Back in the heady days of Britpop, Supergrass had a song called Alright which was played to death on the radio. What was once a catchy and cheery little song quickly became highly annoying. As it is one of our main joys in life to annoy people we took up the tune and rewrote the words. What was once a jubilant anthem of youth quickly became a dour and insipid anthem of old age. We then played it to our grandmother, who smiled and said very little.
Around the same time there was another song which was from the outset rather annoying. We changed to the words to things like "Today is gonna be the day when I'm gonna fucking kill your dad". As soon as it was finished Mr Pump disowned the song and refused to ever play it. This was a good thing.
Often, when the bands had finished playing down The Duke, the barmen foolishly forgot to turn the microphones off. This allowed girls to get up on stage and broadcast their squeals and giggles to the whole pub. I, always being rather drunk at this stage of the night, would push them out of the way and shout "YOU'RE ALL SLAVES!!" down the microphone, before falling over backwards. This song was inspired by those same sentiments. Despite many incredulous accusations, all the political ideologies (listed) in this song are actually genuine - although I maintain that any combination of such 'isms' can be construed to mean something.
A moderately amusing kind of song making fun of mental illness. The tune was taken from Fats Domino's Blueberry Hill, but sometimes we superimposed motifs from the Blue Danube Waltz over the top. The best bit is when Scolar sings: "I'm clinically insane / I can't remember my name / It could be Bob, Bruce or Wayne / I'm clinically insane". Perhaps you'd have to hear it.
As if one bastardisation of Lennon's masterwork wasn't enough, we did it again - this time with even more parochial and worthless lyrics. Once we realised we were never going to get a gig on Friday we wrote this to take the piss out of the barmen, and even played it to them. It also made reference to an incident when one of our mates accidentally kicked in a stained-glass window whilst we were climbing over the wall into the garden (to avoid paying a £1 entrance fee). It cost them £200 to repair, yet for some reason it became a running joke rather than grounds on which to bar us forever.
A dire song about the evils of guns. Although this was a backlash against my earlier obsession, I still retained enough firearm knowledge to write a middle-eight comprised of a list of detailed weapon specifications. This, incidentally, was the best part.
There was once a series of much-publicised protests about 'live animal exports' at Shoreham port. As well as turning me into a vegetarian, they also inspired a spate of shit songs about animal rights. This was the only one to be completed, although Mr Pump started on another which I think was better. You should recognise the tune: "How much is that Carcass on the meat hook? / The one with the spike through it's brain / How much is that carcass on the meat hook? / I do hope that cow died in pain". I also think, however, that he missed the point a little.
An awful and ill-judged attempt to enter the realms of pirate-themed sexual innuendo.
This has long been one of our most popular songs, purely I think, on account of its relentless cruelty. It also has the funniest C chord I've ever heard.
By no means does this contain a political message of any kind. It is simply about being related to various 20th century political figures. Mr Pump was keen on it for a while, but then again he also quite liked Dawn French's Oven Gloves.
Unlike my efforts to rewrite Candle in the Wind, this song appeared with perfect timing - i.e. just after England's defeat in Euro 96. Set to the tune of Three Lions, it explored how the institution of football acts as a palliative to social alienation. I once tried to persuade Scolar to sing our version of the words at some Karaoke pub, but we didn't do it in the end because we thought the gang of football fans might not appreciate the point we were making.
A failed epic about the fact that throughout history the tools used by man have all been vaguely rod-shaped. This was a crude attempt to attribute phallic significance to everything from guitars to shovels.
Another random sheet with random words on from the Green Folder.
For quite a while Hitler and Marx had been the yin and yang of my brain. Thus because there are so many songs about the former, only an direct and excessive adulation of Marx, such as this, could redress the balance. It ends with a brilliant rabble-rousing sing-along, which, come the revolution, you will probably hear chanted from the barricades.
A glorious and beautiful affirmation of life which seeks to remind us that despite the many set-backs and strange afflictions we may suffer, there is always hope. Unless, that is, you happen to be made of bronze.
