It’s the time of my life where they’re burning the heather I can’t make anything last forever Sometimes I think there’s nothing left to add Comes to us all in the end And that’s sad I can’t hide it It’s there for all to see the lines on my face Under the mirror ball But it’s Friday night I’m out with the lads And for a middle aged white man I don’t dance too bad I’m not pretending I’ve got moves I don’t care, I’ve got nothing to prove My knees don’t bend and I’m carrying some weight But I’ve got two good feet and plenty to shake Now give me four on the floor And some rotating lights A clean shirt, I’m on fire tonight I’m as light as a feather At least in my head For a middle aged white man I don’t dance too bad I’m hungover every morning I’m worried every night I’m pretty sure I’ve wasted The days of my life You won’t remember my name, I’m just your daughter’s friend’s dad But for a middle aged white man I don’t dance too bad

If John Lennon were alive, he’d be back on the stage Everyone says he’s not bad for his age Ever since the divorce, he’s been a man reborn Got to hand it to the band, with Julian and Sean Guitar held up high, and still singing sweet Bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet He’s got nothing on top, long and grey at the collar He’d dye it like Paul but he just can’t be bothered If John Lennon were alive, he’d have pissed away his cash On eighties cocaine and the stock market crash And endless legal actions against Yoko and Paul Rehab and reboots, trips to Nepal Prayer shawls and pub crawls, snowballs and trunk calls Visas for squeezes, tease the believers He’s bigger than Jesus In spite of it all If John Lennon were alive, he’d be living on pills A shadow of himself since he married Heather Mills He’s not done a decent song since 1991 Everyone knows Yoko got the best out of John Like old men before him, he’s turned to the right He shouts about not being ashamed to be white Some old women cry, we all roll our eyes Would it be better if John Lennon had died? Prayer shawls and pub crawls… If John Lennon were alive he’d be eighty years old Yoko’s got his money, but he’s still got his soul He’s a hard-luck, bankrupt, New York dead-duck Drinking coffee in a downtown Starbucks What’s changed, Mr Lennon? It’s your five minute call What’s changed? I’ll tell you: square root of fuck all Where's my guitar? Let’s play some rock’n’roll I’m bigger than Jesus, in spite of it all Prayer shawls and pub crawls…

Somewhere in England there’s a treasure chest That’s where England keeps her very best Hidden away, marked with an X Somewhere in England Look inside, there’s a sense of pride That doesn’t shout, keeps it dignified Sits on the beach and holds back the tide Somewhere in England Somewhere in England there’s some open arms A warm welcome and a good luck charm Proud to be a shelter from the storm Somewhere in England It’s buried now under feet of silt Under centuries of guilt Under all the monuments we’ve built Somewhere in England Somewhere in England there’s a shining wit That sees trouble and laughs at it A soft heart with a seed of grit Somewhere in England

I always wanted to be The leader of the land of the free Stars and stripes hanging over me As I speak and you listen But mother had a panic attack So daddy made us all come back And I stand between these union jacks And read out loud what’s written But this man has things to say When men like me were made A man could call a spade a spade A real man doesn’t worry Now I’m holding the ball Kick it against the wall Watch the numbers rise and fall A man doesn’t say sorry We’ll fight them on the beaches The doctors, nurses and teachers Binmen and bus drivers, watch them drowning I’m the leader of a nation The Churchill for my generation Let the bodies pile high in their thousands. Sunday night and it’s late Time to abdicate Responsibilities of state Can I call you ‘mummy’? Blame the Irish, blame the blacks Lower corporation tax I’ll put my feet up and relax And call in the army We’ll fight them on the beaches The doctors, nurses and teachers Binmen and bus drivers, watch them drowning I’m the leader of a nation The Churchill for my generation Let the bodies pile high in their thousands. 127,428 127,428 127,428 as of 25/4/21 For 127,428 It's too late

