The Real Damage

I woke up on a sofa in an unfamiliar house,
Surrounded by sleeping folks that I didn’t know.
On failing to find my friends, I decided that it was clearly time to go.
So I made my way out of the door as quietly as I could –
There was no one there I knew to say goodbye –
Squinting in the sadly sobering sunshine of the Sunday morning light.

I started the night with all my friends and I ended up alone,
Oh yes I started out so happy now I’m hung-over and down.
It was about then that I realized I was half-way through
The best years of my life.

So I scanned the local landmarks, trying to find out where I was,
And maybe even find a bus back home.
I was longing for a shower, and for clean sheets, and a charger for my phone.
And suddenly it hit me that I got paid this Friday last
And so I rifled through my pockets for some change.
But all I found was a packet of broken cigarettes and sinking sense of shame.

I had to ask myself, well,
Is it really worth it?
Is any of this worth it?
Well the whole thing’s far from perfect,
But I’ve yet to figure out a better way to spend my time.

Too many suits and dirty looks made me rack my brains,
And the real damage started to sink in.
It’d been quite a heavy weekend, but I could just about remember where I’d been.

I stood on a street corner, and I felt a little sick.
It was about then that I realized I was half-way through
The first day of the week.

Vital Signs

This country is my canvas –
I leave paint trails as I go.
I’m painting a picture
That you can only see from outer space.
My bedroom is your sofa,
I take my breakfast on the train.
I’m tired and I’m dirty, and not a second goes to waste.

I’ll be dead but never dying, and I say that with a smile
It’s just my way of trying to be alive.

Well I’ll never get to grey hair
And I’ll never be in the black,
But I can tell stories that most can hardly dream.
Dreaming is a luxury,
Like stopping-staring and beauty sleep.
I’ll stop when I’m finished,
And sleep is for the weak.

Heaven’s in the half-light, and that’s where I reside,
A whiskey and a wry smile –
I check my vital signs.

And when I’m gone,
The worlds revolve, and life goes on,
So mark no grave,
Forget my name.
If the song remains
And everybody’s got a drink and a smile,
Well, that’s just fine by me.

Romantic Fatigue

I have to admit that I am one of the many
Who thought that a guitar would win him a lady.
My teenage years, they were a feminine drought,
And I thought that a serenade would help out.
And it seemed to be working for a couple of years –
I wrote a few songs and they wrought a few tears.
But when I hit my twenties, it ran out of steam.
I seemed to be suffering from romantic fatigue.

And I never know which song I should play her –
Each melody is a memory of a not-forgotten failure.
So when I get out my guitar tonight to do what I do,
Remember, I probably didn’t write this song for you.

So as I have mentioned, the shelf-life was short.
The scheme wasn’t working, despite what I thought.
The ladies all left me alone in the end,
So I had to switch all the names around and then sing it again.

And every life-long love, and every best friend,
Slipped away into the past.
Take my words with caution – I can’t pretend that you’re the first,
You won’t be the last.

I never know which song I should play her –
Each melody is a memory of a not-forgotten failure.
So when I get out my guitar tonight to do what I do,
Remember, I probably didn’t write this song,
No I certainly didn’t write this song,
No I never, never wrote a song for you.

A Decent Cup Of Tea

It hadn’t been a day when everything had turned out right –
She called me up and asked me to come over in the night,
To make her cups of tea and listen quietly as she starts
To list the latest list of bastards who have trampled on her heart.

I see her in the nightclubs, I see her in the bars,
At rooftop after-parties, or crammed into friends’ cars,
And we talk about the weather, and how she drowns her pain in drink,
And I nod and never ever dare to tell her what I think.

She summers by my seas
But winters without me,
And she cries into her tea
That she’s secretly lonely.
And oh me, what am I to do?
It’s obvious to me,
But she never seems to see
That it’s not about the days when everything has turned out right,
No it’s more about the moments when she calls me in the night
To make her cups of tea and wash the weary worries from her head
And then to draw the pain out slowly as I put her into bed.

And I slip this information
Into all our conversations
But she never seems to listen
And she never seems to see.

Father’s Day

When I was sixteen I cut myself a Mohawk,
Because I wanted to walk the walk,
And not just talk the talk,
But it was a bit of a disaster because
I did the sides with kitchen scissors,
Because I didn’t have any clippers,
And I didn’t want to use a beard-trimmer –
I’d made that mistake before.

When you got home you didn’t want to talk about what I’d done.
You said I’d let you down, I’d fucked around, when I was only having fun.
With the way that you’ve been lately, you’ve no right to scream and shout.
You and I, we’ve got a lot that we need to talk about.

What’s the point in making vows that you’re never going to keep?
A lifetime lying awake means you’ll never get to sleep.
And all the promises you made, that were painful and untrue,
Of all the things you do they reflect worst on you.

We all have our own devices
For handling mid-life crises –
Usually involves a motorbike and
Suspicious fashion decisions.
But you choose to stave off grey hairs by
Lamely hacking at the sides
With lies and flimsy alibis
For your suspicious expeditions.

When I get home I don’t want to talk about what you’ve done.
Yes you’ve let me down, you’ve fucked around, but I guess you were having fun.
With the way that I’ve been lately, I’ve no right to scream and shout.
You and I, we’ve got a lot that we need to talk about.

You always told me Father’s Day was just another way
Of selling Hallmark greeting cards
Twenty Years of waking sleep, of lying through your teeth,
Meant every Father’s Day spent wondering who the hell you are.

What’s the point in us making vows that we’re never going to keep?
I keep trying to keep you up, but you keep on falling asleep.
And all the promises we made were painful and untrue,
But for better or for worse, I am turning into you.

Worse Things Happen At Sea

Honestly, relax my dear, it’s clear that we are done.
It doesn’t take a scientist to figure out that one.
It’s obvious, the way you move, the way you hold your head,
The way you hide your pretty eyes and shift across the bed.

Honestly, I’ll be fine, this isn’t my first time.
I’ve taken blows before and every time I have survived.
You made it clear you didn’t care, you never did pretend,
And in the end at least you never try to fuck my friends.

Well honestly it doesn’t matter, I know better than
To cry over spilt milk, wasted effort, spoiled plans.
We’re adults here so shed no tears, I’m sure we can be friends.
I’ll nod and smile and watch you in the arms of other men.

Well honestly, your honesty, it has emerged unscathed,
And I hope you’re doing fine, because me, I’m doing fucking great.
And I wouldn’t want to waste another second of your time –
I know my place, I know your face,
So you hide yours and I’ll keep to mine.

You say “Worse things happen at sea”,
I say “Worse things have happened to me”.
Bitter eyes to the bedroom floor –
And we’re not going to talk anymore,
We’ve got nothing to talk for,
And you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.
And I’ve got no one to care for.

This is the worst thing that’s happened to me.
I guess worse things happen at sea.

My Kingdom For A Horse

Would you pick your clothes up, put your clothes on,
Pack your things and go?
I’m tired of sinking this low.
Awkward semi-naked coffee conversations fade
Quicker than mistakes that were made.
Mornings when I’m coming down, being driven round the bend,
Make for days when I’m losing my friends
For all the little things that I have done and cannot make amends.

Don’t you ever kind of wish that the world would just stop?
That the band would pack up and the curtain would drop?
I’ve been stuck inside the same old nights, the same old days off,
And I need you now because I can’t get out of this.

Clean your mirrors, roll your notes out,
Put your cards away.
That’s a game that I don’t want to play anymore.
My head is sore, my throat is raw, and what’s more
I’m fifty pounds down to feel empty and poor,
Remembering the things that I believed when I was sober and sure.

And I’m trying to speak straight,
But I’m drunk and I’m lonely and you won’t believe me,
And I’m trying to see straight,
But I’ve been up for days and it scares you away,
And I’m trying to keep straight,
But I’d trade it all for just five minutes more
Of your wandering hands with their simple demands that are
All the things I ever wanted, better than the powder and pills,
All the things I ever needed, the only thing that doesn’t seem to kill,
That still makes me smile.

So if I tell you all the little things that I think that I need,
Will you tell me how to tell the world from the woods from the trees?
Because I’ve been stuck inside my comforting familiar disease,
And I need you now because I can’t get out,
And all over Europe the lights are going out,
And I’m pulling down the curtain, but every time I reach out
You’re gone.

Back In The Day

When I was just a skinny lad on holiday by the sea,
I met a girl in a Rancid shirt, and a tape she gave to me
With the Black Flag First Four Years and the Minor Threat Discography,
And punk rock saved my life.
Going down the Red Eye back in 1998,
Hanging out with Household Names and staying out too late,
This angry adolescent found an outlet for his hate,
And punk rock saved my life.

The vision wasn’t perfect and we knew it all along,
We dressed like fucking idiots and got our facts all wrong.
But everyone must needs be an extremist when they’re young –
Fucking with your parents makes you grow up big and strong.

Folding zines and record sleeves while sitting round at home,
Flicking through the catalogues and distros at the shows,
Circle pits and sing-a-longs, come on let’s fucking go,
And punk rock saved my life.

That little dream is over, it was never going to last.
Everybody’s moved along and it’s all in the past,
But when I was just 16 I pinned my colours to the mast.
And punk rock’s in the ink that’s in my skin,
The attitude in every song I sing,
And we didn’t change the world, we didn’t win,
We probably didn’t even save my life, it’s true
But I bet we had a better time than you.

