Friday night, everything's fine, except a seagull has eaten my line,
Away he is soaring
My hook his throat it is goring
That'll teach him for flying away
Then I'll go down Camborne which is well annoyin', and get accosted a bloke who's like, "well, yer a bit posh for round 'ere darlin, come and have a laugh with me and my inbred mates then"
then I'll fall in a ditch
and i won't even be embrassed
cos in camborne this counts as a posh bit
My fingertips are holdin onto the stairrail up Remedies
Cos I know that I will fall down if I don't
And a few shots tonight will make it alright
Even if my memory's totally fried
I'll have a big cream tea
To sort me
You said I must eat so many pasties
Cos I am a fattie
I said I'd rather be with someone from Camborne mate
Cos you are a twattie
Yes they're shit lyrics and no they don't quite fit
and I must admit I have no shame
But I've made my dosh, so who gives a fuck
My fingertips are holdin onto this surefire one hit wonder
Cos it's back to River Island
If I can't
And when people say it's shite I know that they're right
The words just don't fit even if I try
So I stuff lotsa words in, just to rhyme
I'm gonna go surfin' cos I'm bored of listenin to Aphex Twin, salt in my eyes,
I fell off my surfboard, cos I'm not a stereotype.
Not all Cornish people are surfers
Not only Newquay entertains us
Oh my gosh, it's actually a big pile of shit.
It's pretty rubbish, but it wasted twenty minutes.