The Real Damage I woke up on a sofa in an unfamiliar house, Surrounded by sleeping folks that I didn’t know. On failing to find my friends, I decided that it was clearly time to go. So I made my way out of the door as quietly as I could – There was no one there I knew to say goodbye – Squinting in the sadly sobering sunshine of the Sunday morning light. I started the night with all my friends and I ended up alone, Oh yes I started out so happy now I’m hung-over and down. It was about then that I realized I was half-way through The best years of my life. So I scanned the local landmarks, trying to find out where I was, And maybe even find a bus back home. I was longing for a shower, and for clean sheets, and a charger for my phone. And suddenly it hit me that I got paid this Friday last And so I rifled through my pockets for some change. But all I found was a packet of broken cigarettes and sinking sense of shame. I had to ask myself, well, Is it really worth it? Is any of this worth it? Well the whole thing’s far from perfect, But I’ve yet to figure out a better way to spend my time. Too many suits and dirty looks made me rack my brains, And the real damage started to sink in. It’d been quite a heavy weekend, but I could just about remember where I’d been. I stood on a street corner, and I felt a little sick. It was about then that I realized I was half-way through The first day of the week. Vita Signs This country is my canvas – I leave paint trails as I go. I’m painting a picture That you can only see from outer space. My bedroom is your sofa, I take my breakfast on the train. I’m tired and I’m dirty, and not a second goes to waste. I’ll be dead but never dying, and I say that with a smile It’s just my way of trying to be alive. Well I’ll never get to grey hair And I’ll never be in the black, But I can tell stories that most can hardly dream. Dreaming is a luxury, Like stopping-staring and beauty sleep. I’ll stop when I’m finished, And sleep is for the weak. Heaven’s in the half-light, and that’s where I reside, A whiskey and a wry smile – I check my vital signs. And when I’m gone, The worlds revolve, and life goes on, So mark no grave, Forget my name. If the song remains And everybody’s got a drink and a smile, Well, that’s just fine by me. Romantic Fatigue I have to admit that I am one of the many Who thought that a guitar would win him a lady. My teenage years, they were a feminine drought, And I thought that a serenade would help out. And it seemed to be working for a couple of years – I wrote a few songs and they wrought a few tears. But when I hit my twenties, it ran out of steam. I seemed to be suffering from romantic fatigue. And I never know which song I should play her – Each melody is a memory of a not-forgotten failure. So when I get out my guitar tonight to do what I do, Remember, I probably didn’t write this song for you. So as I have mentioned, the shelf-life was short. The scheme wasn’t working, despite what I thought. The ladies all left me alone in the end, So I had to switch all the names around and then sing it again. And every life-long love, and every best friend, Slipped away into the past. Take my words with caution – I can’t pretend that you’re the first, You won’t be the last. I never know which song I should play her – Each melody is a memory of a not-forgotten failure. So when I get out my guitar tonight to do what I do, Remember, I probably didn’t write this song, No I certainly didn’t write this song, No I never, never wrote a song for you. A Decent Cup Of Tea It hadn’t been a day when everything had turned out right – She called me up and asked me to come over in the night, To make her cups of tea and listen quietly as she starts To list the latest list of bastards who have trampled on her heart. I see her in the nightclubs, I see her in the bars, At rooftop after-parties, or crammed into friends’ cars, And we talk about the weather, and how she drowns her pain in drink, And I nod and never ever dare to tell her what I think. She summers by my seas But winters without me, And she cries into her tea That she’s secretly lonely. And oh me, what am I to do? It’s obvious to me, But she never seems to see That it’s not about the days when everything has turned out right, No it’s more about the moments when she calls me in the night To make her cups of tea and wash the weary worries from her head And then to draw the pain out slowly as I put her into bed. And I slip this information Into all our conversations But she never seems to listen And she never seems to see. Father's Day When I was sixteen I cut myself a Mohawk, Because I wanted to walk the walk, And not just talk the talk, But it was a bit of a disaster because I did the sides with kitchen scissors, Because I didn’t have any clippers, And I didn’t want to use a beard-trimmer – I’d made that mistake before. When you got home you didn’t want to talk about what I’d done. You said I’d let you down, I’d fucked around, when I was only having fun. With the way that you’ve been lately, you’ve no right to scream and shout. You and I, we’ve got a lot that we need to talk about. What’s the point in making vows that you’re never going to keep? A lifetime lying awake means you’ll never get to sleep. And all the promises you made, that were painful and untrue, Of all the things you do they reflect worst on you. We all have our own devices For handling mid-life crises – Usually involves a motorbike and Suspicious fashion decisions. But you choose to stave off grey hairs by Lamely hacking at the sides With