Once We Were Anarchists

The demonstrations got boring –
Well it was obvious that the government was ignoring us.
It’s hard to drag yourself through empty streets
On an empty stomach and no sleep.
The shortcomings got clearer,
As the price we paid got dearer and dearer.
It’s supposed to be a case of give and take –
Well I was feeling the give and making a mistake.

And I’ve heard it said that the unexamined life
Isn’t much worth living, and I’m sure they’re right.
But it’s hard to keep on fighting the good fight
When no one else seems bothered, yeah,
When no one’s on your side.

I’ve got friends who are bankers,
And it’s an easy rhyme to call them wankers,
But I must say I envy the way that they live
In a style that’s all take and no give,
While I’m playing the Lone Ranger,
Riding to the rescue of six billion strangers,
Armed with only unoriginal songs
And a sense that something’s wrong.

And I must admit that I’m tired of saying “no” all the time.
But I must admit that I don’t really know what would be right.
And if politics is helping all the people then my political career is pretty fucked,
Because the truth is I don’t like people all that much.

The times they aren’t a-changing –
Yeah, England’s still shit and it’s still raining,
And everybody’s jaded and tired and bored
And no one lifts a finger because
It’s just not in our culture.
Our culture is carrion and we’re all vultures,
And no one seems bothered by this state of play –
It seems that the stench is with us to stay.

So I had a go, I tried examining life.
It wasn’t much worth living – I guess they’re right.
And I’m tired of fighting a fight that’s not my fight.
But so is everybody else – we’re all on the same side.

I’m young enough to be all pissed off
But I’m old enough to be jaded.
I’m of the age where I want things to change
But with age my hopes have faded.
I’m young and bored of being young and bored –
If I was old I could say I’d seen it all before.
In short, I’m tired, and in short I’m probably fired.
If the revolution doesn’t want me I don’t give a shit.

Wisdom Teeth

It’s been eighteen months since I kissed you once,
So just saying “hi” just isn’t going to fly,
But if you give me a clue and a minute or two,
Then I might remember your name.
And I hate to insist that I was really that pissed,
But to tell the truth, in my flush of youth,
I would drown my sight until faces and nights seemed the same.
And a nervous shrug and an awkward hug
Won’t get me out of the hole that I’ve dug,
So I slip the noose with a poor excuse
And talk to someone, anyone else.
And I sit with my friends and I try to pretend
That I never did that sort of thing again,
But I’m lying to myself.

And suddenly it’s as clear as clear could be:
I’m not quite the perfect man that I hoped I’d be.
And though I always tried to live an honest life,
To tell my truth I’ve told my share of lies.

I remember you, of course I do,
But I don’t recall how many times we’ve been through
This little game, that always ends the same,
With you sad and me far away.
And every time I repeat the line
That the fault’s not mine and I wasn’t unkind.
But the worst part is that I’ve got nothing else to say.

And all the pretty little pictures of faith and firm devotion
That I painted as a child,
Well they have fallen by the wayside, along with all my puppy-fat,
But my days have taught me this:
That every day I spend pretending that I always choose the right path
Is a day that I choose the wrong.

Oh yes my wisdom teeth have been giving me grief –
They woke me up to find that I’m exactly the kind of
Guy I said that I’d rather be dead than be
In the days before I got laid.

The Ladies Of London Town

There’s so many beautiful girls in here tonight,
I can hardly stand it.
Where do they go during the day?
Who the hell do they go home with at the end of the night?
I don’t understand it.
They never go home with me.

You dance as if you’re hours away from death,
You’re wearing too much make-up and showing too much flesh,
And you smile a smile to take away my breath,
Because tonight, and only tonight, you know you’re the best.

The ladies of London town
Go flowing through these streets like water
Running little streams down to the river.
They wash the dirty ground, they sweep me off my feet,
But like an English summer, they’ll soon be gone forever.

I’ve seen you trawling Camden at 4am,
Outside of the clubnight,
Deciding whose house will hold a free-for-all.
I’ve followed you back to mansions and I’ve met all your friends
Under the streetlights
But I can never recall what you’re called.

You dance, you sweat,
Your glance is met,
And you hold my gaze a bit,
And pretend you never did,
And I’m left standing on my own.

The ladies of London town throw one last glance over their shoulders,
Blow a kiss, and then they’re gone forever.

Must Try Harder

Mother loves me still despite
My failing health and lack of drive.
Shame on me, I could be so much better than I am.

Songs unfinished, post unopened,
Clothes unwashed and vows now broken.
Shame on me, I could be so much better than I am.

If I could just relax, then I could admit
That I don’t know what I want, but this is not it.
If I could just recall the dreams I had as a kid,
If I could just relax, if I could let my guard slip,
I’d be such a winner.

The Ballad Of Me And My Friends

Everybody’s got themselves a plan,
Everybody thinks they’ll be the man, including the girls.
The musicians who lack the friends to form a band are singer-songwriters,
The rest of us are DJ’s or official club photographers.
And tonight I’m playing another Nambucca show,
So I’m going through my phonebook, texting everyone I know,
And I quite a few I don’t, whose numbers found their way into my phone,
But they might come along anyway, you never really know.

None of this is going anywhere –
Pretty soon we’ll all be old,
And no one left alive will really care
About our glory days, when we sold our souls.

But if you’re all about the destination, then take a fucking flight.
We’re going nowhere slowly, but we’re seeing all the sights.
And we’re definitely going to hell,
But we’ll have all the best stories to tell.

I Knew Prufrock Before He Got Famous

Let’s begin at the beginning: we’re lovers and we’re losers, we’re heroes and we’re pioneers, and we’re beggars and we’re choosers. We’re skirting round the edges of the ideal demographic. We’re almost on the guestlist, but we’re always stuck in traffic. We’ve watched our close associates up and play their parts; they’re chatting up the it girls, and they’re tearing up the charts, while we were paying with coppers to get our round in at the bar. We’re the C-Team, we’re the almost famous old friends of the stars.

Justin is the last of the great romantic poets, and he’s the only one among us who is ever going to make it. We planned a revolution from a cheap Southampton bistro. I don’t remember details but there were English boys with banjos. Jay is our St George, and he’s standing on a wooden chair, and he sings songs and he slays dragons, and he’s losing all his hair. Adam is the resurrected spirit of Gram Parsons, in plaid instead of rhinestone and living in South London. and no one’s really clear about Tommy’s job description, but it’s pretty clear he’s vital to the whole damn operation. Dave Danger smiles at strangers, Tre’s the safest girl I know, Zo and Harps will skamper up to victory in the city we call home.

We won’t change our ways, we will proud remain when the glory fades.

I am sick and tired of people who are living on the B-list. They’re waiting to be famous and they’re wondering why they do this. And I know I’m not the one who is habitually optimistic, but I’m the one who’s got the microphone here so just remember this:

Life is about love, last minutes and lost evenings, about fire in our bellies and furtive little feelings, and the aching amplitudes that set our needles all a-flickering, and help us with remembering that the only thing that’s left to do is live. After all the loving and the losing, the heroes and the pioneers, the only thing that’s left to do is get another round in at the bar.

Reasons Not To Be An Idiot

You’re not as messed up as you think you are – your self-absorption makes you messier. Just settle down and you would feel a whole lot better. Deep down you’re just like everybody else. She’s not as pretty as she thinks she is – just picture her after she’s had kids. I bet she sits at home and listens to The Smiths. Deep down she’s just like everybody else.

He’s not as clever as he likes to think – he’s just ambitious with his arguing. He’s crap at dancing, and he can’t hold his drink. Deep down he’s just like everybody else. I’m not as awesome as this song makes out – I’m angry, underweight and sketching out. I’m building bonfires of my vanities and doubts to get warm, just like everybody else.

Amy thinks her life is lacking in drama, so she fell for horoscopes, faith-healing and karma. She’s so wrapped up in her invisible armour that she’ll never grow into herself. And it’s OK thinking me and all my friends are just wasters, but all the same I can still see through her airs and graces. I guess she’s scared her life won’t leave any traces, kind of like everyone else, and that’s not the point anyways. Oh Darling, I felt compelled to call you up to say:

So why are you sat at home? You’re not designed to be alone. You just got used to saying no. Because it’s a lovely sunny day, and you hide yourself away. You’ve only got yourself to blame. Get up, get down and get outside.

Photosynthesis

Well I guess I should confess that I am starting to get old. All the latest music fads all passed me by and left me cold. All the kids are talking slang I won’t pretend to understand, all my friends are getting married, mortgages and pension plans. And it’s obvious my angry adolescent days are done, and I’m happy and I’m settled in the person I’ve become, but that doesn’t mean I’m settled up and sitting out the game – time may change a lot, but some things they stay the same.

Maturity’s a wrapped-up package deal or so it seems, ditching teenage fantasy means ditching all your dreams. All your friends and peers and family solemnly tell you you will have to grow up, be an adult, be bored and unfulfilled. But no one’s yet explained to me exactly what’s so great about slaving 50 years away on something that you hate, about meekly shuffling down the path of mediocrity. Well if that’s your road then take it but it’s not the road for me.

And if all you ever do with your life is photosynthesize, then you’ll deserve every hour of your sleepless nights that you waste wondering when you’re going to die.

