All the runners running downhill
All the throwers with strap-on muscles
Gold, silver, and bronze
To the designer-drugs and anabolic steroids
Random testing doesn’t exist
No promoters will take the risk
Street-price injection for a personal best
Praise to Roche for finishing first
All the runners have their little helpers
All the throwers on uppers and downers
“From now on,” said Ron
“It’s downhill all the way.”

Oh, where are you now George?
Now that wingers have been laid to rest
And shirts have adverts across their breast
And it’s all about who’s the richest
Where are you now George?
With those boots that laced up the side
And that Irish shirt that you wore with pride
And that picture of you with Mike Summerbee and bride
Oh, where are you now George?
I dreamed of you dribbling past City’s back four
And leaving Joe Corrigan fumbling on the floor
And the Stretford End singing “More! Bestie! More!”
Where are you now George?
In a boutique down Carnaby Street?
Or gambling on the horses at an Aintree meet?
Oh where oh where are those magic feet?
I know where you’ve been
On Granada every week
I want you to come back to me
And have you seen George Oghani
And Charlie George?

From Coca-Cola to TV politics
Cruise missiles to chicken-in-buckets
From words and images to advertising
From Colonel Sanders to cop-car sirens
And now the American Football circus
More showbiz sport come to plague us
Plastic pitches, plastic tradition
Another part of the US invasion

Come on admit it, it never crossed the line
Geoff Hurst’s goal in extra time
In the Third World War at Wembley ’66
When England won again, to make it a hat-trick
Twenty years later, a replay of another war
The Falklands, Spirit against the skill of Maradona
The Union Jack’s drooped, the English were quiet
The Argies won, Maradona had a hand in it
The line between patriotic bigotry and loyal support
Is it going to war or the simple love of sport?

When you ran ’round the block
And you thought you were going to die
You said you’d never run again
And then you had another try
And you felt a little better
‘Cause above all else
You know that no-one made you do it
You decided for yourself
And it gave you time to think
And a chance to unwind
You thought by going out running
You had wisely spent your time
For whilst the only aim at work
Was your take-home pay
Running meant you’d done
Something useful with your day
And you found your weaknesses
And tested your strengths
And above all else
You decided for yourself
Is it alright like that?

Heysel stadium, it’s easy to remember
How the game continued despite the disaster
“With all those millions of viewers, we’ve got to carry on
It would be financial suicide to stop at this point.”
And there’s a ready-made scapegoat, ready to blame
Hooligans fighting, ruining the game
Ignoring the bad planning and cramming-in of fans
Right next to each other in crumbling stands
Putting money before safety caused those deaths
Whilst greedy bosses in their boxes shout and turn red
“Get those bodies back the full ten yards!
They’re covering up the advertising boards!”

Barry John was the king of Rugby Union
He was fast and agile and extremely good-looking
All you’d see would be a flash of red
Wales were best, ’cause he used his head
And knew exactly when to stop
And he retired when he was on top
Barry is my cousin, twice removed
And that’s not easy to disprove
I talk about it when I go out
When people don’t listen, then I start to shout
“Barry John is related to me!
Look!
Barry John is related to me!
Alright!
Not by blood, but still related to me!
Listen!
This is very important to me!”
Woah! Woah…
My friends don’t mind if this is true
Because they are all Barry’s cousins too

Outside the ground at Luton Town
A crazy opportunist has sprayed upon a wall
A simple proclamation for all to read
“Revolution is a better game than football”

After wading through the flooded toilets
To stand on the crumbling concrete steps
Wind and rain beating in your face
You mumble football’s favorite phrase
“That’s what the game’s all about”
“That’s what the game’s all about”
But behind double-glazing, high above
The TV on, the starter served
A second-rate match but a four-course meal
With tax-free perks and a business deal
“That’s what the game’s all about”
“That’s what the game’s all about”
Executive boxes for the rich
Sterilized, sanitized, neatly packaged
Take no notice of what happens on the pitch
‘Cause big business is the man of the match
“Turn the crowd noise down, it’s the switch to the right”
It’s all to do with business deals
And ripping off the masses and Holsten Pils
And down on the terraces you’re piss-wet through
The line is drawn between rich and poor
“That’s what this game’s all about”
“That’s what this game’s all about”

Just take a ticket
It takes you nowhere
They saw us coming
It’s them and us here
Just keep your voice down
And light another
I am a patient girl
I wait, I wait, I wait
It’s not your money
Don’t call me stupid
Not big, not clever
Mean can mean awkward
It’s Wigan Pier here
I’m not for jumping
See candid camera
Sees next to nothing
(Chorus)
You keep me waiting
I keep on shouting
You keep me waiting
I keep on shouting
You keep me waiting
I keep on shouting
You keep me waiting
My letterbox knows
Bangers and bad news
Good morning campers
Sees queues and queues and queues
They spell my name wrong
It’s not for art’s sake
And every truth told
Black mark on black mark
You love to chew on
This bread and butter
You crunch your numbers
And push your papers
Pile-up on pile-up
Malicious bad turns
I’ll light another
Slow fuses, slow burn
(Repeat chorus)