Frankie and Jim's O Holy Night - A Guide

Barely a day goes by in December without someone asking what your favourite Christmas song is (Possibly an exaggeration). ‘Fairytale of New York’ tends to lead the way, or Wham, Mariah Carey or some such. One girl I asked the other day said, “Go tell it on the mountain”, which I found rather odd, having not heard the song since I was about 10. I had the audacity to question whether it was even Christmas related, though once I was reminded of the lyrics, its yuletide credentials were authenticated and we all went about our day with a spring in our step and a song in our hearts…. “Overrr the hills and everyywhee-re.” (Google it. Or go to church)

Anyway, all this chat is by the by as like you, until recently I too was walking blindly in tinsel flickered shadows, unknowing of the true greatest Christmas song. 

Now..there is a slight hitch. The song is so great that it is difficult to pinpoint a definitive version. No such problem occurs with other Christmas hits. I once checked the bottom of my shoe for fear of having stepped in something rotten, only to discover I’d done no such thing as the source of the stink was coming from the radio as Ronan Keating was bleating his way through the aforementioned ‘Fairytale of New York’. A criminal stench. 

The key moment to the song of which I speak, after the beautiful chord progressions and swelling melodies, is a major high note, usually only hit in the second chorus (doing such in the first chorus sometimes kills the vibe, as the song then has nowhere to go) and the numerous artists to attempt it approach the note from all manner of directions and it’s difficult to decide which is best. 

I became slightly obsessed, trawling Youtube for the optimum version, perfect atmosphere, wholesome delivery, (I’m not into any hint of sass at Christmas…Destiny’s Child have an abomination of a Christmas song called ‘Spread a Little Love On Christmas Day’ which has an horrific bit featuring the lyrics 

“Do you have my back on Christmas Day? 

Yes, I got your back on Christmas Day! 

Do you have my back on Christmas Day? 

Girl, I got your back on Christmas Day! 

You got my back? 

I got your back. 

You got my back? 

I got your back….” and so on. 

Awful. When I’m pulling a cracker with my Nana, or showing my niece how to use her new toy, I’m doing so whilst full of Christmas warmth, not wondering if my mates have got my back at Christmas!) and of course they need to totally nail the big note. No rising up to it gradually, no singing a lower version, no changing the lyrics so the note is easier to hit (I’m looking at you John Denver; terrible version), you gotta take the risk and go for it.

The sheer number of versions can be overwhelming, so to make things a bit easier, I’ve called upon my partner in Christmas crime, Frankie Simpson, who pulls no punches with her opinions, thus causing many a ruckus between us when debating the pros and cons of the many variations of a classic. By the way, I’m talking about ‘O Holy Night’.

Frankie, tell the folks at home what got you hooked on the greatest Christmas song ever…and don’t say it wasn’t me demanding you listen to it in the pub once.

Frankie Simpson says:

“The first time I heard this song was when I was watching Home Alone. I fell in love with it immediately. The haunting sound of the choir singing those minor notes that echoed round the church. I had never heard anything like it. It grabbed me and since then, no other Christmas song or carol can compete. (Jim says, “I reckon you heard it on Home Alone and liked it, then you really got into it when I wouldn’t stop banging on about it.”)

Frankie continues, ignoring Jim. “As it is such a brilliant song, there are a lot of covers out there ranging from masterpieces to “you’ve just killed Christmas”. I frequently listen to the song year round, usually I’m hungover and crying into my pillow. But, if the version has moved me to tears, I know it’s a winner, hungover or not.”

Ok, so me and Frankie are going to take you through what we think are the ultimate versions…and knowing our friendship, we will know doubt totally agree with everything the other says. hmmm. Here we go.

Jim’s Top 4 O Holy Nights (It was a top 3 but I just listened to the Mahalia Jackson one and nearly cried)

1. Andy Williams - O Holy Night 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W-RAnkH8Jxc

For me, this is the ultimate version. Clean, crisp and classy. Andy Williams is the unsung hero of Christmas. If you ever get chance to check his Christmas specials on Youtube, you’ll immediately realise he has been the soundtrack to your Christmas childhood, without you even knowing it. Here, he looks beautiful in white, handsome devil with avuncular warmth, easing through the rise and falls and sailing over the high notes with pleasing brilliance. Short and sweet as well, always a bonus.

2. Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti - O Holy Night

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7uiqRCW6I8

This one is a whole new ball game. Bit of classical bombast gets things going just nicely, with the children’s choir adding the perfect Christmassy tone. Domingo lays the groundwork with an unarguable first verse and chorus before making way for the main man. (I like the way Domingo doesn’t go for the high note…builds a bit of suspense…leave that for ol’ Luciano.) The second Pavarotti sets off you think, “Oof, this is gonna be good.” The unmistakable strength in his lungs not only puts you at ease, but also gets you excited for what he’s gonna hit you with later. And sure enough, he belts out the high note with joyful triumphance. 

3. Mariah Carey - O Holy Night

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEJmP8T07JU

If you're a fan of a high note, you’ve come to the right place. If Andy Williams is the king of Christmas (he is), then our Mariah has gotta be the queen. Yeh yeh, ‘All I Want For Christmas Is You’ is a bonafide Christmas classic, but give me this any day of the week (preferably in December). I love this version for many reasons, the main being how happy and beautiful she looks while belting out an absolute corker in a way most would only dream of. She starts nice and low, and like Pavarotti, you know she’s got the chops to take you, Rudolph, Ebenezer and Jesus to church and back. She’s got it covered. The power in her voice is a magnificence and the high note is a thing of insanity, coming back down to earth with snow on it. In terms of build up, I reckon this one is my favourite, it grows and grows to the point of euphoria (Spiritually speaking).

Frankie says: “This is not on my list because I don’t rate it. There’s far too much going on that she takes the emotion out of the song which is already there because the melody is so superb. She spoils it. As for those high notes, that don’t impress me much! Anyone can hit a high note like that if you sing from the back of your throat. I’m doing it now! I’m also at work and being told to shut up! Rude! In my opinion the so called ‘Queen of Christmas’ has spoilt the ultimate Christmas song. I now I need to listen to Mahalia’s version about 10 times to get this vile one out of my head. So now I’m crying at work.”

4. Mahalia Jackson - O Holy Night

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKILk4k3xvk

This is a real beaut. Really sparse and raw. Pardon my ignorance of Mahalia but her pronunciation is pretty weird (nuanced, shall we say) and I love it all the more for it. The whole thing has a real emotional authority to it, leaving you to assume she’s lived a thousand lives, each more soul-wrenching than your own. I love the way she ends the choruses, like she really wants to make sure you totally get it. The last 30 seconds give me massive shivers and I feel slightly throaty just writing this. Very beautiful.

So those are my faves. Frankie, over to you.

Frankie's Top 3 O Holy Nights

3. Patti Labelle - O Holy Night

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s6NeBp8YJY0

Frankie says: “I only discovered this version this year and love it! I love how she has made it her own yet not completely changed the structure so that it’s unrecognisable. I am NOT a fan of artists changing the song too much as it’s so powerful already. If too much is added it takes everything away from the melody which is enough for the artist just to sing. (I’ve also just noticed she duets this with John Legend. I shall be checking this out!!!)”

Jim says: “A bit strained for my liking..nice though. Full marks to whoever had to apply her hairspray..must’ve been a Herculean effort.” 

2 - Celine Dion - O Holy Night

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7OZ5MoUXKgc

Frankie says: “This is the second version I heard. After hearing it on Home Alone I wanted to hear more versions and this is the second one I came across and it is still one of my favourites. It has actually been number 1 for a while. It’s typical Dion, holding her voice back and hitting it hard where it matters which is exactly how this song should be sung. In my opinion, this is a million times better than another certain Diva’s version. This is effortless and I adore it!”

Jim says: “Bit slow. Feels like you wanna shout, ‘Alright mate, get on with it!’…nice though. No arguing that high note.”