Now I’ll play, and you sing – the perfect way for the evening to begin. I won’t sit down, and I won’t shut up, and most of all I won’t “grow up”.

Substitute

The first girl that I fell for was a fair and faithful fighter, she smouldered with a will to save the world. I did my best to help her, I stood shoulder to shoulder on the frontlines with that visionary girl. I wish that she had cared for me, but in the end her ideologies occupied the fortress of her heart. I wrote her fifteen songs but still we had to part.

If music was the food of love then I’d be a fat romantic slob. Music is my substitute for love.

The last girl that I loved was a low and lusty liar who set my heart on fire and made me choke. Her beauty was a sight to see, but she didn’t save it all for me. I found other fires by following the smoke. I wished that she had either cared for me or let me be, but she drove me from my mind and from my home. I wrote her sixteen songs but ended up alone.

If love is really all that we need then even all my singing is never going to save me. Music is my substitute for love.

I’ve had many different girls inside my bed, but only one or two inside my head. These days I cuddle up to my guitar instead. But oh, what I would give, not to stumble but to really fall in love. And I could substitute my singing for the sound of someone sleeping next to me.

Better Half

Oh my friend loneliness, where have you been? You left me to the lure of a lover who left me alone. And now you come crawling back, and I’ll let you in, and we’ll slip back into grooves that we cut in ourselves long ago.

Oh my dear distance, I’ve met you before, in the longing of a lover who’s lost on a far distant shore. And all my imperfections are all that remain, on the days when I love you and leave you, and you wish that I would stay.

But there must be a better half, somewhere out there, and she lives a better life, a life that she shares, shares with a better man, a man who is there when she calls in the night, who says “Hey, it’s alright.”

And I know what she looks like, her face and her skin, her smell and the rest. I know the feel of her soul but, God help me, I just cannot find her address. Oh how I’ve tried and now all that is left is my old friends distance and sweet loneliness.

Love Ire & Song

A teacher of mine once told me that life was just a list of disappointments and defeats, and you could only do your best. And I said: well that’s a fucking cop out, you’re just washed up and you’re tired, and when I get to your age, well, I won’t be such a coward. But these days I sit at home, I’m known to shout at my TV, and punk rock didn’t live up to what I’d hoped that it could be. And all the things that I believed with all my heart when I was young are just coasters for beers and clean surfaces for drugs, and I’ve packed all my pamphlets with my bibles at the back of the shelf.

Well it was bad enough, the feeling, the first time it hit, when you realized your parents let the world all go to shit, and that the values and ideals for which so many fought and died had been killed off in committees and left to die by the way-side. But it was worse when we turned to the kids on the left, and got let down again by some poor excuse for protest; by idiot fucking hippies in fifty different factions, locked inside some kind of sixties battle re-enactment. So I hung up my banners in disgust and I head for the door.

Oh but once we were young and we were crass enough to care, but I guess you live and learn. We won’t make that mistake again. But surely just for one day we could fight and we could win, and if only for a little while, we could insist on the impossible.

Well we’ve been a good few hours drinking, so I’m going to say what everyone’s thinking: if we’re stuck on this ship and it’s sinking, then we might as well have a parade. Because if it’s still going to hurt in the morning, and a better plan’s yet to get forming, then where’s the harm spending an evening in manning the old barricades?

So come on old friends, to the streets, let’s be 1905 but not 1917. Let’s be heroes, let’s be martyrs, let’s be radical thinkers who never have to test drive the least of their dreams. Let’s divide up the world into the damned and the saved, and ride to the valley like the old Light Brigade, and straighten our backs, and not be afraid, and they’ll celebrate our deaths with a national parade.

Leave the morning to the morning, pain can be killed with aspirin tablets and vitamin pills. But memories of hope and of glorious defeat are a little bit harder to beat.

Imperfect Tense

Naked and wretched and retching on a hotel bathroom floor, somewhere in the city. Three days not sleeping, not eating, not feeling good any more, drenched in sweat and self-pity. It’s not a pretty sight.

Breaking, I’m shaking, it’s taking a long, long time to come down off this murderous medication, trying to remember my reasons for running myself into the ground with such dedication.

What to say in my defence? I was imperfect tense. I used to have such balance, but I don’t know where it went. So would you be my present sense?

And it’s not meant to be, but I am lost at sea, so mermaid, sing to me, of better times and of things that could be on an island in the Mediterranean Sea, and of sleeping and eating at times when I should, and of washing the drink and the drugs from my blood. I’ve nothing to say in my defence, I’m far from perfect, I’m still tense. But they say that love can change you once, please say that love can change me once, come on and change me.

To Take You Home

I come from the land of the Wessex downs, from the Hampshire valleys near Winchester town, in the country where the soft south rivers flow down to the English Channel I roam, and this is where I call home. I sing for my supper and I’m pretty well fed, I cross this island and I make my bed where I can find a crowd and somewhere to lay my head when my travelling day is done, and all of my songs have been sung.

But honey I was lonely on the road, I was all on my own, hanging out sad at the back of a death metal show (CONVERGE). I saw you standing there with your hair down low, a kink in your step that made me want to know if you would like to take me home. And who’d have thought that a French kiss from a Parisian girl could capture an English boy.

he comes from the Channel’s other distant shore, from the land of revolution and of Agincourt, from a king’s bloodstain on a Tricolour, and a culture a little too high for an English boy like me. She doesn’t know the island I grew up upon, the valleys and the rivers that I’ve roamed along, and she doesn’t like my clothes and she doesn’t like my songs, but she’s still my mademoiselle, and “it goes to show you never can tell”.

Because she was a quiet one, she was a shy one, she was the prettiest at the show. But she crept up so slyly, crept up behind me, but still she pretended that she didn’t know. But oh then she fixed me, and then she kissed me, and she’s yet to let me go, and though I’m far away across the sea, I’m singing for the hope that she will ever remember me.

So honey when you’re lonely on the road and you’re all on your own, hanging out sad at the back of the country show, picture me there with my hat down low, a smile upon my face to let you know that I would like to take you home to the hills that I know, to the places I go.

And that’s the way that a French kiss from an English boy can capture a Parisian girl.

Long Live The Queen

Well I was sipping on a whisky when I got the call: my friend Lex was lying in the hospital. She’d been pretty sick for about half a year, but it seemed like this time the end was drawing near. So I dropped my plans and jumped the next London train; I found her laid up and in a lot of pain. Her eyes met mine and then I understood that her weather forecast wasn’t looking good. So I sat and spun her stories for a little while, tried to raise the mood, tried to raise a smile, but she silenced all my ramblings with a shake of her head, drew me close to listen, and this is what she said:

“You’ll live to dance another day; it’s just now you’ll have to dance for the two of us. So stop looking so damn depressed and sing with all your heart that the queen is dead.”

She told me she was sick of all the hospital food, of doctors / distant relatives draining her blood. She said “I know I’m dying but I’m not finished just yet. I’m dying for a drink and for a cigarette.” So we hatched a plan to book ourselves a cheap hotel in the centre of the city and then raise some hell, lay waste to all the clubs and then when everyone else is long asleep then we’ll know we’re good and done.

The queen is dead, South London’s not the same any more. The last of the greats has finally gone to bed.

Well I was working on some words when Sarah called me up, she said THAT Lex had gone to sleep and wasn’t waking up. And even though I knew that there was nothing to be done, I felt bad for not being there, and now she was gone. So I tried to think what Lex would want me to do at times like this, when I was feeling blue, so I gathered some friends to spread the sad, sad news, and we headed for the city for a drink or two, and we sang: We live to dance another day; it’s just now we have to dance for one more of us. So let’s stop looking so damn depressed, and sing with all our hearts: Long live the queen.

A Love Worth Keeping

I rise in the morning at sunrise. The strangers around me sleep soundly at rest. Phones and computers become me, signals stretch back to the land that I left. And oh, in the quiet times, I count up the things that I lack, and slip through the road lines; the betrayal of wandering back.

I left you while you were sleeping, I left you the warmth in your bed where I lay. You left me a love worth keeping, you left me a diary to count off the days. And so in the quiet times, I savour the things that I miss, and slip through the road lines, and wonder how I came to this.

I guess you never know loss till you have something to lose, choice till you have something to choose.

So give me my quiet times to mourn for the things that I’ve lost. You’ll find me on the road lines, counting the miles and the cost. And so I never knew loss because I had nothing to lose, choice because I had nothing to chose. But oh, all the things you do, the way that you close your door, the way that you guard your shores… Darling I’m coming home soon.

St Christopher Is Coming Home

Monday morning comes a-crawling in from another weekend choked with cigarettes and sin. And I’ve been busy so much lately that every time I get some time to spend I end up drunk or sleeping in. And I miss you, you’re busy too, we call each other up when we’re messed up and say we’ll meet in the new year. But it’s perfectly clear that we’ll do no such thing come the spring.

Friday evening barely even begins before my phone begins to ring with people asking where I am. And I can’t suppress a smile, we talk a-while, but chances are that I am far away and so I’m phased out of the plan. And that’s how I miss out on another night, the kind of night where nothing really happens, but everything goes down. And in the end I’m just a promise to pick up the phone when I’m in town.

But when the evening casts its shadows on the corners of my days, and I am old and I am settled in the place where I will stay, when my wandering meanderings have finally reached their end, yes whatever else may be, I will not forget my friends, and may my friends remember me.

