEND IT NEVER HAPPENED?
WHILST POLITICIANS CIRCLE-JERK AROUND
LEGAL JARGON TOTEM POLES

LET’S TWIST AGAIN, SEE THEM SING
LET’S TWIST AGAIN, HEAR THEM SING
LET’S TWIST AGAIN
BRING ON THE DANCING GIRLS!

YOU TELL ME
WHERE DOES ENTERTAINMENT END
AND RESPONSIBILITY BEGIN?

OH SALOME WAITS
SHE SAYS “BRING ME ALL THE HEADS
OF ALL THE HEADS OF STATE”

LET’S TWIST AGAIN, SEE THEM SING
LET’S TWIST AGAIN, HEAR THEM SING
LET’S TWIST AGAIN
BRING ON THE DANCING GIRLS!

*TO PARAPHRASE CHE GUEVARA

“Boy, they were big on crematoriums, weren’t they?” (George Bush, comment made on tour of Auschwitz)

Salome was a dancer who performed a dance so well that the King granted her whatever wish she pleased. To his surprise she demanded the head of John the Baptist on a plate. He provided it. Where are today’s entertainers?
Recently there was a re-run of a TV documentary centred around the final four weeks of a condemned man’s life in an American prison. One of those programmes you don’t ever intend to watch; you just get drawn in. And just when you’d begun to get to know the guy – who’d spent something like seven years on death row fighting this day – just when you’re thinking that programmes like this only get shown when the bloke gets off at the last minute (haven’t we all seen the film a thousand times?), the prison guards sheepishly led him away to the gas chamber. Despite the governor, the screws, the press, the lawyers, all saying how they believed the prisoner was innocent. And he went to the chamber saying “I am innocent. I didn’t do nothing”. I just sat and watched… and cried. It was one of those times when I understand why I’m in a pop group that tries, awkwardly, to articulate an anger at the way things are. Because I know that if I’m to understand how to have a good time, I can’t ignore this gut feeling. It’s part love, part anger, part bullshit. I think for most of us the bullshit is the easiest bit to show to the world.

OXYMORON

SHINY BUTTON-DOWN CLOWN SUIT
OXYMORON
EXPAND THE SIMPLEST OF CHORES
OXYMORON
MR CONSTANT CONSTERNATION
AND HIS DECLARATION OF WAR
MAKES A FIST OUT OF DEMANDS
WITH IS PLASTICENE HANDS

MATEY MAKES A BIG BIG DEAL
OXYMORON
AND MATEY MAKES A BIG BIG MEAL
OXYMORON
BOASTS OF CONSCIENCE SO BIG
IT MEANS HIS UNIFORM WON’T FIT
COOKING BOOKS AND PUNCHING DRUNKS
WORKING FOR THE REAL CROOKS

THE GOOD COP
OXYMORON
THE GOOD COP
OXYMORON

I DON’T BELIEVE IN THE GOOD COP

AT THE TICKET INSPECTOR’S PARTY
OXYMORON
PRISON GUARDS EYE STORE DETECTIVES
OXYMORON
ALL GOOD FIGHTERS OF CRIME
SAME REPEATED CHAT-UP LINE:
“ARE YOU WELL TOOLED UP?
COME AND HAVE A GO IF YOU THINK
YOU’RE HARD ENOUGH”

WATCH THEM TIGHTEN THEIR STRAPS
OXYMORON
YES SIR I SWITCHED ON THE TAPS
OXYMORON
HEADS TO CRACK, EYES TO BLACK
BEAUROCRATS WILL COVER YOUR TRACKS
HERE’S HOW YOUR DICTATORSHIPS BEGIN:
FOOLS OBEY WITHOUT THINKING

THE GOOD COP
OXYMORON

I DON’T BELIEVE IN THE GOOD COP

oxymoron – noun, rhetorical(ly). A figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction (e.g. the good cop) [Gk f. oxus sharp & moros foolish]

A few short steps away from the custodial suite. The plain clothes guys still dress in the same ‘slacks and loafers’ uniform they wore when the show began it’s run some twenty years back, only they look even more ugly now. Routine enquiries. A double act. Nicholson the bad cop, Ross the good cop, two halves of the same pantomime horse. Not many other cops around but you can hear them, away from their paperwork, imposing the curfew in the dead of night and fighting crime where it doesn’t exist. They don’t take you to a cell because this interview is strictly off the record. Nicholson shouts the loudest and makes the biggest threats. He’s going over the edge. Calm down for chrissakes! Softly, softly. Ross comes across as the Good Samaritan, armed with a cup of insipid coffee. There, there. They persist with the whole routine and in the end… Ross, the good cop, hits you in the face anyway, when he tires of the pretence. I never believed it. I knew. I’ve been there. And I don’t believe in the good cop.

“He that first cries out ‘Stop Thief,’ is often he that has stolen the treasure.” (William Congreve, 1695)

WAITING, SHOUTING

JUST TAKE A TICKET
IT TAKES YOU NOWHERE
THEY SAW US COMING
IT’S THEM AND US HERE
JUST KEEP YOUR VOICE DOWN
AND LIGHT ANOTHER
I AM A PATIENT GIRL
I WAIT, I WAIT, I WAIT
IT’S NOT YOUR MONEY
DON’T CALL ME STUPID!
NOT BIG OR CLEVER
MEAN CAN MEAN AWKWARD
IT’S WIGAN PIER HERE
I’M NOT FOR JUMPING
SEE CANDID CAMERA
SEES NEXT TO NOTHING

YOU KEEP ME WAITING…
I KEEP ON SHOUTING!