And the band, henceforth group, played on. Hauled up in a dumb waiter, Health and Safety approved, ranting, chanting, slurring, blurring the line between sense and prejudice, our hero, henceforth OH, rises, eyes darting right to left, left to right; one withered hand strapped to the chair as if electric. The end, the end is literally nigh. Middle aged punters, male, formative years much formed by aforesaid OH, cheer briefly, assuming theatrical ploy. They see the rodent cheeks, the visible fucking agony, the two microphones positioned to allow OH to fidget and manoeuvre himself into position of least pain whilst still vocalising, and gasp. And the group played on. Riff number one: bass-led, guitars trace double-helix pattern, its DNA of German/Lancastrian CA ancestry producing regular and these days planned dissonance. OH wheeled across boards by wife/kyb, b.voc. Sober-haired hired hands, suntanned arms beneath untorn sleeves. Planned dissonance. Seconds of eloquence as diamorphine permits. False teeth provide added bite. Hell to pay, hell to pay for. Where once OH paced, now slides down the chair, plants feet on boards and rocks, fractured, enraptured, if only. Out on the Merch desk, mirthfully self-identified hobgoblins lay out apparel, yellow vinyl, silver discs and check for 4G, re: Mobile Pay. Cash tins open for punters of Luddite sensibility. Cold imperial measure in plastic glass imbibed. The group plays on, muffled by fire doors. Planned dissonance. A steady stream exit. Disgruntled and/or lachrymose, pause at Merch desk to recall lank-haired pretender, oddly delicate of feature, part-formed; then newly-polished spokesman in the Colin/AH Wilson vein, US wife/gtr, b.voc., unwonted solutions to planned dissonance - cf. No Bulbs. Both incarnations available on 180g vinyl with shirt XXL. Riff number two: bodiddley skip, unselfconscious, blues accidentals permitted, if accidental. Why dissonance? Why plan? Middle-class revolting suspects fear of naked written word. Anyone can bark, we say. OH says: you try, see if your bark gets anywhere near this one’s bite. That was months ago. Later, and on the edge of an industrial estate, briefly in opioid sleep, OH cannot hear the voice of replicants in Schindler’s lift. Cannot ask what the fuck. Not that it was ever any better, he might have added. Wife/non-NHS carer pushes, clicks and holds door, aids, unzips, unbuttons, lifts immobile arm, places dictaphone near face for easy access to brain. Capturing all that might escape in these last days. Damned dissonance.

There’s no such thing as a new disease Yes there is, it’s the Covid bug It came from a Chinese laboratory No it didn’t, it’s the covid bug This was all planned by the military No it wasn’t, it’s the covid bug You can cure it with CBDs No you can’t, it’s the covid bug It’s just like having a nasty cold No it’s not, it’s the covid bug It only kills the weak and old So what? It’s the covid bug Evil forces taking control No they’re not, it’s the covid bug We don’t believe what we’ve been told Tough luck, it’s the covid bug I can’t breathe with a mask on Yes you can, it’s the covid bug My human rights are being stamped on No they’re not, It’s the covid bug How come it’s not killing Africans I don’t know, it’s the Covid bug I’m not queuing at Morrison’s Yes you are, it’s the covid bug We’re blaming it all on Bill Gates If you like, it’s the covid bug He’s going to kill the human race No he’s not, it’s the covid bug He’ll force us all to vaccinate I hope so, it’s the covid bug Don’t tell me who I can hate Fair enough, it’s the covid bug It’s transmitted from a 5G tower No it’s not, it’s the covid bug Muslims, Jews, gays, blacks and the poor Please don’t, it’s the covid bug I’ve been coughing for a week or more Oh… it’s the covid bug Covid doesn’t exist, I’m sure Yes it does, it’s the covid bug

And the band, henceforth group, played on. Hauled up in a dumb waiter, Health and Safety approved, ranting, chanting, slurring, blurring the line between sense and prejudice, our hero, henceforth OH, rises, eyes darting right to left, left to right; one withered hand strapped to the chair as if electric. The end, the end is literally nigh. Middle aged punters, male, formative years much formed by aforesaid OH, cheer briefly, assuming theatrical ploy. They see the rodent cheeks, the visible ---- agony, the two microphones positioned to allow OH to fidget and manoeuvre himself into position of least pain whilst still vocalising, and gasp. And the group played on. Riff number one: bass-led, guitars trace double-helix pattern, its DNA of German/Lancastrian CA ancestry producing regular and these days planned dissonance. OH wheeled across boards by wife/kyb, b.voc. Sober-haired hired hands, suntanned arms beneath untorn sleeves. Planned dissonance. Seconds of eloquence as diamorphine permits. False teeth provide added bite. Hell to pay, hell to pay for. Where once OH paced, now slides down the chair, plants feet on boards and rocks, fractured, enraptured, if only. Out on the Merch desk, mirthfully self-identified hobgoblins lay out apparel, yellow vinyl, silver discs and check for 4G, re: Mobile Pay. Cash tins open for punters of Luddite sensibility. Cold imperial measure in plastic glass imbibed. The group plays on, muffled by fire doors. Planned dissonance. A steady stream exit. Disgruntled and/or lachrymose, pause at Merch desk to recall lank-haired pretender, oddly delicate of feature, part-formed; then newly-polished spokesman in the Colin/AH Wilson vein, US wife/gtr, b.voc., unwonted solutions to planned dissonance - cf. No Bulbs. Both incarnations available on 180g vinyl with shirt XXL. Riff number two: bodiddley skip, unselfconscious, blues accidentals permitted, if accidental. Why dissonance? Why plan? Middle-class revolting suspects fear of naked written word. Anyone can bark, we say. OH says: you try, see if your bark gets anywhere near this one’s bite. That was months ago. Later, and on the edge of an industrial estate, briefly in opioid sleep, OH cannot hear the voice of replicants in Schindler’s lift. Cannot ask what the ----. Not that it was ever any better, he might have added. Wife/non-NHS carer pushes, clicks and holds door, aids, unzips, unbuttons, lifts immobile arm, places dictaphone near face for easy access to brain. Capturing all that might escape in these last days. Damned dissonance.