Jet Lag

I’ve heard it said the trick is to set your watch when you hit the plane, and that way you can trick the workings of a tired brain. But sometimes I feel sick, sometimes I just feel so drained, and cut down to the quick, longing for that voice again.

On the phone, you always ask if I’m OK, but it’s not the same as being happy.

Airports make me sad – I’m sure they shouldn’t all be the same, but they’re just landing pads for boring tourist shopping chains. I think of times we had, drinking while we wait for your plane, and feeling kind of bad, and wondering which one of us has changed.

Because we used to be slick, with supple young hips, romantic young kissable lips, Unbearably sharp unbreakable heart, wide eyes and faith that life could never pull us apart if we were OK… But distance kills the best intentions.

I travelled 40,000 miles last year and I’m working on the same again. I fell for 15 different girls and nearly lost all of my friends. And though I’m jet-set jet-lag jaded, you’re always sixteen hours ahead, quietly reminding me how I used to be. I used to be slick.

Nashville Tennessee

From the heart of the Southern Downs, to the North-East London reservoirs,
From the start, the land scaped my sound, before I’d ever been to America.

And if I knew anybody who played pedal steel guitar,
I’d get them in my band and then my band would get real far,
But I was raised in middle England, and not in Nashville Tennessee,
And the only person in my band is me.

A simple scale on an old guitar, and a punk rock sense of honesty.
I cannot fail, I’ve got this far with no knowledge of mid-west geography.

And if I knew anywhere where I could drive in a straight line
For hours in the desert, I’d drive for hours at a time.
But I was raised in middle England, not in Nashville Tennessee,
And the only person in this car is me.

And yes I’m in four-four time, and yes I use cheap cheap rhymes,
But I try to make a sound my own.
I know I don’t break new ground, many have travelled this sound,
But I try to make it sound like home.

Well I’ve been to Texas state, I didn’t think it was that fucking great,
And Nebraska is just a bunch of songs,
Holloway and Hampshire where I belong.
And I don’t know anybody who plays pedal steel guitar,
All the city roads are twisted and I do not own a car.
I was raised in middle England, not in Nashville Tennessee,
And the only thing I’m offering is me.

Thatcher Fucked The Kids

Whatever happened to childhood?
We’re all scared of the kids in our neighboorhood;
They’re not small, charming and harmless,
They’re a violent bunch of bastard little shits.
And anyone who looks younger than me
Makes me check for my wallet, my phone and my keys,
And I’m tired of being tired out
Always being on the lookout for thieving gits.

We’re all wondering how we ended up so scared;
We spent ten long years teaching our kids not to care
And that “there’s no such thing as society” anyway,
And all the rich folks act surprised
When all sense of community dies,
But you just closed your eyes to the other sidev Of all the things that she did.
Thatcher fucked the kids.

And it seems a little bit rich to me,
The way the rich only ever talk of charity
In times like the seventies, the broken down economy
Meant even the upper tier was needing some help.
But as soon as things look brighter,
Yeah the grin gets wider and the grip gets tighter,
And for every teenage tracksuit mugger
There’s a guy in a suit who wouldn’t lift a finger for anybody else.

You’ve got a generation raised on the welfare state,
Enjoyed all its benefits and did just great,
But as soon as they were settled as the richest of the rich,
They kicked away the ladder, told the rest of us that life’s a bitch.
And it’s no surprise that all the fuck-ups
Didn’t show up until the kids had grown up.
But when no one ever smiles or ever helps a stranger,
Is it any fucking wonder our society’s in danger of collapse?

So all the kids are bastards,
But don’t blame them, yeah, they learn by example.
Blame the folks who sold the future for the highest bid:
That’s right, Thatcher fucked the kids.

This Town Ain’t Big Enough For The One Of Me

A free house, a sound-system and a fridge full of beer;
I’ve known how this story ends for a good few years.
The night lays out before my eyes, there’s no new faces, no surprises.
This town is growing old with me, so I’m making a move.
Everybody round here’s been out with everybody else,
Which makes talking to girls hazardous to my health.
They’ve been in this genepool so long they’ve got wrinkled toes;
I don’t want all her exes to be people I know.
There’s millions more fish in the sea, so I’m making a move.

I’m bored of this town, bored of this scene, bored of these people, yeah.
I’m an expert at pretending that everything is OK,
But I’m just a kid and it seems as if I’ve signed my life away.
I need to get out and see what the rest of the world is about.
This toen ain’t big enough for the one of me, I’m making a move.

Every guy with long hair round here is a star,
Accorinding to his girlfriend and the way that he holds his guitar.
If anyone gets out they stick in the knife, I don’t want to get stuck here for the rest of my life.
I’m sick of these fuckers, I’m moving on.
I still want to be buried here, just like I said, but I’d prefer it if you’d wait until I’m actually dead.
It’s easy to get caught inside a town that seems to have a hive-mind,
But I’m packing up and moving on,
When I move out from my parents’ house I’m gone, yeah fuck you guys I’m gone.

This town ain’t big enough for the one of me,
So why don’t you get from in front of me?
We’re all going to move to london anyway, so I’ll see you in town.

Casanova Lament

I check that I’ve got all my things before I leave the house,
Because when I’m gone I’m never coming back.
I’m not being melodramatic, it’s just I neither have your number or a key.
An evening spent pretending that we’re just becoming friends,
Or this goes any further than going back;
I’m not being pessimistic, it’s just you and I were never meant to be.

It isn’t love, but every time I kind of wish it was.

I’ve picked up this silly habit in the last few years of going out
In the evening with my friends into the town,
Of packing a spare T-shirt in my bag in case I do not make it home.
It’s pathetic and I know it, but the truth is there’ve been mornings
I’ve proved prudent taking toothpaste to the pub.
But that’s precious little comfort against the knowledge of the person I’ve become.

It isn’t love, but every time I kind of wish it was,
And I can see that in your eyes you wish it was,
But every time I leave you just because
It isn’t love.

I Really Don’t Care What You Did On Your Gap Year

We were only supposed to go out for the night,
But it’s been a few hours now since it got light -
We’re a mess, and the worst part is we couldn’t care less.
There’s water in the ash-tray and ash in the sink,
The carpet’s mostly soaking, but there’s nothing to drink -
We’re a state, and we’re starting to regret staying awake.

And I’ll pay for my sins when I get paid,
I’ll stop talking to girls when I get laid.
I should have gone home when I could, but I stayed.
But then I never was the clever one.

We were only supposed to go out for the night,
I did my best to go home but in the end I lost the fight with myself -
To be honest I was hoping I’d go home with someone else.
And right about now I should be starting my day,
But instead I am sat here downing the dregs of yesterday,
All the while trying to prop up both ends of my smile.

And I’ll pay for my sins when I get paid,
I’ll stop talking to girls when I get laid.
I should have gone home when I could, but I stayed.
But then I never was the clever one,
But always the one to not see that I’m done and
I need to go home and get to sleep,
Always the last to see the moment has passed and
I need to admit my defeat.
And I’m lonely – there, I said it.
I’m lonely, but it’s hard to admit it
When everbody thinks that you’re fine all the time and you’re not.

So we were only supposed to go out for the night…
But who am I kidding? Try as I might I can’t stop
Until I’ve squeezed out every last drop.

And I’ll pay for my sins when I get paid
But I don’t have a penny to my name.
I’ll stop talking to girls when I get laid
But I haven’t had a shower for days.
I should’ve gone home when I could but I stayed,
And so I stay up alone,
And set off on my own
To the station where I catch the first train.

Sea Legs

Moving, keep moving, the tour never stops.
In the light of petrol stations and cheap corner shops
I have finally figured a list of the things that I’ve got,
And the things that I’m not.
I need you, I need you, I need you to care,
When I’m moving it’s soothing to know that you’re there,
And that when I get home I can breathe you like heady fresh air,
For as long as I dare.

Honey I’m sorry, but I’ve got my sea legs again.
If I stand on dry land for a minute, I feel sick and then
I have to start moving again.

From Glasgow to Moscow, from London to Lille,
Sat on the platform or next to the wheel,
I haven’t got space on this postcard to say how I feel,
But that was the deal.
I miss you, I miss you, but I don’t ask your help.
When I’m out on the road I look out for myself;
I look after my guitar, my clothes and my wallet, my health,
And nothing else.

You’re on my phone again, well,
What do you want me to say,
When I’m this far away?
And you don’t know where I am, well,
You’re not the only one.
I am lost and I’m gone away
(Oh Darling Thou Pluckest Me Out)
And I don’t even know where you are
(Oh Darling Thou Pluckest Me Out)
And I don’t even know who you are anymore.

Back To Sleep

Slumber-blind I speak my mind
When I’m out cold (or so I’m told)
And so I’m scared to rest my head in company.
You’re not scared of words unsaid,
You close your eyes, say your goodbyes
And so I’m left to watch you drift away from me
So peacefully.

And I’m just looking for the person
Who will smile at all my questions,
Who will tell me I’m just tired, and then send me
Back to sleep.

You stole the covers in the night,
You turned away, turned out the light,
But it’s OK because I’m already miles away.

Sunshine State

I remember the day – the day when I had to take you to the airport
And put you on a plane, and so you left me.
Left me alone on an empty tube train, deep under the ground,
While you were bathed in sunlight, high above the clouds.

