Oh say I’m not the only one to fill with trepidation

Walking across the forecourt of the fire station

My wariness consumes me, and still protects me from

The dimmer switch, and membership of Britannia Music

Club



I adventured for a fortnight in the valley of the Rhone

Defied capricious mistrals on which tragedies are blown

Dismounting at the roadside to lubricate my chain

I heard the hounds of retribution barking their

refrain:

Let’s go the Met Bar, and cause an altercation

Let’s go the Groucho, and snap at rakish heels



For a month I went all floppy just to see where I’d end

up

The morgue was my considered guess, or maybe Martinique

The stern grind of reality however took its course

I stayed exactly where I was and suffered endless Feltz



Because you had a daughter, and chose to call her Raine

Because you didn’t indicate to go down Woodchurch Lane

Your Am-Dram class has been postponed indefinitely

Because the root of Jesse’s just turned up in glorious

majesty



Singing Sealed Knot Society, let’s see you try and do

this one:

Luton Town - Millwall, nineteen eighty-five



Hand me down my silver trumpets

Sound the revolution bell

There’s a Cher impersonator

Rising up in Israel



Late Lunch audience, they’ve got all your addresses!

Lazy greedy farmers, pick your own strawberries!

Is that our phone ringing, or is it on the telly?

Let’s do the bongo-laced twenty-second album



Vreni Schneider - you’re my downhill lady!

Vreni Schneider - you’re the queen of the slopes!

Vreni Schneider - you’re my downhill lady!

Vreni Schneider - you’re the queen of the slopes!