NUMBER 1 – Mahalia Jackson - O Holy Night

Frankie says: “I discovered this version last year and can’t believe it took me so long to find it. I cried, and shock horror, I wasn’t hungover!!!! (Well, maybe a bit) It is amazing, right up my street! Her voice is effortless yet full of emotion. As I’ve previously mentioned, this song is powerful enough, you just need to deliver it and compliment it correctly, and boy, does Mahalia do that!!! Every note is perfect, nothing is strained or pushed too hard. The music starts, and she just sings, that’s all she needs to do and it all falls into place. I love her. A worthy winner.”

Jim says: “I feel like I’ve just nicked this version off you now, but I promise I listened to it down my own rabbit hole.”

Ok so you’ve heard mine and Frankie’s. I guess if we were holding a vote then Mahalia Jackson comes out on top, and I’m happy with that. I do think it is the most emotionally affecting. 

So have a look around for yourself and see what you reckon. Don’t come to me and Frank with suggestions though, we’re likely to give you a “Puhlease” eye-roll having listened to a thousand versions already. (Only joking, let us know)

Merry Christmas

Honourable mentions go to Michael Crawford (bit stagey for me..nice though), Josh Groban (bit wooden..nice though), Ernie Ford and Gordon MacRae (like this a lot…lovely couple of fellas)..and so on, and so on.

Piping up

I feel like I’ve got a lot to say about depression and hope maybe I’ll be good at saying it. I’ve been considering writing about it for a while now but haven’t for numerous reasons.

Reasons I haven’t previously written about depression.

1. I’m quite lazy.
2. Writing poems doesn’t take as long.
3. As selfish as it may sound, I used to deal with depression with an ‘every man for himself’ mentality. Climbing out of it can be a pretty monumental slog, so the thought of being dragged back in didn’t bear thinking about. If I started hanging around talking to fellow sufferers, offering advice, chatting about common feelings, the whole thing was likely to pull me down. I needed to stay as far as away from these people as possible, I’m outta here. Kind of like when alcoholics stay away from their old drinking buddies, I felt a similar necessity to steer well clear of any likely depressives. I wanted to totally disassociate myself from any of that negativity. That’s not me anymore.

This all may seem a bit self serving, but to me it was self preserving. Obviously I wouldn’t want others to suffer, but at the same time I didn’t think I was capable of helping. If you’re treading water in the middle of the sea, surviving though hardly thriving, you don’t want fellow drowners grasping at your neck for their own survival. You need someone from a position of strength, preferably with a boat, to help out. That wasn’t me.

Why are you piping up now then?

The stats regarding male suicides are nought short of terrifying and it was getting to a stage where such instances were hitting closer and closer to home. When such things start to get a bit scary I’m of the opinion that people in the know need to start piping up, offering answers, or at the least provide information so there’s less of a “What the hell is going on here?” vibe going on. 

I was allowing such stats to exist while hiding away with an “I’m alright Jack” attitude, keeping any experience I had firmly to myself. 

I’m under no illusion that writing this will make any form of impact, nor is it supposed to be some kind of advice column. I’m just telling you what happened to me and how I dealt with it and am still dealing with it. Depression, I mean.

Pre-diagnosis 

What the hell is wrong with me?

The worst thing about depression is that before you know you have it, you just have it.

There’s a black fog heading toward you ready to take over your soul and you're willingly inviting it in. This is because you have no idea what it is. You don’t know it’s bad. You don’t know it’s going to ruin your life. You don’t know it’s going to steal your personality and turn you into a glorified zombie. You don’t know it’s going to sap all your energy and take away your ability to hold eye contact with anyone without feeling like they’ve sussed you out as an abject failure of a human being. You don’t know….anyway, you get the idea. 

Crying

Before depression, I probably couldn’t tell you the last time I cried. During depression, Jesus. 

The weird thing was the lack of reason. I would just spontaneously start crying apropos of nothing. No emotional trigger, it’d just happen. I’d be happily watching telly, chatting with mates and suddenly think, “You’re going to start crying, Jim”. 