I needed you here to be my sunshine in London town.
California’s had more than its fair share.

You left me to these small skies, and to rain-soaked concrete,
To Morrissey and Robert Smith and complicated streets I know,
On which you lost your patience and your way,
The way you always did on steel grey rainy days.

I needed you here to be my sunshine in London town.
California’s had more than its fair share
Of beating summer sun and shining seas,
But it doesn’t have a shred of honesty.
I know the truth – yeah, Neil Young and Joni Mitchell were Canadians.
I guess that makes sense – they had their fill and then they moved away again.
You’re not alone, we all sometimes use words that we don’t understand.
Your “love” was only just skin deep and in the end it gave me cancer.

You might have been my sunshine, but I’d rather have a rainy day.
California gets just what it deserves.

Heartless Bastard Motherfucker

Well I lie I cheat and I steal,
And I don’t give two shits about the way that you feel.
I barely know who you are,
But I’ll break your heart and then I’ll sleep in your car.
I’m not dying inside, I’m dead.
Too many people have fucked with my head,
And now I’m out for revenge.

I’m not the only one who regrets the way they act,
But I seem to be the only one who’s honest with the facts,
And I’m sick to death of always being the sucker.
I’m a heartless bastard motherfucker.

Well you’re a prize specemin -
I shouldn’t pick you up, I don’t know where you’ve been.
You invite me back to your place,
And you feed me drinks to get me out of my face.
You never own up to what you did -
You fuck like an adult and you cry like a kid,
And then you tell your friends I took the piss.

Just for a second here with a straight face I am sick of the sinners
Always making out they’re saints.
You know it seems to me that the ones to watch are the ones with their hearts on their sleeves -
The make-up doth protest too much.

So come on everybody, come on,
Don’t make me regret ever writing this song -
I need every motherfucker to sing along.

Hold Your Tongue

You’ve been pretty since the day that you were born
So the roots of your beautiful hair
Drew all the water that your body could hold
So when your soul needed water, no water was there.
You shed words like so much dead skin
They gather up like dust against walls
They kick up when someone comes in
So when they’re looking for something they find nothing at all.

Hold your goddamn tongue
You forget yourself.
How could I be the one
If you’re wrapped round someone else?

And I really don’t know which feels worse
To be a fool or be with a liar.
I just know that heart once soaked and cursed
Is that much harder to set on fire.

And I won’t let this die
Until I’ve seen you cry
A single tear to show
There’s water in your soul.

Front Crawl

If I was to walk from where I am
To where you are right now?I’d have to cross eight borders and three seas.
But that might show you what you mean to me.
And if I was to make this journey long
I’d have to learn to swim
Much better than my doggy-paddle way.
But then you might believe me when I say
The time will come when you and I
Are not so far away
And I won’t be singing this song on that day.
I will set out for your island home
When my front crawl’s up to scratch
And when I’ve written my arrival song.
I’m working on it now, it’s almost done.

Live Fast Die Old

I bought my soul back from the devil, and now I’m keeping it all to myself. I’m checking myself out of the program, because I know what’s best for my health. So why live the dream like you’re running out of sleep? I’m not playing to pass time, I’m playing for keeps. We only just started and you’re throwing the fight. You’d rather burn out than fade away? Well why not both, I plan to stay. So let’s do this once and let’s do it right. I used to act like none of this mattered, I used to say that I didn’t care, that we wouldn’t be doing this forever, but the truth is that I was just scared. So you put up a front to protect yourself, but if we’re down on the floor, why get back on the shelf? You can’t change your outfit now the night has begun. But we’ve still got the fuel, we still have the fire, so me and you, Jay, let’s never retire, let’s keep on making mistakes till we’re done. I’m going to live fast and I’m going to die old, I’m going to end my days in a house with high windows on the quiet shores in the South-West. So you sort the tunes and I’ll bring the beers, and on my seventieth birthday I’ll see you right here, and together we’ll watch the sun set. There’s no one in my coffin, there’s nothing in my grave, I’m tired of being damned, I’d rather be saved, and we can never sell out because we never bought in, and if they build it back up, then we’ll swing back through town and burn the whole thing down again. It won’t last so be bold, choose your path, show soul, live fast and die old.

Try This At Home

Let’s inherit the earth, because no one else is taking it. Come on, do your worst, before the moment’s passed. In bedrooms across England, and all the Western world, there’s posters and there’s magazines but the music isn’t ours. Because we write love songs in C, we do politics in G, we sing songs about our friends in E minor. So tear down the stars now and take up your guitars: come on folks and try this at home. Let’s stop waiting around for someone to patronize us. Let’s hammer out a sound that speaks of where we’ve been. Forget about the haircuts, the stupid skinny jeans, the stampedes and the irony, the media-fed scenes. Because the only thing that punk rock should ever really mean is not sitting round and waiting for the lights to go green, and not thinking that you’re better because you’re stood up on a stage. If you’re oh so fucking different then who cares what you have to say? And there’s no such thing as rock stars, there’s just people who play music, and some of them are just like us, and some of them are dicks. So quick, turn off your stereo, pick up that pen and paper, you could do much better than some half-arsed skinny English country singer.

Dan’s Song

Me and my friend Dan are going to get some beers and then we’re going to go down to the park and drink them there. We’ll bask out in the sun, bring a guitar and play some songs, call up our friends and invite them out to share what might be the last weekend of the summer, because September’s getting colder as it goes. And we haven’t done enough of this simple kind of stuff this year. It’s clear we’re getting older and it shows. Work weeks make us weary now and school’s a distant memory and it’s easy to ask questions of ourselves, like: where it is we’re going now and what we have to show for all the sunny days shut up in the shells of expectations of our ultimate directions, and the stations that we should have reached by now, when we haven’t read the script and our tender wings are clipped, and we’re scared we might be letting someone down. So we listen to these heartbreak songs when nothing’s really wrong, and we smile when we’re asked and say we’re fine. But we’re drifting through our middle days, creeping into middle age, setting in our ways… But now it’s time to decide, now it’s time to draw a line in the sand and ask what’s more important than days like today? So grab some beers, call your friends and meet us here, in the summer park with me and my friend Dan.

Poetry Of The Deed

They’re coming out of the walls, they’re coming up through the streets, they’re quicksilver wracked by some invisible beat. Right outside of your door the very stones come alive. They are the spring in the step, the distant look in the eyes. Put your Baudelaire away and come outside and play. Me and all my friends are poets of the deed, we’re exactly what this country needs. We scratch until we’re drunk, we drink until we bleed. We are what we believe. Pentameter in attack, iambic pulse in the veins, free verse powered of the street light mains, an Iliad played out without a shadow of doubt between the end of the club and the sun coming out. Leave Kerouac at his desk, we have romance in our risks. And here’s what we believe: before we get bored, let’s be inspired, let’s ignore the applause and set the theatre on fire, fight every war like the drunks in the choir, put our art where our mouths are: Poetry of the deed. So enough with words and technical theses, let’s grab life by the throat and live it to pieces. We can choose, we can change, and if we don’t, we’re just afraid of living life like we’re loved and in love and alive to all the things we could be if we just believed that life is too short to be lived without poetry. If you’ve got soul darling now come on and show it me. But life is too long to just sing the one song, so we’ll burn like a beacon and then we’ll be gone.

Isabel

So now the years are rolling by, and it’s not long since you and I could have been train drivers and astronauts. And now we’re stuck in furnished ruts, but yet the thing that really cuts is that we can’t remember how we got caught. Filtered air, computer screens, muffled sighs and might-have-beens – count your blessings, then breathe, and count to ten. And though it doesn’t often show, we are scared because we know our forefathers were famers and fishermen. And so the world has changed, worse or better’s hard to tell, but my hope remains within the arms of Isabel. So now our calloused hands once told a story honest as it’s old of sowing seeds and setting sail. But now our hands are soft and weak and working seven days a week at these salvation schemes that are bound to fail. And I’ll admit that I am scared of what I don’t understand. But darling, if you’re there, gentle voice and soothing hands, to quiet my despair, to shore up all my plans, darling, if you’re there… And so the world has changed, and I must change as well. The machines we’ve made will damn us into hell. And the time will come when all must save themselves. I will save my soul in the arms of Isabel.

The Fastest Way Back Home

I should have seen you were coming, I should have been prepared. After all, getting half of what you wish for isn’t so rare. But still I wasn’t ready, you took my by surprise, you brought a light to my dark like a word from the wise. We fell in love in the summer, when the skies were clear, but I’m still wearing my coat from winter last year. I need to set my house in order, confess and cover my sins. I need to make a home for you before inviting you in. Weather wears the mountains right down into the sea, so I will stand in the rain until I am clean. Rivers carve the country, a landscape shaped by a stream, so I will swim in the river as long as you need. Darling oh my darling you know that everything that I do is to try and make me good enough for you. Darling oh my darling you know that everywhere that I go, I’m just trying to find the fastest way back home.

