I was listening to BBC Radio 4 the other day – I think maybe Woman’s Hour – and there was this woman (fair enough) rattling on about the difficulties of making her way through the higher education system having been brought up on a council estate. One major problem, it turned out was her Northern accent which came in for discrimination, often subtle or hidden. She did not sound particularly old, maybe mid-thirties, and I wouldn’t have thought betraying one’s origins from beyond the Home Counties wouldn’t have mattered much these days. In fact it could even be seen as an advantage since many middle-class people now disguise their roots with estuary English in much the same way as most also wear tee shirts and jeans to appear more homogenous or blokey. Anyway, this woman on Woman’s Hour seemed to be labouring the point unnecessarily so I thought I’d put the alternative view. I’ve read this poem a few times in folk clubs, assuming a cod northern accent (impressions never were my strong point – I’m especially crap at accents), but it seems to go down well, and the more I over-act the better.

UPSTARTS

Ya educated working class?

Ain’t nowt but an effing pain in the…

Ah, well, thou knows what I bleedin’ mean,

Upstarts of the social mobility machine.

Regards themselves as bloody bee’s knees,

With their Bachelors of Arts and PhDs

Beaten ta pulp in old school yard,

For readin’ books and not being hard.

While normal folks was down at mill

Or beggin’ coal and eatin’ swill,

Then suppin’ ale or tossing darts,

Shagging barmaid or lightin’ farts.

By God we knowed ‘ow ta ‘ave a good time,

Shit for brains but where’s the crime?

 

But yer educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Ah, well… what with higher education,

Reckoning that’s their rightful station,

Where, what with social discrimination,

They had to make do with ingratiation.

Then, as up the greasy pole did climb,

Till, finally, at Prime Minister’s question time,

The honourable gentlemen in grey suits,

Betray their very northern roots,

Do quibble and quail making points of order,

But really, it were, oh Maggie how we did adore yer.

 

Yer educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Ah, now… give me toffs any day o’ week,

Despite the poncey way they speak.

Coz… you knew where you were in them olden days,

Never mind lord and lady’s fancy ways.

Though they treated us folk like muck,

Behind their backs did we give a…

For instance… though they paid us almost nowt,

And from tied cottages kicked us out,

If we got old or sick or weak,

And had no vote and could not speak…

But – didn’t we all know our places?

Behind our pale and dirty faces,

We was proud to be working class.

Always and ever – a right fucking pain in the arse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

UPSTARTS

 

Ya educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Well you know what I bleedin’ mean,

Upstarts of the social mobility machine.

Regards themselves as bloody bee’s knees,

With their Bachelors of Arts and PhDs

Oh I recall back in old school yard,

They was soft as mother’s cooking lard.

Readin’ books in French and Greek,

And languages no buggers speak.

While normal folks was down at mill

Or beggin’ coal and eatin’ swill,

Then suppin’ ale or tossing darts,

Shagging barmaid or lightin’ farts.

By God we knowed ‘ow ta ‘ave a good time,

Shit for brains – but what’s the crime?

 

But ya educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Well… what with higher education,

Reckoning that’s their rightful station,

Where, due to social discrimination,

They have to make do with ingratiation.

Then, as up the greasy pole do climb,

Till, finally, at Prime Minister’s question time,

The honourable gentlemen in grey suits,

Betray their very northern roots,

Do quibble and quail making points of order,

But really, it were, oh Maggie how we adored her.

 

 

Ya educated working class?

Ain’t nout but an effing pain in the…

Now… give me toffs any day o’ week,

Despite the poncey way they speak.

Coz… you knew where you were in them old days,

What with lord and lady’s fancy ways.

Though they treated us folk like muck,

Behind their backs did we give a…?

For instance – though they paid us nowt,

And from tied cottages kicked us out,

If we got old or sick or weak,

Had no vote and could not speak,

But – didn’t we all know our places?

Despite our pale and dirty faces.

We was proud to be working class,

Always and ever – a right fucking pain in the ass.

 

 

 

 

I know the arguments are complex but it still sickens me to hear of grown men (and women) getting a kick out of slaughtering big game animals. If they love these creatures as much as they say why can’t they just go and observe them and take photos? What’s the point in killing them? Is it to have pictures such as the one above? Or maybe to get a stuffed head on their wall as a memento to show off to their friends? Whatever the reason I don’t see how it can be justified, especially with all the scientific research indicating massive declines in most animal populations through habitat loss, poaching, and various environmental factors. Anyway, for what good it may do, I wrote this song – and, though it’s meant to be humorous, mean every word of it.

 

GOODBYE BUFFALO BILL            

C: Goodbye Buffalo Bill, it’s time for you to go,

No more herds a-roaming on the plains of the buffalo.

 

The lion and the tiger, the elephant and the bear,

The rhino and the antelope, endangered everywhere.

You shoot ‘em in the back, you bang ‘em on the head,

These wild wild animals, you’d rather see ‘em dead.

 

The law of the wild west is all you seem to care about

Blood and guts and thunder – oh boy you better watch out.

From Africa to Asia, all around the Pacific rim,

Wild, wild animals, ain’t nothing safe from him.

 

But soon there will be nothing left, no creatures left to shoot,

Except maybe other hunters, now wouldn’t that be cute?

Men with long range rifles, spoiling for a fight,

Like wild, wild animals – maybe then they’d know what it’s like.

 

To kill or to be killed – only thing they seem to respect,

And who’s got the biggest trophy to hang up by the neck.

Ain’t it a pity we can’t hang them instead,

Like wild, wild animals, bodies full of lead?

 

Some shoot for the fur trade, the ivory or the bones,

All for the love of money we’ll soon here be all alone.

In a world deprived of nature how could not carry on?

Without wild, wild animals we won’t be here for long.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s plenty more where they came from gun – fun

and if there’s not who cares?

The last of the big game hunters