I’d get up, go to my room and cry for like an hour. For no reason. And I’m not talking simpering, sniffly tears, I’m talking face-aching, bawling my eyes out, throat wrenching, total loss of control crying. 

I remember arranging to go on a date with some girl at about 1pm for some dinner. I was quite looking forward to it, then come 12 o’clock the floodgates opened and there I was again, knelt on the bedroom floor, face against the wall or bed or whatever, stomach cramping, all sorts. A mess. 

Eyes suitably red and swollen I went on the date wearing aviator shades, presumably seeming like a right poser. I had to take them off at the dinner table and so to avoid any eye contact I had to strike a variety of erratic head contortions so all conversation would be directed to the side of my face. 

I had a great time! Nice meal. Girl was amazing, really cool. Said our goodbyes… (Didn’t snog, it was a daytime date, often not conducive for romantic street snogging)…got home, went back to my room and there we go again, lying on the bed with my shoulders shaking.

Permanently embarrassed and/or ashamed

People are often surprised to find out their friends are depressed and come out with lines such as “Well he always seemed alright to me.” and such like. This is because they have no idea what is going on in their friend’s brain or what turmoil they are going to great lengths to cover up.

Example

I arrived at our local pub. This is already an ordeal. The feeling of walking through the door and everyone glaring at you, sensing what a loser you are, how shit your clothes look, what a mess your hair is, how laughable your demeanour is, immediately making you feel like your insides are burning, causing everyone to scoff at how sweaty you’re becoming. This was a bad idea, I should have stayed at home. 

Once you’ve got your first drink, everything calms down. That’s alcohol for you. However this time, some alpha-male type, not really a friend of mine but enough to chat to, shouts, 

“Jim! get us a …..” 

it was pretty noisy and I kinda missed the last bit. 

“A what?!” I shout back, already feeling the grip of dread rising in me, a shouted conversation across the pub drawing all sorts of judgmental attention. Alpha male shouts back and I don’t hear him again…something about coke so I plump for one with JD and hope for the best. 

I sit down and hand him the drink, which he takes a sip of before pulling his face, 

“Fuck sake Jim, I said vodka and coke”. 

Fucking meltdown. Popular alpha male not only drawing attention to me but also making me look like a twat. I murmur some form of apology at having misheard and rush off to the toilet. I lock myself in the cubicle pouring with sweat, gushing out of me in a non-stop torrent. I take my t-shirt off before it gets totally drenched and shove it on the hanger on the door. I stand topless in the cubicle and sweat and sweat…the stress of the sweating only serving to intensify the problem. I just feel so fucking embarrassed and stupid, like everyone has seen what an undeniable waste of space I am. I reckon I’m in there a good 15 minutes before I gain some kind of composure, put my t-shirt back on, psych myself up and head back out into the action. 

I sit back down like nothing’s happened. 

“Where’ve you been?” says one of my mates. 

“Just chatting to a guy from work.” I reply, and nothing more is spoken of it.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, when you say, “He always seemed alright to me.” you haven’t taken into account that when you thought he was happily chatting to his work colleague, he was actually stood half naked in a pub cubicle, sweating in shame and embarrassment.

Suicidal/Wanting to die

I can honestly say that throughout this period, I do not believe I was suicidal. I do however remember being desperate to die. When I went to bed, it would be with great hope that I wouldn’t wake up again. My brain was obviously fucked, I thought, so maybe it’ll just pack up in the night and I won’t live to see the next day. What a relief that’d be.

Crossing the road had also become an invitation of death. I’d never look before crossing and would step out with confidence in the assumption that I couldn’t get away with it every time. I had a few incidences where I’d get pomped by cars slamming on their brakes and I’d always feel fucking great afterwards. I’d walk off feeling totally exhilarated. 

I think a part of me thought if I was ploughed down to the ground, it might smack my brain free of whatever was going on inside it, like hitting some kind of reset button and everything would be ok again.

Pinnacle/diagnosis.