Sons Of Liberty

Once an honest man could go from sunrise to its set without encountering agents of his state or government. But a sorry cloud of tyranny has fallen across the land, brought on by the hollow men, who did not understand that for centuries our forefathers have fought and often died to keep themselves unto themselves, to fight the rising tide, and that if in the smallest battles we surrender to the state, we enter in a darkness whence we never shall escape. Watt Tyler led the people in 1381 to meet the king at Smithfield and issue this demand: that Winchester’s should be the only law across the land, the law of old King Alfred’s time, of free and honest men. Because the people then they understood what we have since forgot: that governments will only work for their own benefit. And I’d rather stand up naked against the elements alone than give the hollow men the right to enter in my home. When they raise their hands up our lives to possess, to know our souls, to drag us down, we’ll resist. Stand up sons of liberty and fight for what you own. Stand up sons of liberty and fight, fight for your homes. So if ever a man should ask you for your business, or your name, tell him to go and fuck himself, tell his friends to do the same. Because a man who’d trade his liberty for a safe and dreamless sleep doesn’t deserve the both of them, and neither shall he keep.

The Road

To the east, to the east, the road beneath my feet. To the west, to the west, I haven’t got there yet. To the north, to the north, never to be caught. To the south, to the south, my time is running out. Ever since my childhood I’ve been scared, I’ve been afraid, of being trapped by circumstance, of staying in one place, and so I always keep a small bag full of clothes carefully stored, somewhere secret, somewhere safe, somewhere close to the door. Well I’ve travelled many countries, washed my feet in many seas, I’ve drank with grifters in Vienna and with punks in old DC, and I’ve driven across deserts, driven by the irony that only being shackled to the road could ever I be free. I’ve felt old before my time but now I keep the age away by burning up the miles and by filling up my days. And the nights, a thousand nights I’ve played, a thousand more to go, before I take a breath, and steel myself for the next one thousand shows. So saddle up your horses and keep your powder dry, because the truth is you won’t be here long, soon you’re going to die. So to the heart, to the heart, there’s no time for you to waste, and you won’t find your precious answers by staying in one place, by giving up the chase. I face the horizon, everywhere I go. I face the horizon, the horizon is my home.

Faithful Son

Meet me on the edges of this city, meet me where the underground runs out. Bring a picnic blanket and your pity, a pen and paper, so I can write things down. Mother, oh dear mother, I wasn’t joking when I said that I plan to keep doing this until the day I’m dead. And I’m not a mirror for you when you were young, but I still remain your faithful only son. Lately I’ve been feeling kind of fragile, lately I’ve been feeling all worn out. What would any of us do if all the dreams we had came true? What would there be left to dream about? Father, oh dear father, I’m not trying to reject the values that you held like winning cards up to your chest. And I can’t just do the things you wished you’d done, but I still remain your faithful only son. The city seems so still, looking down from Highgate Hill. There’s nothing left for us to say: you taught me everything I know. You wouldn’t miss me if I stay, you’d never see me if I go. This is no confession now, this is who I am. You made me in your image so you have to understand that I did my best as told and so have become your loving and your faithful only son.

Richard Divine

Richard Divine made up his mind to take the last few steps to the bathroom door from his bedroom floor and to lock himself in. Steady young hands, meticulous plans, disposable razors and a blisterpack filled with strong sleeping pills, and a bath of hot water. He carefully wrote a funerary note on his best writing paper to set out the facts, and sealed it with wax, and left it in the kitchen. He left it out so his parents would know what there was waiting for them: pale cold skin and blood seeping in to the landing carpet. He said he’s not for sale, said that he felt hounded, crowded and surrounded by this life he didn’t choose. But everybody plays this game on a daily basis. They’re not heroes, they’re survivors, and it’s not Shakespearian if they lose. So do what you want, do what the voices tell you, but don’t ever say that we didn’t warn you. He said he’s not for sale, but he bought into his failure. He’s telling tales that hammer nails right into open palms. A martyr in reverse, he’s best at being worst, the rest of us are cursed but we keep calm and we carry on. So Richard, here it is: none of us are blameless, huddled here like strangers, shameless in our lists of all the changes we say we need. But I think that you knew that, you can’t pretend it’s news that when you cut yourself you’ll bleed.

Sunday Nights

Sunday nights are slow surrender. It never lasts and we never learn. We can still make this one to remember. It’s Sunday night and we’ve time to burn. Tomorrow morning can wait its turn. So charge your glasses and raise a toast to the memory gained, to the sleep that we lost. Another weekend run to ground, another passing coat of red painted across our town. Work is shallow, cuts are deep, but who would waste two days respite? You can’t catch up on sleep. So here we are, last chance saloon, the ticking clock and a slow defeat, it’ll all be over soon. Once more friends unto the breach, bleary-eyed, the stuff of dreams always slips out of reach. Defiance dressed in crumpled clothes, protest played out with a headache, starting late and going slow. So though we know we have to be here, we have tasted freer air, so we don’t have to care. All our days will fade away in hazy nights and clear mistakes. So here’s to us and needs that must. Let’s raise a toast for one last boast because it’s Sunday night and we’ve time to burn. Tomorrow morning can wait its turn.

Our Lady Of The Campfires

Tonight is her night, and the city holds is breath, caught twixt life and death, as she rolls in from the suburbs, the garrison flees and the city will burn. Corinna rides like Boadicea tonight. London town trembles at the sight. Because tonight is her night. And the youth course through the streets to lay down at her feet, and she runs a regal eye to choose who lives and decide who dies. Corinna rides like Boadicea tonight. The fearful crowds part ways without a fight. Corinna rides like Boadicea tonight. London town trembles at the sight. She keeps her counsel, smiles when she speaks now, from ear to ear. She’s getting married, or so they tell me, when the spring is here. She hums a tune from a song she knows from warm summers past, a song that was sung by kids around campfires in the quiet southwest.

Journey Of The Magi

Moses was old, a chill in his bones. Falling apart, he knew in his heart that his time had come. As he lay in his tent in the hot desert sands, he smiled at how he would never see his promised land. He sang “I could have lived and died an Egyptian prince, I could have played safe, but in the end the journey’s brought joys that outweigh the pain.” Odysseus sat tired and alone. He’d always held out against all the doubts that he would come home. But now he was here, his soul felt estranged. His wife and his dog, his son and his Gods, everything changed. He sang “I could have stayed and ruled as an Ithican prince, I could’ve played safe. But in the end the journey’s brought joys that outweigh the pain.” Balthazar rode for seven long years, eastwards and far, he followed his star, and it brought him here. To a stable in ruins in some backwater town, to a virgin defiled, no king but a child, too small for a crown. He sang “I could have lived with my Gods as a Persian prince, I could’ve played safe, but in the end the journey’s brought joys that outweigh the pain.” Paupers and kings, princes and thieves, singers of songs, righters of wrongs, be what you believe. So saddle your horse and shoulder your load, burst at the seams, be what you dream, and take to the road.

I Still Believe

Hear ye, hear ye, friends and romans, countrymen
Hear ye, hear ye, punks and skins and journeymen
Hear ye, hear ye, my sisters and my brethren,
Our time is coming near.
So come ye, come ye, to soulless corporate circus tops,
Come ye, come ye, to toilet circuit touring stops,
Come ye, come ye, to bedrooms, bars and bunker squats,
The sound is ringing clear

Now who’d've thought, after all,
Something as simple as rock ‘n’ roll would save us all?
Who’d've thought that after all it was rock n roll.

Hear ye, hear ye, now anybody could take this stage,
Hear ye, hear ye, and make miracles for minimum wage,
Hear ye, hear ye, our folk songs for the modern age
Will hold us in their arms
Right here, right now, Elvis brings his children home,
Right here, right now, you never have to feel alone
Right here, right now, teenage kicks and gramophones,
We hold them in our hearts.

I still believe in the saints
In Jerry Lee and Johnny, and all the greats
I still believe in the sound
That has the power to raise a temple, and tear it down
I still believe in the need
For guitars and drums and desperate poetry
I still believe that everyone
Can find a song for every time they’ve lost, and every time they’ve won
So just remember folks we’re not just saving lives, we’re saving souls and we’re having fun.

Pass It Along

Somewhere in the back bar by the side of a motorway
Someone takes a breath and takes the stage, then starts to play
In the back of a thousand bars and by the side of a thousand roads
Worn wood, rusted bronze and honest toil explode.

They cast long shadows in the evening sun
But when the morning comes they’ve moved along

Hey hey Mr Dylan I have written you a song
About the river of new singers that still rolls along.
So here’s to Ragan, here’s to Marwood, here’s to Tim and Jonah too
Here’s to the ones who have to take the stage and sing the truth.

Sing till you sweat for the spirit of the age,
Sing life to lines that are dead on the page,
Sing for your sorrow, your wisdom, your rage, sing out.
Sing for the records you played till they broke,
For the parts where you insisted that nobody spoke
Sing for the words that you know but they still make you choke
Sing out.

Cast a long shadow in the evening sun
And when the morning comes pass it along.

Rock & Roll Romance

You and I could have a rock ‘n’ roll romance
We could fuck in our clothes, we could sleep in our pants,
And I could crash at yours, you could crash at mine
We could stay in bed 99 percent of the given time
Leave all the loveless lonely behind.
Because you’ve been searching up and down and all around
And there’s no nice boys in London town,
And I can sympathize because I’ve been searching too
And I’ve yet to find a girl half as good as you.

You’re just not paying attention.
You’re sitting in your kitchen and you’re bitching about rejection
We’re cheating the world out of a fairtytale of a conclusion
And that’s not really fair on us all.

