Old Blind Pew

That old blind Pew

Will put the spot on you

He’ll put the spot on you

Will old blind Pew

He’ll hunt you down

In country or town

In country or town

He’ll hunt you down

To avoid your fate

It’s far too late

It’s far to late

To avoid your fate

You’ll hear his stick tap

On your door it will rap

On your door it will rap

You’ll hear his stick tap

A rat a tat tat

A sound like that

A sound like that

A rat a tat tat!

A rat a tat tat

A rat a tat tat

A rat a tat tat

A RAT A TAT TAT!

That old blind Pew

Will put the spot on you

He’ll put the spot on you

Will old blind Pew.

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The man who had no tale to tell

Once upon a time

Not so long ago

In a land not far from here

And one you probably know

There lived a man….

Mediocre was his name and mediocrity was his creed

For danger and excitement he felt no personal need

Middle class and always middle of the class

He took every opportunity to let opportunity pass

Now I know this man and I know him well

I never thought he’d have a tall tale to tell

Well he told this tale and he told it well

This faceless little man had been through the gates of hell

It was his hobby to drive right across the nation

Collecting train numbers at every existing railway station

He’d write them all down in a little black book

Like an illustrated gospel for all the care that he took

Every, entry, entered and itemised

The quality of his work would not be compromised

At this single thing did he really excel

And that is the reason that he went to hell

One evening as he drove right across the nation

Collecting train numbers at every existing railway station

His car broke down on a high mountain road

And he knew enough about cars to know it would have to be towed

He’d never felt the need for a mobile phone

No one ever phoned him and he’d rather be alone

Like a big black dog after a particularly juicy bone

Who answers his masters’ voice with a heart of stone

Well there in the distance was a welcoming sight

A bright little light in the beginning of the night

It really was a welcoming sight

That bright little light to keep away the fright of the night

Like a moth who doesn’t understand the nature of flame

Or a young schoolboy who doesn’t know the rules of the game

Entranced by the light he walked towards its’ spell

And he walked right through the gates of hell

At the bottom of a valley was a nice little house

Where lived a nice little farmer and his nice little spouse

They lived out there all alone

And they’d never even thought of getting a telephone

They offered him a meal and a bed for the night

They promised he could meet their price all right

All he need do is spin them a tale

But they didn’t tell him what would happen if he should fail

Well he accepted their offer and he accepted it real fast

And they all tucked in to a healthy repast

Roast beef washed down with good homemade beer

As far as he could see there was nothing to fear

Syrup pudding with a jar of thick Jersey cream

Followed by thick chunks of cheese that would make him dream

But never did he dream during all this fine fare

That this whole experience would become a frightening nightmare

They settled down to coffee and little minty chocs

Sitting by the fire in their slippers and their socks

And that’s when they asked him to pay his due

As smoke and sparks went up the flue

He had no tale to tell

He had never done or seen anything worth the telling.

Oh the sky caved in and the earth exploded out

And he fell into the pit of hell with a mighty shout!

Devils and demons stabbed him there

Against the burning fire of hells’ reflective glare

The hounds of hell chased him for a spell

Until he took refuge in an un-holy well

Where sickened and giddied by the awful smell

He regretted his life had left no tale to tell

He waded his way across the sorrowful pond

He swam through the treacle of the slough of despond

He ran across the bridge of dark despair

But the grass wasn’t any greener over there

A thousand weeping willows wept for him

Filling his cup of sorrows up to the brim

He got lost in the forest of lamenting souls

But he could not escape the burning coals

He met politicians and preachers and civil service men

All condemned for condemning other men

Law-givers, lawyers and makers of the law

All left stranded on hells’ desolate shore

The limiters and rulers of what should be a limitless life

Those who like to create trouble and strife

For every little rule that they’d ever devised

There’s another section of society that they’d criminalised

He pondered and he thought and he finally realised

That he did possess the thing that they most prized

Oh the sky caved in and the earth exploded out

And hell spat him out with a mighty shout!

They settled down to coffee and little minty chocs

Sitting by the fire in their slippers and their socks

And that’s when they asked him to pay his due

As smoke and sparks went up the flue

He told them his tale

And it began

Once upon a time

Not so long ago

In a land not far from here

And one you probably know

There lived a man….

Long John Silver’s long lost son

Ever since I was a little lad

I’ve dreamt of being just a little bit bad

I know this must sound just a little bit sad

But Long John Silver was my dream world dad

Long John Silver or Captain Flint

We’d rob a bank or the Royal Mint

Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest

Drink and the devil had done for the rest

Those are the bits that I liked best

You can keep Jim Hawkins and forget the rest

Long John Silver or Captain Flint

We’ll rob a bank or the Royal Mint

Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest

Drink and the devil had done for the rest

Yo ho ho and with a bottle of rum

I’m Long John Silver’s

Long

 Lost

Son

Babylons Burning

Babylon will burn.

Skinheads, punks and students. With a healthy sprinkling of squaddies as this is a garrison town.