Without going into too much detail, I was on holiday with family and friends and felt like permanent death. The crying was in full flow, pretty much like clockwork actually, so it was fairly easy to fit into a relaxed daily routine. Chill out by the pool then at around 3pm walk calmly inside, shut the bedroom door and bawl my eyes out for as long as it took. Head back outside, jump in the pool for a bit while my appearance regained normality…or at least the redness of my eyes could be put down to a chlorine reaction. 

Anyway, over the holiday this routine was starting to build to a point where I felt like I was less and less in control of when these crying bouts were going to occur. Trips to the toilet during nights out were becoming more and more frequent so I could blast a quick cry out, or longish car journeys were pretty good, as long as you weren’t visible in any wing mirrors. 

By this point I just didn’t want to exist anymore. 

I was so fucking bored of feeling like there was absolutely nothing inside of me. Nothing was funny, nothing was sad, nothing was impressive, nothing was pleasing or displeasing, nothing could stoke any emotional reaction from me whatsoever. If I was laughing at anything, it was me pretending to laugh. If I was pleased for someone, it was me doing an impression of someone being pleased for someone. I couldn’t care less about anything or anyone. I was zombified. God knows who or what was in charge of my general motor functions at the time, but it certainly wasn’t me. My brain, soul, character, sense of humour, charisma had disintegrated and some kind of auto-pilot was keeping the ship moving through a half-life.

Until this point, no one had seen me crying. 

One night, down some gaudy, boozy strip, my brother found me sat outside a club, tears cascading, stood me up and gave me a hug. The cat was out of the bag. If I was an aeroplane plummeting to inevitable doom, then my brother had jumped in and seized control.

Back home, I was sat chatting to some doctor about how shit I feel. (My brother had booked the appointment and marched me down there himself) I tell the doctor my alcohol consumption. 

“A week?” he asks. 

“A day” I reply. 

“Well that has to stop.” he advises.

“Have you ever had suicidal thoughts or attempted to commit suicide?” 

“No, but I’d be happy if I died.”

There was something about saying this that sent an electrical jolt up my spine. The sound of myself vocalising what I’d been feeling for so long suddenly sounded strangely ludicrous when spoken out loud. This couldn’t be right.

Humorous interlude.

I don’t know why, or if it’s normal, but the doctor was making vocal notes into a dictaphone, describing what I’d been saying, my habits etc. along with his own analysis. I found it a bit weird that he would do this in front of me given the sensitive nature of the discussion. Anyway, he then starts to describe me physically. Now I’d like to maintain that during the period of this depression, I was still quite a keen follower of fashion and generally tried to make an effort. I felt like I’d dressed fairly well for the doctors as I didn’t want to look like a total bum going in there talking about my woes. So I’m listening to him talking and he dictates, 

“…medium length brown hair, unshaven, dishevelled in appearance…” 

DISHEVELLED IN APPEARANCE. 

Says it right there in front of me. Cheeky fucker.

Anyway, the doctor told me something about manic depression, gave me a prescription and set me up with some psychiatrist. 

I immediately felt different. There’s something about being told there’s something wrong with you that makes you feel like there’s nothing wrong you. Being told you’ve gone a bit mental and so realising you haven’t gone mental.

This was by no means an end to the depression, it was just that now I knew what it was, and maybe I could figure out what to do about it.

End of part 1

I was going to do this as a 2 part thing, but I’m on a roll now, so I guess I’ll just carry on. The next bit’s pretty short anyway.

Part 2 

Post diagnosis and beyond

I didn’t pick up my prescription and didn’t make any contact with the psychiatrist I’d been set up with. My head was a foggy mess, I had no real sense of who I was as a person anymore. I’d been acting happy with mates and crying by myself for so long that these had become my 2 main character traits, yet neither bore any resemblance to my original self. The idea of taking pills that did something to my brain didn’t appeal to me at all. I just wanted the fog to clear. 

I realise some people will tell me the pills would have done this, but I dunno. I felt like I’d walked into this mess naturally so maybe I could get myself back out. My brain was fucked enough as it was; drugs were a definite no-no.

Running

Running is a God, a religion, a saviour, a necessity, a friend, an escape. Running is everything to me. My advice to anyone with depression, go running. All the time. It keeps the lows off the floor and tempers the highs.

