If I had the wings of an angel
The dirty black arse of a crow
I’d fly over BBC studios
And shit on the bastards below
Shit on, shit on, shit on the bastards below, below
Shit on, shit on, shit on the bastards below

It’s the old stock car thing
Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!
Round the track and round again
Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!
Revving, coughing, stutt-stutt-stuttering
Tongue-in-cheek scrap motor racing
Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!
Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!
Revving, coughing, stutt-stutt-stuttering
Tongue-in-cheek scrap motor racing
Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!
Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!
Write-offs end, stock cars begin
Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!
It’s the old stock car thing
Crash! Smash! Crash! Ring!

With a flick of the boot and a nod of the head
The ball goes crashing in the back of the net
But the referee and linesman disallow the goal
‘Cause the boot’s on the other foot, the scorer is a girl
All the men they get together
Squawking, balding birds of a feather
The old boys club is under siege
So they’ll never have a woman in the Football League
There ain’t nothing like a dame
To the moral guardians of the game
All the men they get together
Squawking, balding birds of a feather
Sport and life, they’re both the same
Traditional upheld, imbalance remains

The millionaires are closing ranks
Tax-dodging in the race to the bank
Listen for the slamming of the stable doors
After the horse has bolted
Trapped fingers, and someone’s to blame
The Jockey Club is tightening the reins
All the wealth and power
Owned by a handful of people
With YTS workers
In the star-studded stables
I have no sympathy for the Inland Revenue
But Lester Piggot, I’m glad they caught you

Every one of them, one in a million
Blaze a trail and tear up the past
Thank heaven for devils and sporting rebels
Count the black sheep, and stuff the rest
Shoot your mouth off, get sent off
Smash your racket on the way to the top
Thank heaven for devils and sporting rebels
The rogue waves in a sea of slop
Thank heaven for devils
Thank heaven for devils
Thank heaven for devils
And stuff the rest

Bing played golf
Do-be-do-be-do
In the rain
Do-be-do-be-do
Struck by lightning
Do-be-do-be-do
Never again Do-be-do-be-do-be-do-be-do

Birds strung on barbed wire hanging in the sun
Grouse moors trampled to the crack of guns
Greyhounds snapping at a hare on the run
Corpse of a fox when the day is done
It’s killing for fun

Watch Ben Johnson on TV
Or try to beat your own PB
The choice is yours
You decide
Get square eyes
Or get outside!

I got a skateboard
Oo-ee-oo!
I’m skating down the street
With my trucks all new
Here comes the NME
Coming into view
Looking for a gimmick
That it can screw
“You’ve got a skateboard
Oo-ee-oo!
Do you like the Stupids?
Can we interview you?
What kind of fancy tricks
Do you do?
Are those original
All-star shoes?”
Now it’s not a sport
It’s a saleable craze
They’re screwing us over
In a million ways
“Sign on the dotted line
You know it pays”
Who wants a skateboard?
I’m giving mine away

England’s goalkeeper since Gordon Banks
Consistent, reliable, a safe pair of hands
But despite all his saves and all his acrobatics
I can’t help recalling something more dramatic
Of an incident in the back of a car
When Shilts was caught with his bottom bare
And the image of him and his apparent agility
Will stay with me longer than his goalkeeping ability
Bare! Caught with his bottom bare!
Bare! Caught with his bottom bare!
With his bottom bare, he was caught with his bottom bare!
With his bottom bare, he was caught with his bottom bare!
With his bottom bare