To Absent Friends

Lunchtime Friday, leave work early
Rushing through the suburbs to the station to catch the train
Heading up to town to Dave’s to get my glad rags on
Because lately I’ve been running down, little things catching up
Excuses stretched thin and it’s hard not giving up
Tonight we’re going to get it right, we’re going to have us a good one

And the roll call is missing a name
Since you left things haven’t been the same
But I don’t blame you, there was nothing here to make you stay
But I remember the way that you’d light up a room when you walk in,
The way that you’d lead a crowd when you sing
Jamie, this one is for you.

Pre-club beers at Dan’s before we hit the road
Nicely warmed up, pleasantly half-loaded
Ready for a night on fire, we’re going to get out the big guns
And I run down the numbers, scan through the faces
Run through the plans, scout out the places
I’m electrified, surrounded, but still missing something or someone

I’m wide awake in the cityscape

You did your time out on the road
One day you stayed away for good
You found a home down by the shore
A place to hang your hat and more
You sent me postcards to tell me of
Slowing down and finding love
The thrill has gone from the city life
I’m not far behind

So you can strike my name from the roll call,
When night falls I’m leaving
There is nothing here to make me stay
When I get to the coast I will send back a postcard
To tell all my old friends all about my new start
Jamie I will see you soon.

The Next Round

I drink because I’m thirsty, I drink because I’m dry.
I’m not yet quite thirty, but I feel like I’m dying.
I drink because I want to, I need to, I don’t know what else to do with my time
I won’t say it but you can see it in my eyes.
You drink because you’re lonely, you drink because you’re sad
You always claim every party was the best time you’ve ever had
You drink because you’re scared of a life of living off your own company.
You won’t say it but I can see it in your eyes.

Of all of the things I could become
A lonely drunkard isn’t one for which I would’ve wished when I was young
But drink has drunk my days away
I tried to live like Hemmingway, but life just doesn’t work that way
And the pills don’t kill the pain, they just delay.

We drink because we’re scared that, if we should stop,
The good times will go away but the bad times will not.
And what if it’s over, and we’re sober, and we still feel like we’re fixing to die.
What then?
Don’t say it, I can see it in your eyes.

The next round is on me.

Eulogy

Not everyone grows up to be an astronaut,
Not everyone was born to be a king,
Not everyone can be Freddie Mercury,
But everyone can raise a glass and sing:

Well I haven’t always been a perfect person,
And I haven’t done what mum and dad had dreamed,
But on the day I die I’ll say “At least I fucking tried”,
And that’s the only Eulogy I need.

Peggy Sang The Blues

Peggy came to me in my sleep
In the middle of the night on a Friday night last week.
She whispered “Hush child, now don’t be scared,
I got me a few words of wisdom that I came back to share.”

And she said “It doesn’t matter where you come from,
It matters where you go,
And no one gets remembered
For the things they didn’t do.”

I said “Peggy won’t you stay here for a while?
We could drink whisky, we could play cards, we could get wild!”
She said “We’ll play poker and we’ll play for keeps;
I only play angels lately and they never let me cheat!”

“You could say I had a good start, you could say I had class,
And you could say that I was born beneath a ceiling made of glass.
But I always kept an open house, I always did right by my friends,
So when I got to St Peter’s gate I told the keeper:
I’m not the one who need to make amends.”

“Better times are coming, better times ahead,
No one gets remembered, my deathless child,
So don’t rest too long in bed.”

And Peggy said “It doesn’t matter where you come from,
It matters where you go,
And no one gets remembered, in this listless, loveless life,
For the things they didn’t do.”

And Peggy sang the blues as I drifted off.

Rivers

Our history runs down our rivers, down our rivers to the sea.
Reminds us of the things that matter: home and hearth and history.
And all our sins will be forgiven, washed away to set us free,
By the rivers that run through our homesteads, by myth and modal melody.

I trace these rivers from the cities to the seas to remind me what I already know.
I trace the shoreline through a thousand estuaries to remind me:
An island is my home.

I’ve travelled far across this country, Northumberland to Southern Downs.
I’ve wandered up the rolling Humber, and down the Thames to London town.
Countless lives were lived and lingered in the Costwolds and the Fells,
And left a tapestry called “England”, of life and those who lived it well.

Round here the sky is a little closer, a little closer to the ground.
It’s hard for someone to get lost here, harder still to get found.
And though I’ve seen a thousand rivers, from the Mississippi to the Rhine,
The only place that I’ll lay my hat down is by an English riverside.

So place your trust into the sea, it’s kept us safe for centuries,
It’s shaped our shores and, steadily, its care has brought us calm.
And when I die I hope to be buried out in English seas,
So all that then remains of me will lap against these shores
Until England is no more.

I Am Disappeared

I keep having dreams of pioneers and pirate ships and Bob Dylan,
Of people wrapped up tight in the things that will kill them,
Of being trapped in a lift plunging straight to the bottom,
Of open seas and ways of life we’ve forgotten.
I keep having dreams.

Amy worked in a bar in Exeter, I went back to her house and I slept beside her.
She woke up screaming in the middle of the night, terrified of her own insides.
Dreams of pirate ships and Patty Hearst breaking through a life over-rehearsed.
She can’t remember which came first, the house, the home or the terrible thirst.
She keeps having dreams.

And on the worst days, when it feels like life weighs ten thousand tons,
She’s got her cowboy boots and car keys on the bedstand, so she can always run.
She could get up, shower, and in half an hour she’d be gone.

I keep having dreams of things I need to do, of waking up and of following through,
But it feels like I haven’t slept at all when I wake to her silence and she’s facing the wall,
Posters of Dylan and Hemmingway, an antique compass for a sailor’s escape.
She says “You just can’t live this way”, and I close my eyes and I never say,
“I’m still having dreams”.

And on the worst days, when it feels like life weighs ten thousand tons,
I sleep with my passport, one eye on the backdoor, so I can always run.
I could get up, shower and in half an hour I’d be gone.

And come morning, I am disappeared, just an imprint on the bed sheets.
I’m by the roadside, with my thumb out; a car pulls up, and Bob’s driving.
So I climb in, we don’t say a word as we pull off into the sunrise,
And these rivers of tarmac are like arteries across the country.

We are blood cells alive in the bloodstream of the beating heart of the country.
We are electric pulses in the pathways of the sleeping soul of the country.

English Curse

Many years back when these old oaks were young,
Not long after the north men had come,
A low and evil deed was done
In the dark of the new forest.

From the shores of Normandy King William came
To Albion fair, King Harold to slay.
With greed in his heart and a scurrilous claim,
He took the land for his own.

Now John was a blacksmith, an honest old man.
He raised up his children, he worked with his hands
In his family’s forge on a patch of land
In the dark of the new forest.

King William rode out after his victory
To ravage the land and his hunger to feed.
For hunting grounds in the Wessex trees
He took the land for his own.

But if you steal the land of an English man,
Then you shall know this curse:
Your first born son’s warm blood will run
Upon the English earth.

Now King William’s son was called Rufus the red.
He took up the crown when his father was dead,
And roamed the hunting grounds in his stead,
In the dark of the new forest.

But John’s curse it called out and Lord Tyrell fired low.
His arrow struck Rufus with a sickening blow,
And he fell from his horse to the ground below,
And the land took him for its own.

One Foot Before The Other

On the very day I die the very last of my desires
Is that you taken my broken body and commit it to the fire,
And then when the fire is finished, scrape the ashes in a tin,
Take them down to London’s drinking reservoirs and throw them in.
And then specks infinitesimal of my mortal remains
Will slide down seven million throats and into seven million veins,
And I will creep through their capillaries to the marrow of their bones,
And they will wake to bright new mornings and then wordlessly they’ll know:

That I remain, I am remembered.

And so these seven million innocents they will have me in their blood,
And when they die they’ll burn their bodies or be buried in the mud,
And I will spread through streams and rivers like a virus through a host,
From the hamlets to the cities, from the rivers to the coast,
And from there into the channel, across the great Atlantic ocean,
And ever onwards to the new world through the water’s gentle motions,
Until parts of me are part of every landmass, every sea,
In the rain upon your crops, and in the very air you breathe.

And though the things I love will be washed away in the rain,
I remain.

I’m not convinced of the existence of these things that don’t exist,
Yeah by Jewish boys with big ideas and scratches on their wrists,
By a loving or a vengeful God, or one who’d condescend
To wash his hands down in the mire among the misery of men,
Or by ever turning circles hanging timeless in the sky,
Like a dreamcatcher distracting from the fact you’re going to die.
But I place one foot before the other, confident because
I know that everything we are right now is everything that was,
That Wat Tyler, Woody Guthrie, Dostoyevsky, and Davy Jones
Have all dissolved into the ether and have crept into my bones,
And all the cells in all the lines upon the backs of both my hands
Were once carved into the details of two feet upon the sand.

So we remain, we are remembered
And though the things we love will be washed away in the rain
We remain.

If Ever I Stray

Forgive me someone for I have sinned
And I know not where I should begin,
And some days it feels like you just can’t win,
No matter what you do or say.
Things didn’t kill me but I don’t feel stronger.
Life is short but it feels much longer
When you’ve lost the fight, yeah you’ve lost that hunger
To pull yourself through the day.
But if ever I stray from the path I follow,
Take me down to the English channel,
Throw me in where the water is shallow ,
And then drag me on back to shore.
Because love is free and life is cheap,
And as long as I’ve got me a place to sleep,
Some clothes on my back and some food to eat,
Then I can’t ask for anything more.
So come on everybody sing one two three four.