Rather than give you a prescription for anti-depressants, doctors ought to hand over a JD Sports voucher and send you off for some boss running gear. 

Manic highs

I don’t know if I like manic highs or not, they’re weird. They make you feel absolutely incredible, invincible, unstoppable, like you could conquer the world RIGHT NOW. The problem is your body feels so fucking great it doesn’t know what to do with it. You feel like a firework that’s been shot into the sky and you’re desperate to explode but it’s not happening. Building up and up with phenomenal euphoria but no release. You need to do something, ANYTHING to satisfy your sudden superpowers. You make a thousand plans for everything you could do or should’ve done. You’re going to become a productive monster starting NOW and everyone will know how great you are. 

Then you wake up the next day and can’t be arsed again. Still, it’s pretty fun while it lasts.

Zero emotion

Once the permanent doom had subsided, I became lucid enough to realise none of my standard emotions had returned to the party. I still didn’t feel glad nor sad about anything. Still no pleasure in anyone’s achievements nor displeasure in anyone’s wrongdoing. Who cares?

Friends would tell me supposed great news. We’re engaged/pregnant/got a new job, insert whatever else one is expected to be publicly chuffed about. I found I couldn’t care less about any of them. So what? I’d spy a crestfallen countenance whenever I’d greet proud news broadcasts with a forced, “Oh right, nice one.” 

I’d behave badly and not feel a hint of guilt, or hear some lurid gossip about someone else’s ill behaviour and think zero of it. Nothing is good, bad, right, wrong, ill advised or otherwise. Everything was zero. Even now I don’t believe my morals or emotions truly got back to full strength, as if depression gassed them out and left me with a depleted replacement version.

Knowledge is power

Earlier I said, the worst thing about depression is that before you know have it, you just have it. As such, I believe your best strength can indeed be knowing you have it, can recognise it and know exactly what it feels like and be able to react when it comes creeping back in. These days, I can sense the slightest hint of black fog the moment it breathes its grim breath and am able to blast it out before it manages to infect anything. 

Go for a run, go for another, go for a swim, call a brother. Whatever it takes to feel tip top. 

I don’t know if there’s some kind of switch inside you that releases the depression fog, but if there is, I think mine was previously protected by the world’s flimsiest balsa wood, caving in at the merest suggestion of anxiety. Now, with knowledge of the problem, I genuinely believe I have the switch stored deep within a thick, metal safe, multi locked, trapped in a chest down in a double bolted cellar of an alarmed and guarded house in a gated community. It’d take a tank with a serious axe to grind to get anywhere near it.

I sometimes think, maybe it’s just gone, maybe I’m totally better. So I’ll get complacent and ease off the running routine and feel pretty smug about it. Then the next day there’ll be a weird incident; I won’t be able to look a shop keeper in the eye or something, or I’ll get a bit anxious at a family party and I’ll know I’ve given the depression an inch and he’s fucking gagging to take a mile and drag me down to square one. No chance. Trainers on at the earliest opportunity, pound the streets, clear the cobwebs and dregs of whatever dirty ghost is trying to have its way with me. 

It’s a bummer to think it’ll always be in there lurking and waiting for me to trip up, but it’s also pretty good to know I have a lot of power over it. I know I can take control of the depression and stop it taking control of me. That’s a pretty good feeling.

People need to talk about depression, get it out in the open where we can all see it and keep an eye on it. It thrives on being bottled up. That’s when it can reach its most potent and do the most damage. We need to open the bottle and allow it to be diluted by knowledge and conversation and fresh air. For me, running was and is everything. For you, or your friend, it could be something else. Talking and sharing ideas is everything depression doesn’t want people to do. Depression wants to be anonymous.

 I guess I’m writing this as a way of sticking a big ‘WANTED’ poster on the wall. There’s its ugly face, let’s deal with it.

Milanese Strut

Do you wanna go out on a Milanese Strut?

Dress banging, pout, look a million bucks

I’m standing out looking anything but

English mouth, I’m keeping it shut

If I give some cheek, can I still look chic?