lies and flimsy alibis For your suspicious expeditions. When I get home I don’t want to talk about what you’ve done. Yes you’ve let me down, you’ve fucked around, but I guess you were having fun. With the way that I’ve been lately, I’ve no right to scream and shout. You and I, we’ve got a lot that we need to talk about. You always told me Father’s Day was just another way Of selling Hallmark greeting cards Twenty Years of waking sleep, of lying through your teeth, Meant every Father’s Day spent wondering who the hell you are. What’s the point in us making vows that we’re never going to keep? I keep trying to keep you up, but you keep on falling asleep. And all the promises we made were painful and untrue, But for better or for worse, I am turning into you. Worse Things Happen At Sea Honestly, relax my dear, it’s clear that we are done. It doesn’t take a scientist to figure out that one. It’s obvious, the way you move, the way you hold your head, The way you hide your pretty eyes and shift across the bed. Honestly, I’ll be fine, this isn’t my first time. I’ve taken blows before and every time I have survived. You made it clear you didn’t care, you never did pretend, And in the end at least you never try to fuck my friends. Well honestly it doesn’t matter, I know better than To cry over spilt milk, wasted effort, spoiled plans. We’re adults here so shed no tears, I’m sure we can be friends. I’ll nod and smile and watch you in the arms of other men. Well honestly, your honesty, it has emerged unscathed, And I hope you’re doing fine, because me, I’m doing fucking great. And I wouldn’t want to waste another second of your time – I know my place, I know your face, So you hide yours and I’ll keep to mine. You say “Worse things happen at sea”, I say “Worse things have happened to me”. Bitter eyes to the bedroom floor – And we’re not going to talk anymore, We’ve got nothing to talk for, And you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. And I’ve got no one to care for. This is the worst thing that’s happened to me. I guess worse things happen at sea. My Kingdom For A Horse Would you pick your clothes up, put your clothes on, Pack your things and go? I’m tired of sinking this low. Awkward semi-naked coffee conversations fade Quicker than mistakes that were made. Mornings when I’m coming down, being driven round the bend, Make for days when I’m losing my friends For all the little things that I have done and cannot make amends. Don’t you ever kind of wish that the world would just stop? That the band would pack up and the curtain would drop? I’ve been stuck inside the same old nights, the same old days off, And I need you now because I can’t get out of this. Clean your mirrors, roll your notes out, Put your cards away. That’s a game that I don’t want to play anymore. My head is sore, my throat is raw, and what’s more I’m fifty pounds down to feel empty and poor, Remembering the things that I believed when I was sober and sure. And I’m trying to speak straight, But I’m drunk and I’m lonely and you won’t believe me, And I’m trying to see straight, But I’ve been up for days and it scares you away, And I’m trying to keep straight, But I’d trade it all for just five minutes more Of your wandering hands with their simple demands that are All the things I ever wanted, better than the powder and pills, All the things I ever needed, the only thing that doesn’t seem to kill, That still makes me smile. So if I tell you all the little things that I think that I need, Will you tell me how to tell the world from the woods from the trees? Because I’ve been stuck inside my comforting familiar disease, And I need you now because I can’t get out, And all over Europe the lights are going out, And I’m pulling down the curtain, but every time I reach out You’re gone. Back In The Day When I was just a skinny lad on holiday by the sea, I met a girl in a Rancid shirt, and a tape she gave to me With the Black Flag First Four Years and the Minor Threat Discography, And punk rock saved my life. Going down the Red Eye back in 1998, Hanging out with Household Names and staying out too late, This angry adolescent found an outlet for his hate, And punk rock saved my life. The vision wasn’t perfect and we knew it all along, We dressed like fucking idiots and got our facts all wrong. But everyone must needs be an extremist when they’re young – Fucking with your parents makes you grow up big and strong. Folding zines and record sleeves while sitting round at home, Flicking through the catalogues and distros at the shows, Circle pits and sing-a-longs, come on let’s fucking go, And punk rock saved my life. That little dream is over, it was never going to last. Everybody’s moved along and it’s all in the past, But when I was just 16 I pinned my colours to the mast. And punk rock’s in the ink that’s in my skin, The attitude in every song I sing, And we didn’t change the world, we didn’t win, We probably didn’t even save my life, it’s true But I bet we had a better time than you. Once We Were Anarchists The demonstrations got boring – Well it was obvious that the government was ignoring us. It’s hard to drag yourself through empty streets On an empty stomach and no sleep. The shortcomings got clearer, As the price we paid got dearer and dearer. It’s supposed to be a case of give and take – Well I was feeling the give and making a mistake. And I’ve heard it said that the unexamined life Isn’t much worth living, and I’m sure they’re right. But it’s hard to keep on fighting the good fight When no one else seems