MY LETTERBOX KNOWS
BANGERS AND BAD NEWS
GOOD MORNING CAMPERS –
SEES QUEUES & QUEUES & QUEUES
THEY SPELL MY NAME WRONG
IT’S NOT FOR ART’S SAKE
AND EVERY TRUTH TOLD
BLACK MARK ON BLACK MARK
YOU LOVE TO CHEW ON
THIS BREAD AND BUTTER
YOU CRUNCH YOUR NUMBERS
AND PUSH YOUR PAPERS
PILE-UP ON PILE-UP
MALICIOUS BAD TURNS
I’LL LIGHT ANOTHER
SLOW FUSES, SLOW BURN

YOU KEEP ME WAITING…
I KEEP ON SHOUTING!

There’s a breed of desk clerk who’d love a life in uniform. He/she behaves as if your fortnightly giro or doctor’s prescription or housing benefit cheque comes straight from their own personal account. They religiously follow the rule book, try and numb people into apathy and see work as a vocation rather than a pay packet. It was a cliché when The Prisoner yelled: “I’m not a number! I am a free man!” but in the 90’s, the urge to assert ourselves in the face of supposedly impersonal bureaucracy continues. Sometimes there’s one queue too many.

“Disobedience… the original virtue.” (Oscar Wilde)

HEY! YOU! OUTSIDE NOW!

ONE YEAR LATER
THIS QUEUE NEVER MOVED
I’VE GOT WELL DRESSED SLUGS
CRAWLING OVER MY SHOES
AND ALL THESE BOUNCERS
PUSHING ME AROUND
WELL I’LL HUFF AND I’LL PUFF
I’LL BLOW YOUR HOUSE DOWN
IN THESE HARD TIMES
NO MONEY FOR THE ARTS
NO MONEY FOR A BONUS
AND MY CAR WON’T START
THE TAXMAN COMETH
AND THE LANDLORD TOO
NOW SOMETHING BETTER CHANGE
I’VE GOT THINGS TO DO

SCRATCHED RECORD CARRIES ON FOREVER
LAST WALTZ CARRIES ON FOREVER
PRIZE FIGHTER CARRIES ON FOREVER
TOO MUCH BOWING
TO THE SACRED COW
HEY! YOU! OUTSIDE! NOW!

TWO YEARS LATER
AND THE TAP STILL DRIPS
THIS PAIN IN MY BACK
MEANS I STILL CAN’T SLEEP
THEY’RE RIPPING UP THE LONGSIDE
FOR PLASTIC SEATS
WE’RE RIPPING OFF THE GAS
JUST TO MAKE ENDS MEET
HALF THE POPULATION
LIVING OFF CRIME
I’M TALKING ‘BOUT THE FUCKERS
ON QUESTION TIME
POP FOPS ON HORSE
HAVEN’T GOT A CLUE
NOW SOMETHING BETTER CHANGE
I’VE GOT THINGS TO DO

SCRATCHED RECORD CARRIES ON FOREVER
LAST WALTZ CARRIES ON FOREVER
PRIZE FIGHTER CARRIES ON FOREVER
TOO MUCH BOWING
TO THE SACRED COW
HEY! YOU! OUTSIDE! NOW!

THREE YEARS LATER
AND I’M STILL IN THIS QUEUE
NOW SOMETHING BETTER CHANGE
I’VE GOT THINGS TO DO
TOO MUCH BOWING
TO THE SACRED COW
HEY! YOU! OUTSIDE! NOW!

“Don’t rock the boat, Baby! Don’t tip the boat over!”

We’re not reformists. While liberals claim that all the system needs is ‘a bit of fine tuning’, we’re not prepared to spend valuable time faffing with the dial – at best we’d be stuck with better reception on the same old crappy tunes. Sometimes the heavy-handed approach works best. Sometimes debate won’t work. Soemtimes you get pushed so far there’s little space left for reason. I watched this year as a group of nazis in the crowd at a festival in Finland threw seig heils at Dodgy’s singer Nigel, after he’d made an anti-fascist remark from the stage. I watched as a handful of people went and confronted these pathetic boneheads and forced them to leave. And I watched how the rest of the huge crowd stood by and… waited for someone else to sort it out. What’s going on? Everyone has a point where they snap. Where the waiting turns to shouting. (As a pop group we’re part of a business which thrives on not getting involved. As people we’re taking lessons in full-time boat-tipping.) The scratched record, jumping and hopping back to the same groove, and a roomful of people standing on the dancefloor waiting for someone else to sort it out…

UGH! YOUR UGLY HOUSES!

YOUR UGLY
YOUR UGLY
YOUR UGLY HOUSES
LOOK SO
UGH!

Sting lives in a £2 million Elizabethan mansion. It’s 41 rooms are paneled with Queen Anne oak; in it’s 54 acres of lawn and woodland there are two cottages, stables, a tennis court and a boathouse. A quick glance between the covers of hello! magazine will reveal that, despite it’s decadent grandeur, Sting’s shebang is decorated with a style befitting a sad old rocker millionaire who, like so many other rich twerps, imagines himself lord of a tudor manor. Friezes along some of the walls depict likenesses of Sting and his family dressed as elizabethan minstrels…
A 1975 UN survey revealed that one quarter of the world’s people are either homeless or living in unfit shelter conditions. The same survey stated that three quarters of the total investment and construction in developing countries is devoted to upper class housing, one fifth to middle class housing, and the tiny amount left over goes to families of low income. Meanwhile, back at the ranch…
Rod Stewart’s Epping place (he has several around the world) cost him £20 million. This particular mansion is another georgian-oak big rich kid’s playhouse “done in traditional jacobean style”. Rod has stuffed it to the gills with expensive chintz and paisley patterns – another mish-mash of paneling, paintings and period furniture. Inevitably, it has it’s own full-size football pitch with a full-time serving groundsman. Ugh.

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