Too many crap programs
With too many adverts
Too much Matthew Engel bullshit
And not enough dirt
Media and programs
All dull and mundane
How to fill up space
When you’ve nothing left to say
So rip it up and start it again!
Rip it up and start it again!
Oh, rip it up and start it again!
Rip it up and start it again!
Fingerpost! Terrace Talk! Wise Men Say!
Elmsie Ender! The Absolute Game!
Not The View! Off The Ball! I could go on and on
But I’ve just bought the latest When Sunday Comes
Kick up the R’s! Northern Light! City Gent!
Voice Of The Valley! The Crooked Spirite!
Eagle Eye! And The Pie! I could go on and on
But I’ve just bought the latest When Saturday Comes

Posed like swallows before a dive
Five lanes, and on the left hand side
Stands Tubby Barlow wet with fear
Not quite sure what he’s doing there
On your marks, get set, and they’re in
Tubby’s consumed by the urge to win
Four are greased lightning, one is lard
But Tubby’s determined not to be left behind
Ten years of being pushed around flash before his eyes
Alone in the schoolyard eating his pride
In third place as they reach the turn
His arms ache and his chest burns
Kids are cheering from the balcony
Tubby’s oblivious, all he can see
Is that this is the moment to change his life
By collecting a trophy on the other side
Past Steven Clough and Kenny Grey
“Mum, mum, I’m winning the race!”
He opens his mouth and water floods in
He’s coughing, choking, panicking
Down once, down twice, ’till someone screams
“Sir, Tubby Barlow’s drowning!”
But Baz Wilson’s already in
Got his intermediate in life saving
The captain of the football team
Idol of every young girl’s dream
Drags Tubby towards the rope
But Tubby’s confused and grips his throat
As both boys begin to skin
“Sir, Baz Wilson’s drowning!”
Tubby opens his eyes for one last time
Sees Baz flailing at his side
Like Jesus after the resurrection
Sees himself as Baz’s salvation
Grabs Baz, heads for the side
“Chariots of Fire” playing in his mind
Meanwhile Steven Clough gets first position
But they’re all watching Tubby save Baz Wilson
Now Tubby lays like a whale on the shore
Gasping and spewing like a real hero
Like a real hero!

When I play cricket
I’m the longest at the wicket
I can jump and swim
And I live in the gym
But I can’t come to terms
With my existence as part of the universe
I gaze at the sky
I think how? When? And why?
I go to the lavatory
In tune with astrology
Well I get really confused
With the complicated scoring system
Used in tennis
I get around in canoes
Racing cars, balloons
I drink squash, eat Polo
Mints, climb mountains solo
But I can’t get my head
‘Round that Salvador Dali
Weirdo stuff
I really feel fine
With the planets in line
I see the future in hands
And I live off the land
But I can’t see Frank Bruno
Asking me which star sign
I think he is
Whether you are physically
Or mentally inclined
Imagine what the fun could be
If both could be combined
I know I’m speaking as a weakling
With a cosmic kind of mind
But I can feel in sport emotions
Of a unifying kind
So do whatever you like to do
And whether you win or not
Make sure the game was fairly played
And try to smile a lot
Because whatever you do should be good for you
Make the most of what you’ve got
‘Cause Whatever you do should be good for you
Make the most of what you’ve got

All through the game he shouts at his mates
Talking, talking, talking, never shuts his face
Into the pub for a sporting discussion
He always tries to dominate the conversation
At home there’s more serious things to discuss
His partner tries to prompt him, “Let’s talk about us”
He’s silent now, he has nothing to say
The ball’s in his court, but he don’t know how to play

All gathered ’round the 18th tee
With pringle and tartan and shooting sticks
Binoculars, poised, ready to use
Watching, waiting, there it goes!
Great shot!
Great shot!
What a shot!
Great shot!
The aspiring middle classes
They want to shake the golfer’s hand
Great shot!
Great shot!
What a shot!
Great shot!
But the golfer is busy watching
As his ball lands in the sand

It’s not so much the distance nor the time it takes
It’s not even the cold nor the pains or aches
I can cope with blisters and the weight of my pack
And I don’t mind the rain if I’ve got my mac
But have I cursed Wainwright in my time
To be fair, he said it’s all muck and slime
The creeping sludge, the never-ending peat
It were that that nearly finished me, it nearly had me beat
Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs
You’d never credit it–they burn the stuff instead of logs
Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs
Well it’s such a funny stuff is peat, it’s nature’s own glue
It got to me, it did, and by the end of day, too
I thought, I’m only carrying on so that I can say
If I’ve done nothing else, I’ve walked the Penine way
But I did it seven years ago, so why do it again?
Well I don’t really know, and I didn’t know then
Unless it’s this that’s been nagging at my noggin
Peat bogs and me have got this love/hate thing
Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs
You’d never credit it–they burn the stuff instead of logs
Peat bogs, peat bogs, more peat bogs

Michaelangelo was a genius
Artist, architect, physician
The darling of the Florentine scene
Inventor, scientist, mathematician
But less well-known are his regular stints
With Florence football club
A Renaissance soccer player
Good with either foot
A world-class all-rounder
Up front, midfield, in goal
He was great with a pencil or a surgeon’s knife
But he was better with a ball

British champion for fifty years
Easily beats all his challengers
Bored of always being the best
He’d rather be like all the rest
Miscuing shots and fluffing smashes
Missing the table and losing matches
Now with pressure from above
He was forced to carry on
“You’re the best, don’t you want to win?”
To which he replied with a cheeky grin
“I’m bored of always being the best
I’d rather be like all the rest!”
Desmond rebelled, now he plays for fun
He loses a game now and then
He enjoys it, though, playing for pleasure
Without the competition, without the pressure
Miscuing shots and fluffing smashes
Missing the table and losing matches

Polo has the biggest pitch of any ball game
Polo has the biggest idiots
On the biggest pitch of any ball game
Polo has the biggest idiots
With the biggest bank accounts
On the biggest pitch of any ball game
I wish that polo had the biggest rate of death
Of the biggest idiots
With the biggest bank accounts
On the biggest pitch of any ball game

I never liked rugby league, it must be said
Decapitated ears and concave heads
My interest held by just one thing
The greatest commentator ever–Eddie Waring
Whether an up-and-under or an early bath
He was always guaranteed to make me laugh
No Coleman histrionics or Benaud Twang
Just down to earth, good humored
Our man in the stand
And now it’s time for the Mini Marathon
“Can I play the Joker now?”