bothered, yeah, When no one’s on your side. I’ve got friends who are bankers, And it’s an easy rhyme to call them wankers, But I must say I envy the way that they live In a style that’s all take and no give, While I’m playing the Lone Ranger, Riding to the rescue of six billion strangers, Armed with only unoriginal songs And a sense that something’s wrong. And I must admit that I’m tired of saying “no” all the time. But I must admit that I don’t really know what would be right. And if politics is helping all the people then my political career is pretty fucked, Because the truth is I don’t like people all that much. The times they aren’t a-changing – Yeah, England’s still shit and it’s still raining, And everybody’s jaded and tired and bored And no one lifts a finger because It’s just not in our culture. Our culture is carrion and we’re all vultures, And no one seems bothered by this state of play – It seems that the stench is with us to stay. So I had a go, I tried examining life. It wasn’t much worth living – I guess they’re right. And I’m tired of fighting a fight that’s not my fight. But so is everybody else – we’re all on the same side. I’m young enough to be all pissed off But I’m old enough to be jaded. I’m of the age where I want things to change But with age my hopes have faded. I’m young and bored of being young and bored – If I was old I could say I’d seen it all before. In short, I’m tired, and in short I’m probably fired. If the revolution doesn’t want me I don’t give a shit. Wisdom Teeth It’s been eighteen months since I kissed you once, So just saying “hi” just isn’t going to fly, But if you give me a clue and a minute or two, Then I might remember your name. And I hate to insist that I was really that pissed, But to tell the truth, in my flush of youth, I would drown my sight until faces and nights seemed the same. And a nervous shrug and an awkward hug Won’t get me out of the hole that I’ve dug, So I slip the noose with a poor excuse And talk to someone, anyone else. And I sit with my friends and I try to pretend That I never did that sort of thing again, But I’m lying to myself. And suddenly it’s as clear as clear could be: I’m not quite the perfect man that I hoped I’d be. And though I always tried to live an honest life, To tell my truth I’ve told my share of lies. I remember you, of course I do, But I don’t recall how many times we’ve been through This little game, that always ends the same, With you sad and me far away. And every time I repeat the line That the fault’s not mine and I wasn’t unkind. But the worst part is that I’ve got nothing else to say. And all the pretty little pictures of faith and firm devotion That I painted as a child, Well they have fallen by the wayside, along with all my puppy-fat, But my days have taught me this: That every day I spend pretending that I always choose the right path Is a day that I choose the wrong. Oh yes my wisdom teeth have been giving me grief – They woke me up to find that I’m exactly the kind of Guy I said that I’d rather be dead than be In the days before I got laid. The Ladies Of London Town There’s so many beautiful girls in here tonight, I can hardly stand it. Where do they go during the day? Who the hell do they go home with at the end of the night? I don’t understand it. They never go home with me. You dance as if you’re hours away from death, You’re wearing too much make-up and showing too much flesh, And you smile a smile to take away my breath, Because tonight, and only tonight, you know you’re the best. The ladies of London town Go flowing through these streets like water Running little streams down to the river. They wash the dirty ground, they sweep me off my feet, But like an English summer, they’ll soon be gone forever. I’ve seen you trawling Camden at 4am, Outside of the clubnight, Deciding whose house will hold a free-for-all. I’ve followed you back to mansions and I’ve met all your friends Under the streetlights But I can never recall what you’re called. You dance, you sweat, Your glance is met, And you hold my gaze a bit, And pretend you never did, And I’m left standing on my own. The ladies of London town throw one last glance over their shoulders, Blow a kiss, and then they’re gone forever. Must Try Harder Mother loves me still despite My failing health and lack of drive. Shame on me, I could be so much better than I am. Songs unfinished, post unopened, Clothes unwashed and vows now broken. Shame on me, I could be so much better than I am. If I could just relax, then I could admit That I don’t know what I want, but this is not it. If I could just recall the dreams I had as a kid, If I could just relax, if I could let my guard slip, I’d be such a winner. The Ballad Of Me And My Friends Everybody’s got themselves a plan, Everybody thinks they’ll be the man, including the girls. The musicians who lack the friends to form a band are singer-songwriters, The rest of us are DJ’s or official club photographers. And tonight I’m playing another Nambucca show, So I’m going through my phonebook, texting everyone I know, And I quite a few I don’t, whose numbers found their way into my phone, But they might come along anyway, you never really know. None of this is going anywhere – Pretty soon we’ll all be old, And no one left alive will really care About our glory days, when we sold our souls. But if you’re all about the destination, then take a fucking flight. We’re going nowhere slowly, but we’re seeing all the sights. And we’re definitely going to hell, But we’ll have all the best stories to tell.