A heady little brew.

A spicy looking stew.

The skinheads hate the punks. The punks hate the skinheads. The squaddies will probably join the skinheads. Everyone hates the students, even me and I am one. What deranged Entertainments Officer in their stripy blazer and scarf was daft enough to dream this little gig up? The Rutts are coming and Babylon will burn.

Babylon is burning.

Five minutes after the Rutts start their set Babylon ignites. The lead singer is setting about a bunch of skinheads with his microphone stand and calling them fascists. His language is appalling, I feel like asking him if he kisses his mother with that mouth, a symphony in f sharp, flat, major and minor. Boot and beautiful alliteration punctuate his sentences as he lays out all about.

The skinheads are hitting the punks.

The punks are hitting the skinheads.

Skinny little students are holding up their fists in classic Marquis of Queensbury pose and skinny little students are getting creamed. The police are outside. There’s a rumour that someone has had their throat cut with the ragged edge of a split beer can. The police took one look in and decided the air was cleaner out there. In my opinion this is a pity as they would be the final perfect ingredient in this volatile little mix.

One more tribe

To go to war

For a haircut.

Me?

I am perfectly calm.

Sometimes I am impervious to harm.

People run towards me but for some reason they always back off.

Perhaps they think I am a crazy person because of my goofy smile.

Perhaps they do not like the broken bottles that I hold

 one in each hand.

If this is Hell’s kitchen

Then tonight

For one night only

I am head chef.

Mr Misfit

I’m the man with no plan

I’m the dude with no food

I am the sugar daddy

Who tasted sour when you chewed

I’m the rotten apple

Who spoils the whole damned barrel

I’m the silverfish

In your designer apparel

I’ll always turn up

Like a bad penny

For I am the few

Who spoil it for the many

I’m Mr Misfit

And I’m proud of it

I’m Mr Misfit

Get used to it.

French Vet

A French vet,

an Oxfordshire Farmer who moved here in the seventies

 and me

 a little mockney trying to interpret.

It is the middle of a Foot and Mouth epidemic and we are high on the hill in deep rural Wales. The vet wants to know which fields belong to which farmer and which farmer belongs to which field.

 “Williams”.

 “Williams”.

 “No, not that Williams but that Williams”

 “Davies”.

“Davies”.

 “No, not that Davies but that Davies”

“Williams”.

“Davies”.

“Williams”.

The young French vet is beginning to look bewildered. One of us is talking broad Oxford, one is talking mockney and the vet is speaking bad English with a strong French accent. The Oxfordshire farmer and the little mockney are enjoying themselves. The French vet looks like he is about to have a nervous breakdown. His clipboard is shaking.

Our accents become exaggerated,

we can’t help it,

 it just has to be done.

Welsh place names that once sounded vaguely like they are meant to now sound like villages in the Cotswolds or a pub on the Mile end Road. We up the stakes by giving him too much information.

“That Williams is related to that Williams”.

“But not that one”

“No”.

 “They might be second cousins”.

Then we deliver the coup de grace.

“That Williams rents that land from that Willliams who rents the farm from that Williams whose farm is actually owned by his mother Mrs Williams who lives on another farm further up the road”

 His face crumples.

We make him wash his Wellingtons in disinfectant before he leaves

to take another valium

before visiting Mrs Williams

at The Old Bull And Bush

in Stow-On-The-Wold.

Football

A working knowledge of mid to late 70’s football chants might be helpful but not essential

We are out of the ground and we are on the street.
There they are. There are more of them than there are of us but that is just part of the pleasure when you see them run.
We issue our challenge and spit out the ancient forms.
Hands held out wide we beckon them on. We move a few steps forward then we move a few steps back.
We’ve danced this dance a thousand times and we will dance this dance a thousand more.
But they are not dancing.
Where’s the thin blue line of brave British bobbies who normally choreograph our little ballet?
They come for us.
They rip us apart.
Horny handed dockers and proper working men
I won’t be going back there to see them again
I won’t be shagging their women or drinking their beer
My only desire is to get out of here
We said we’d see them
And we’d see them outside
And we probably did
As we ran for our ride
OH SHIT!
The car has gone!
Which is ironic
It was a stolen car
Beaten, bloodied, bowed and cowed we make it to the station. We force our way onto the first available train, the first available train to anywhere, anywhere but here.
We reach Euston. Euston station where early in the morning, if you follow a trail of rainbow coloured piss
you will almost always find a homeless person, curled up, like a nesting dormouse, in a tatty old sleeping bag.
Life is full of such wonders.
“What do we pay our taxes for?”
It is the inalienable right of every British citizen to be able to hurl insults at opposing football fans and call their wives whores without fear of physical retribution.
Coming up the escalator is a member of a different tribe
A fresh faced youngster who wears his scarf with pride
We chase him and we hunt him until we loose him in the crowd.
The battle of Euston station!
“Oh we’re the lads!”
We’ll shag your women
And we’ll drink your beer
Lippy little runts we are here!