Old Underground trains come here to die Elephant's graveyard for lines gone by Where no-body gets off any more There is nothing left to get off for Laid to rest at Hillingdon Swakeleys (as it has not been called for ages) Calling this London is a bit like saying Watching football is the same as playing Quainton Road to Versey Junction Malborough Road to Wotton Tramway Ghost trains gliding through disused stations A-stock for astray generations Delayed at Forgotten destinations, There is nothing left to get off for

Marble Arch 126 Well I want to live In the centre of town Surrounded by the crowds Where it's going down, down One room studio, just off Marble Arch Two thousand a month is a small price to pay Kitchen's in the kettle, bathroom is the sink, Life in the Big Smoke is smaller than you think You commute all week Haven't got a clue Stuff your travel card, yes, You can keep zone two, two I have lost my marbles just off Marble Arch I can't swing a cat, there's no pets in the lease But I'm free to be in the red, I'm in the pink Life in the big smoke is smaller than you think, You think, you think And in this world of my own creation it's all location, location, location Now I'm living in The heart of everything I can not afford to Do a single thing - but One room studio, just off Marble Arch May have lost of my marbles but I've found my home, Dizzy with delight as my bank balance shrinks Life in the Big Smoke is clearer than you think, Than you think

Play Othello? You do not have the range. Shakespeare screams "no!" As he spins in his grave. I'm being serious, Don't act so serious. I'm deadly serious. You can't act serious, No, not to save your life; And oh, how the critics laughed You made them cry. But not in a good way Not meant to die Until end of the play. I'm being serious, Don't act so serious. Are you delirious? You can't do serious, no, not to save your life. Oh how your fanbase cried To see your tragic side. The Programme should've warned them That they might die of boredom Before the final curtain.

Your mother has broad shoulders and her arms were made for hugging - Sadly no defence against your charmless heart-string tugging. Though she bites her Civil tongue, I hear her heart is breaking At the awful small town liberties her clumsy son is taking. She nurtured you from boy to man, ensured you had the chances Meanwhile, you took everything she had and still take her for granted Your mother only ever wanted what was best for you. How could she know all you ever wanted was to scarper to the country? As crimes against your mother go, I can't think of a worse one Starting your new family, you have betrayed the last one! Thinking of a family, I guess that counts for something But I'd rather a vasectomy than raise kids country bumpkins. If Mum's lucky, once or twice a year you will appear, coming Out of hiding, boasting that your life's now so much better And even though her world has changed and you belong no longer She welcomes you - the Prodigal, though you're no more of a lodger And that's no way to treat your mum, so we do it to London? Now you're nothing but a ghost at most, proud Thames will keep on rolling And I'll stay here for ever, it's my home not cos I'm right on; And if I was pretentious, don't you think I would move to Brighton? I am not a Londonista, no, it's just you who's frightened.

Did you know that's there's a crater Up on Mars named after Tooting? Wow, that's truth in advertising! Looks exactly like the real thing (oh yeah) Looks exactly like the real thing (oh yeah) Did you know that Sandi Thom got Famous while she lived in Toooting? One more reason should you need it, To wipe out the whole damn district (oh yeah) To wipe out the whole damn district I knew friends who moved to Tooting. Dropped them faster than a drive-by. It deserves points for persistence - Bomb it out of all existence (oh yeah) x4 I live 34 minutes from Tooting And that's too close for me.

Well, if you've ever wondered Where JR Tolkien in his famous book Took the inspiration for the lands of Mordor Well let me tell you so you give it wide berth It's the very worst of middle Earth, Yes, Mordor's based on Morden! That Lord of the Ringroads at the arse end of London town They should really raize it to the ground Well, let me give you what-for 'Cos Morden is like Mordor Only with much less gore And more police cordons One step out of the tube and you're not likely to get gunned down But you might wish that you had been On seeing this has-been London The road ahead is long and hard Best top up your oyster card Or better yet you could just stay at home. Poor old Bilbo Baggins, he is heading down past Balham, and Questing to make Sauron look a total moron Red Eye in the sky turns out to be CCTV And everyone is an orc round here. Morden twinned with Mordor, half city and half country Not one thing or the other, no, the very worst of both worlds Morden twinned with Mongo, far too scary for Flash Gordon And Ming might beg for mercy, but at least it isn't Croydon! The road ahead is long and hard Best top up your oyster card Or better yet you could just stay at home.

Stroll through countryside, past hedges - home to tiny mice - Roast pub lunch on village green, a garden marquee show, Potter round the local shop - stocks nothing that you want - Tea-room for a hot-cross bun, and then it's time to go Holidays in Blackpool, the lights beside the sea See what Butler saw at music hall, let H's slip Road show, deckchairs, knotted hankies, rolled up trouser legs The only 'paper that we take is wrapped around our chips Just a flying visit to a country long since dead Alternate universe where British Empire never set I've lived here all my life and I've not stumbled on it yet But still you come a'looking, won't allow us to forget ... See the jolly policeman, visit public school Tug upon your forelock to the passing pearly queens Businessman in bowler hat and purple pinstripe suit Yes, you've seen The Mousetrap, now it's time to live the dream Did you find your Avalon? Which way to Arcadia? Five days spent in Albion looking for sham Camelot - Rained again last night and it will rain this afternoon ... Calendar with almost every single weekend blank Festival of Britain it's a carnival of tat Five nights, yes that's long enough to see it all, and do it twice - A mainly empty diary, yes, an awful almanac ...