Can a boy compete in a Milanese clique?

Add some zeros to your price tag

That looks nearer, should be twice that

I can hear her roll her eyes

Is my appearance no disguise

intruder tagging on with these guys

hanging on cos maybe she’s nice

Maybe not but it all seems cool

I’m shallow as fuck, wanna look like you

you’ve got the look, do you feel brand new?

Do you know what’s up? at least pretend to

I intend to keep it up

Cos I wanna go out on a Milanese Strut

Hang back absorbing all the nonsense

Skin looks clearer than my conscience

English geek in Italian chic

look complete if I just don’t speak

Does your ego make the cut?

Do you wanna go out on a Milanese Strut? 

Queens and Kings

These people we idolise

kiss their ass and eulogise

yeh they’re pretty cool and all that

got nice swimming pools and all that

look better than you and all that

got the talent too and all that

but hark at how we overlook

those who really give a fuck

Break your fall, fill your cup

see a wall and peg you up

That’s a Queen, those are Kings 

all I need when my phone rings

not Kanye, Kim, Beyonce, Rihanna

they've not got a patch on me Nana

choose your Queens and Kings

make them mean something.

My mate Anna cooks on gas

shoved a rocket up my ass

said mate you’re part of a mass

all waiting to finish last

get on with it, do something

said it like she knew something

inside of me like self belief

talent stirring underneath

let it out, what a relief

She takes the impossible

makes you feel unstoppable

pipe dreams, inevitable

things you’ll wait forever for

she delivers to the door

tells the truth that hurts

I’ll bow down to her.

That guy you ring at half past 3

say “I’m fucked up, come and get me”

He jumps up and out of bed

just to make sure you’re not dead

taxi service from the bar

karaoke in the car

he’s one of your Kings

and he can’t even sing.

Katy Lee

in front of me

all the things I couldn’t be

non stop high achiever

if she breathes it I believe her

walks into an empty room

and leaves more popular than you

does the things you ought to

though you never even thought to

reaching things you felt too short to

living dreams you only thought through

backflipping into the deep end

you’re dipping a single toe in. 

Waiting for the right temperature

Mate, she’s on a new adventure

Keep up, keeping your wits keen

she’s a fucking Queen.

Who do you want on your team?

I’ve got brothers

I’ve got friends

Bigging me up, no depends

Those are Queens, those are Kings

All I need when my phone rings

not Kanye, Kim, Beyonce, Rihanna

They’ve not got a patch on me Nana

Choose your Queens and Kings 

Make them mean something.

Ladz Ladz Ladz

Night out with the ladz

Don your Topman pulling shirt

Inhale into your pants

Turn your cunt dial up to nine

And don’t forget your bantz

No mate, you can’t bring your girlfriend

This one’s just for ladz

Boys only, we’re not queer

Fosters tops are not dear

Feeling like Reservoir Dogs

More like presenting Top Gear

Form a queue outside the bogs

Cos Vinnie’s brought some top gear

Oi mate, where’s the fanny at?

Smash her mate and marry that

That’s a girl

Not a that

Vinnie’s having none of that

That’s because Vinnie’s a twat

Why’ve you gotta talk so loud?

I’m only stood right here

Why do you stop swearing

Whenever a girl comes near?

As if you’re being courteous

Like she could give a shit

Her mates talk even dirtier

You condescending prick

Won’t admit

Funny girls even exist

Come on, are we getting pissed, or what?

Down a Jager, neck a shot

Chug whatever else you’ve got

Slam tequila, sip a Bud

Now are we all feeling good?

Speak your mind, don’t preach

Twenty-nine pounds each

Waste of time, don’t teach

What his mind can’t reach.

Fading popularity with age

Naming no names

Who needs personality when you got drinking games

Hiding holes in character

Conversation barrier

As long as we’re all battered

We’re the LADS LADS LADS

Thinking doesn’t matter

With the LADS LADS LADS

Vinnie’s looking twatted

What a LAD LAD LAD

Leave your morals thataway

On it every Saturday

Tryna be a modern thinking LAD LAD LAD