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lyrics

He’s a diesel engine fuelled on lager, cider and black
Sailed the world with his boys and reckons one day he won’t come back
Pulls a pack of his rolling rizzlas, ready, raving and wrecked
Gonna paint the town with his colours and you know just what to expect
It starts with darts in the local. Best be shielding your eyes
Now he starts to get vocal speaking the truth shrink-wrapped in lies
Pints are flowing like water, cigarettes behind ears
Fathers, lock up your daughters, it’ll surely end up in tears

No need for intervention, we don’t get much on TV
It’s the closest thing to Geordie Shore that I think we’ll ever see
No need to chuck him out the bar, we don’t read magazines
And it’s the closest thing to a glossy photo that we’ve ever seen

He says, “I know that you like it, I’ve seen the way that you stare!
If you want you, just say so!” she says, “Sweetheart, I can’t even pretend to care!
Just calm it down on the whiskey, don’t put nothing more up your nose
I’ll smack you right in your temple before you get me out of these clothes”
He’s banging on about Thatcher and her virtues people can’t see
Mate, this here’s a mining town! You’re barking up the wrong tree
Tries to tell me he’s alright. Likes to think that he’s cool
Whereas anyone who spends a minute with him knows that he’s a sad excuse for a tool

No need for intervention, we don’t get much on TV
It’s the closest thing to Geordie Shore that I think we’ll ever see
No need to chuck him out the bar, we don’t read magazines
And it’s the closest thing to a glossy photo that we’ve ever seen

Barmaid says, “I think you’ve had a drop too much, love. Better call it a night
Should maybe ring you a taxi ‘cos it’s clocking on for daylight.
We’ve all got homes to go to. You got nowhere else you can be?”
He says, “I’m the king of this fucking town and you’ll never get rid of me!”
Blows his smoke up the chimney, makes himself look tough
Up stands a local farmhand and you can see he’s had enough
Takes his cigarette off him and says, “Thanks for saving me draw.”
Clenched a fist in his fighting hand and sparked him out on the floor

No need for intervention, we don’t get much on TV
It’s the closest thing to Geordie Shore that I think we’ll ever see
No need to chuck him out the bar, we don’t read magazines
And it’s the closest thing to a glossy photo that we’ve ever seen

credits

from Keys To The Quarantine Club, released March 27, 2020

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Phil Graham Leeds, UK

Phil Graham is an acoustic singer-songwriter from Alston, Cumbria, UK. His new EP "think" is out now!

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