Changing trains at Didcot Parkway It feels like another century London's just an hour away - It could be another country. City boys and city girls, well This far out, you can't be heard You're in the country and not of it - It's a Tudorbethan world. She's the queen of the village scene She's declaring civil war On behalf of the Middle Class And everything that has gone before. She's the queen of the village scene Don't you mock her Tudor beams, A little slice of paradise Artifically highly priced. It's a leafy piece of plenty, if the sun it ever shines - It never does, it never does, it never does TV licence paid in full, mortgage very nearly there, Sundays wash car in the driveway, never take it anywhere. Carpet in the downstairs toilet matches carpet on the lid Doilies lounging on the cistern, Kim Jung-Il with a bit more wit The curtains never get to twitching Cos she don't really care What the others get up to - Too busy crimping stone white hair. She's the queen of the village scene, Curator of a pleasant dream Horatio on the Tiber bridge None shall pass unless they're rich She's the queen of the village scene Not here or now, caught between Didcot's regal didicoy On the browning village green And she takes her tea like she likes her men Very white, very weak, lukewarm. God save country life, the stockbrokers and their stocky wives And whichever deity gets you through the working day God save friendly country smithy, the whetstone and the scythe God save you and God save me God save one-woman village idiot preservation society God save the National turst, the National and the National Health God save whichever football team you support from bankrupcy God save you and God save me

Good ol' Mister Summers gone and done a Keyser Söze Showed for 20 minutes and then just like that, away ... Good ol' Mister Summer he is proving quite elusive Got himself a job abroad, the contract is exclusive Know it's very British to complain about the weather But this beast's warm-blooded so let's move to the Sahara Where has Good ol Mister Summer gone, where has he gone? Why don't he come round our way no more - what did we wrong? Like the marriage bedsheets on a wedding night, we're sodden. Missing Mister Summer he's a face I have forgotten. Yes, ol' Mister Summer's long gone but where, we have no clue. Maybe he's at holed up in bed, recovering from the swine flu. Three years in a row, rain in our eyes, we blinked and missed him. Come back good ol' Mister Summr, everythings forgiven! Where has Good ol Mister Summer gone, where has he gone? Why don't he come round our way no more - what did we wrong? Warnings of a global warming pass the British people by Like so many storm clouds charging cross a summer sky ...

Wakes up in her forties Somewhere in the suburbs, with a Flatpack for a husband and a Robin's nest of dullards Dreams of disappearing Knows too well it’s too late, yes she Knows its Church Bazaar and she Accepts her Village Fetes Not sure she will make it Sure knows how to fake it Somehow she can take it As long as she keeps on baking Sleptwalked through her thirties Twenty years un-dreaming, now she Wakes up in bright darkness, counts to Ten - no need for screaming Smile as smooth as icing, Mellow melodrama, yes, it's Plain that's she's a flower, that's been Picked for Aga Saga Now she's sure she'll make it Doesn't need to fake it She can always take it As long as she keeps on dreaming As long as she keeps on baking, but …. Why's nobody tasting all the Cakes that she's been baking? Stale and Silent, clingfilm crippling, bet this Never happened to Mr Kipling ...

British summer, sky's light grey Mostly haze, contains the day Washer-driers on the blink It's time to take a calming drink Dirty dishes piling up, She takes a slug from her ENO mug Where she's hidden special treat, Sounds of screeching kids retreat Oh Mother's ruin x2 You'd never tell she can't tell what she's doing A lifetime's lonely practice at hiding her infirmities Takes more than the suburbs to bring her to her knees Female Walter Mitty, spent her Twenties in the city Running with the opera crowd, so some dreaming is allowed She swapped low-down and dirty for Soap Opera of her thirties A Life of absent husbands and putting out the dustbins Oh Mother's ruin, always quietly pissed You'd never know she don't know what time it is Nohihng like a Hogarth sketch; a quiet smile, a little retch, Burst of fizz, then it all goes quiet - They call this Ladies' Delight?!? She's old fashioned like a cocktail, life's like a dog chasing it's own tail least it's always lunchtime in someone else's timezone ...

The Empire Windrush calypso Entered the county on tip toe Back in Nineteen Forty-Eight Quietly turned Hate Britain Great Bringing all the way from Jamaica Fine folk and fine music makers A floating commendation For the benefits of immigration The port of Tilbury has never rocked so Than to the sound of the Windrush Calypso So thank god they came to stay Make June 22 a Bank Holiday The Empire Windrush calypso, A shipload of Global Disco, Warmed hearts of cold nation, Saved us from cultural stagnation. The Motherland learnt new way of living Not just taking also giving But 65 years have passed since then And the Windrush needs to dock again. Who's that sitting on the dock of the bay With bazooka> It's Theresa May She is travelling back through time To sink progress below the waterline Trying to keep people separate Will make us Nina & Frederick Nothing but a pale imitation of Colourful, well-balanced nation