So we all have secrets that we hold inside,
The worst little things that you never confide,
And the worst one of all that you just can’t hide,
Is that you’re never quite as strong as you sound.
So I’m sorry baby for the times I’ve hurt you,
Sorry friends for the times I desert you.
Most days it feels like I don’t deserve you,
And I wonder that you’re all still around.

Come on and join me in the water,
And we’ll swim for home.
Sometimes it’s hard to remember:
I couldn’t do this on my own.

The path I chose isn’t straight and narrow -
It wanders around like a drunken fellow.
Sometimes it’s hard for me to follow,
But if you’ve got my back I’ll go on,
If you’ve got my back I’ll go on.

Wessex Boy

Let me tell you all a little story of the things I’ve found,
Hanging out and drinking with my friends in the cathedral grounds,
And later dodging drunks as we dance along Jewry street,
As we wander uptown to the Railway, our friends to meet.

Let me tell you all a little story of the things I’ve lost,
Huddling for warmth on the top step of the Buttercross,
Or sitting on the benches by the bridges at the riverside,
Counting down the hours for the buses because I missed my ride.

And one day I will hear this song, anonymous and sweet,
Ringing our from a busker’s guitar on the ancient city streets.
I’ll pause a while and smile before I continue on alone,
And somebody else will sing the words, and I’ll feel like I’m home.

There’s something about hometowns that you never can escape,
The triumphs and the tragedies, the tawdry little fates,
The welling of nostalgia, the feeling kind of strange,
Because despite all of the little changes, the place still feels the same.
But then there’s something about coming back to your hometown again,
The place where you grew up and where you found your firmest friends.
And though none of them still live here, and I’ve got nowhere to go,
I’m a Wessex boy, and when I’m here I’m home.

Nights Become Days

We saw in the dawn from the roof of the bar.
When nights become days then you’ve gone too far.
We listened to songbirds and rush hour cars
And welcomed in the day.
He said “London in summertime is great,
On days like this I feel like I can escape
From things that I’ve done, and mistakes that I’ve made,
I can wash it all away.”

We bathed like swimmers in the morning sun
And waited for our night to end.
We knew one of us would come down hard,
And one of us would start again.

We started out curious, it started out fun,
We smoked in the woods when we were young,
And secretly slipped something under our tongues
And danced the night away.
But everyone stumbles on old cocaine;
It burns out the best but it burdens the brain,
Until brown comes and whispers away the pain,
And you find you’ve lost your way.

You’d sink in the river for your death.
You’d sleep with the fishes, draw no breath.
You’d swallow forever, till nothing’s left,
Take no rest.

Oh my friend, if you made for the shore,
You’d see us here, we’re all waiting.
Just cast your eyes down to the floor,
You’ll see us here, we’re waiting…

Don’t sink in the river for your death.
You could sleep in the shade, draw some breath.
You could start fresh tomorrow, leave what’s left.
Please draw breath,
Let’s let nights become days.

So come down, kid, the roof’s safe now.
All your friends are waiting for you to get some rest.

Redemption

I was walking home to my house through the snow from the station
When Springsteeen came clear in my headphones with a pertinent question.
Oh is love really real and can any of us hope for redemption?
Or are we all merely biding our time down to lonely conclusions?

Darling let me take your hand as I talk you through this,
How loneliness edged into deep seated psychosis.
Lying awake in crowded hotels rooms focussed on tape hiss,
With my failings laid clear on the ceiling, I don’t think I can do this.

I’ve tried so hard to not turn into my father,
But if I only ever skip out his choices, will I ever choose better?
Oh the sad truth is that the grass, it will always seem greener,
So I left you alone in a restaurant in London in winter.
You deserve better.

Adam Trask is on my back and in my ears.
And the sound comes clear and brings the awful truth:
I can’t stand what I’ve done to you.
It’s written clear in my diary:
Today should’ve been our anniversary.
But I’m far away and I’m far apart,
And you’re back home with a broken heart,
And love is real and I can’t escape:
I only ever have myself to blame.

These failures shift and shake me in the night,
Like I fever I can’t break, try as I might.
Wake me darling, I need you to take me home,
But I know that in the end redemption is mine, and mine alone.

So if each of us is made up of a tally of mistakes and successes,
Then that hour in that restaurant makes my score less than impressive.
But each can be redeemed with the courage with which he confesses
So darling, I miss you, your music, and your musk and your kisses.

I don’t think I can do this.

Glory Hallelujah

Brothers and sisters, have you heard the news?
The storm has lifted and there’s nothing to lose,
So swap your confirmation for your dancing shoes,
Because there never was no God.

Step out of the darkness and onto the streets,
Forget about the fast, let’s have a carnival feast!
Raise up your lowered head and hear the liberation beat,
Because there never was no God.

No cowering in the dark before some overbearing priest,
No waiting till we die until we restitute the meek.
No blaming all our failings on imaginary beasts,
Because there never was no God.

No fighting over land your distant fathers told you of,
No spilling blood for those who never spread a drop of love.
No finger pointing justified by phantoms up above,
Because there never was no God.

I know you’re scared of dying man, and I am too,
But just pretending it’s not happening isn’t going to see us through.
If we accept that there’s an endgame and we haven’t got much time,
Then in the here and now we can try and do things right.

We’d be our own salvation army and together we’d believe
In all the wondrous things that mere mortals can achieve.

I’ve known beauty in the stillness of cathedrals in the day,
I’ve sung “Glory Hallelujah, won’t you wash my sins away!”
But now we’re singing my refrain and this is what I say:
I say there never was no God.

There is no God, so clap your hands together.
There is no God, no heaven and no hell.
There is no God, we’re all in this together.
There is no God, so ring that victory bell.

Song For Eva Mae

Eva Mae I remember the day you that were born, it was the summer.
Your mum and dad called me up to say how proud they were,
Voices ringing with the love of a new born child,
Light shining in their eyes, expectant smiles.

Eva Mae your father and I have been friends for many years.
We watched the world around us change, hoped our hopes, feared our fears.
He asked me to watch you as you grow,
To hold your hand through the highs and lift you up through the lows.

Eva Mae, don’t you judge me too hard,
I tried to be a good man, make the best with what I’ve got.
Eva Mae, I will teach you what I know,
And watch over you everywhere that you go.

Eva Mae I have made many mistakes in my time;
I’ve burned my share of bridges, broken hearts, I’ve told lies.
I have not always followed my own advice.
I’ve fallen flat, but Eva, darling, sometimes that’s just life.

Eva Mae with the way that I am I might not much be around,
But I’ll stop in from time to time to share the things I’ve learned:
That you should keep your friends and family close, and you should always try to say yes;
That we can none of us ever be perfect, but Eva darling we can try our best.

So Eva Mae, I won’t ever judge you hard,
Just try to be a good girl, make the best with what you’ve got.
Eva Mae I will teach you what I know,
And watch over you everywhere that you go.

Wanderlust

I have wept until I slept into the lap of the lady that I love,
And though she begged and she cajoled I couldn’t tell her of what I was thinking of.
I didn’t choose, no I was chosen by a life that must be lived in passing through,
And though she’s changed so much for me, changing this is the one thing I cannot do.

Darling, I’m leaving, the distance keeps calling me on.
Darling, come morning I’ll be gone.

She is beauty, she is graceful in her poise, and she is gentle in her care.
The is the calm within the centre of my storm, she is her fingers through my hair.
She has my heart but it is breaking, because it knows that deep inside she still believes
That there will ever come a morning when I’m staying, and not gathering to leave.

Baby let’s get out of the city, we need to breathe some cleaner air.
That creeping feeling’s starting, like I miss you, though we’re both of us still here.
There’s a sadness in your smiles now, and an edge of desperation in your voice.
We have all this independence but it still feels like we never had a choice.

Darling, I’m leaving.

Balthazar, Impresario

My name is Balthazar, impresario,
And you’ll find me at the bottom of the page.
I have artists hands, though I’m a working man,
But my craft has been forgotten by the age,
So tonight will be my last night on the stage.

This is my family’s trade, my father built this place
At the turning of the twentieth century.
I have been working here for some fifty years,
But the young these days are glued to TV screens,
And the old girl is dying on her feet.

My friends from theatre school all thought I was a fool
For leaving Shakespeare for the music hall.
And now my son’s left home and set out on his own,
And the critics think we’re quaint but set to fall.
But they’ve only seen the show from the stalls.

Once more to the boards, one more curtain call,
Give the crowd everything they’re asking for and more.
Always make them laugh, try to make them cry,
Always take the stage like it’s the last night of your life.
All the things I’ve seen, behind these tattered scenes,
All the upturned faces with the lamplight in their eyes,
And each imperfect turn that flickers as it burns;
They only last a moment but for me they’ll never die.

We are respected but not remembered.
We are the Ghosts of Vaudeville unnumbered.
We are the fathers of the halls but we’ll never be famous.
We aren’t just artists, we are something more, we’re entertainers.

I smooth my thinning hair in a gilded mirror,
To try to hide the tell-signs of my age.
My name is Balthazar, impresario,
And tonight will be my last night on the stage.