Come warm your chap bitten skin
by the logs-on-the-fire picture
on the wall of this old bank,
picked up for a knockdown sum
by a cheap chain pub firm,
selling nostalgia and piss
on the back of their staff
and their cheapaschips lives.

Take your place in the corner,
stage whisper how things
were better in the old days,
when Summers ran endless
and England was English
and who won the cup anyway?

And how you don’t really care,
but why don’t they integrate?
Mind, they’re all the fucking same
but you can’t say that anymore.
All these PC do gooders,
trying to tell us what to think.
Well listen Abdul, this is England.
Engerland! Engerland! Engerland!