Out.

Onto the final transporter and the factory’s left with … nowt.
So we became too expensive and were made brutally aware,
“Je suis désolé mon ami anglais, mais vous êtes … trop cher.”
Capitalism reared it’s ugly head and dug chasms of ‘have’ and ‘have not’,
While Ryton found out that ‘ugly’ is the only head capitalism’s got.

“It just isn’t economically viable to manufacture Peugeots here,
We were frightened that our profits wouldn’t be as FAT next year!
It just isn’t economically viable, it makes no economic sense.”
In months from now we’ll be talking about the Ryton Plant in the past tense.
“It just isn’t economically viable, to sustain these people’s lives
The fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, lovers, husbands, wives.”

Bill’s eighteen years of service will be tossed out in the gutter
“What are we going to do now Dad, to earn our bread and butter?
Will we have a holiday Dad? A week in Anglesey or Rhyl?
We could save money if we go camping, is it economically viable still?”
What’s gonna happen to our family Dad?
Will we end up strapped for cash?
If me and Mom are not economically viable, Dad,
Then will you throw us out with the trash?”

Economically viable.

It’s such a cold and clinical term
That PSA detergent has come to wipe out every germ of
Right-on Ryton vigour, the stuff that made us great,
When the Nazis blew our roofs off, we rebuilt them slate by slate.
From aircraft engines to Rootes, then Chrysler sold us for a buck,
We rode the crest of a wave for ages, but now we’re out of luck.

Everyone said the writing was on the wall for Ryton
The futures looking pretty dim, it’s not a very bright ‘un
The dice were unfairly weighted, the plant has been deemed unreliable

‘The drive of your life’ has run out of fuel, it’s not economically viable.

If you are smaller than them.

When a bike has got two seats,

It’s sometimes called a tandem.

You’ll never win the lottery

Because it’s purely random.

You could get splinters from old floor boards,

Unless you really sand ‘em.

And sticky women

Wear great big sticky trunks to swim in.

Sticky dogs chase sticky sticks,

‘Round sticky houses,

Built of sticky bricks.

Sticky kids with sticky faces…

Brians, Sarahs, Colins, Tracies.

Sticky limbs

That break and scrape,

Stuck back together with

Sticky tape.

Sticky insects eat

Sticky grubs.

Sticky beer in

Sticky pubs.

Lots of sticky lies

Could lead to a sticky situation.

Sticky Roger Daltreys sing

‘My sticky generation’.

Sticky stamps on sticky letters

Sent to your best stick friend,

Keep your sticky fingers clean,

Don’t meet a sticky end.

Sticky bats and balls for cricket,

With sticky stumps on a sticky wicket

Sticky hospitals for the sick,

What’s brown and sticky?

A stick.

Love, tolerance, harmony

Respect for each other, respect for ourselves

You won’t find these ingredients on supermarket shelves.

So I’ll fetch myself a mixing bowl

And smear a baking tin with grease

Stick in my mix at gas mark six

And bake a cake called ‘peace’.

And when it’s cooled and ready for slicing

I can cut you a piece of the peace cake

A slice with some icing

‘Cause peace is sweet – and it’s free

There’s nothing dodgy about it

I just want to scream and shout it

“This cake don’t taste of faeces!

Come and see how sweet the cake of peace is!”

But it seems that some folk are on a low sugar diet,

They don’t want to let their people eat cake

‘Cause they’re on the make from a wake of ill feelin’

“Stay away from the cake – it’s got lemon peel in!

Ingredients like that bring a tear to your eye,

Here come sample our low fat, low sugar – American pie

Guaranteed no lumps of unsightly gristle,

Here try some … or this’ll …be the day that you die”

But I want the full fat, high sugar, high cholesterol peace cake!

And if you won’t bake a cake, then bake peace into a flapjack

With sugar, oats and treacle and send it to Iraq

Instead of serving them fluff from your bum crack

Don’t give Iraq the flak for the lack of cake.

Bake peace into a cake and give everyone a piece,

And when my brother comes round and his daughter wants a slice

I’ll be like every good uncle should be … yeah … nice

And offer it to her freely

I met Jesus at St. Andrew’s Football Stadium,

He sang ‘Keep Right On’ with the crowd,

He wiped the sweat from his face with his blue and white scarf

And made it look like the Turin Shroud.

It seemed really apt that one of his saints

Had invited him back to his ground,

To cheer on the team that he’d sponsored

Though the ticket cost forty odd pound.

Jesus didn’t mind ‘cause he had a few quid

And the game was turning into a thriller,

One – nil to Blues with five minutes to go

As Jesus sang ‘S*** on the Villa’

Now, the Villa pushed forward with their ‘angel’ – Juan Pablo

His shot rattled hard off the post,

But the Villa couldn’t break down the City defence

Of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost.

This was getting a bit too close for comfort, thought Christ

So our Lord flexed his heavenly will

He made the Villa back four, fluff it up once more

Birmingham – 2 , Villa – Nil

Poor Aston Villa, they stood not a chance

With their team of cads, blaggards and knaves

They should have stuck our good Lord Jesus in goal

Because everyone knows – Jesus Saves.

He’s gone and bit my hand!

He’s trying to bury my brother

And his best friend in the sand!

Old Rover’s nicked the car keys

And he’s heading for the door,

With the A to Z between his teeth

And the ‘crook lock’ in his paw.

His tail’s a wagging frantically,

His eyes are rolling over,

It’s sad to see a mental dog,

Especially when it’s Rover.

He used to be so happy,

Chasing sticks and chewing conkers;

He really was a man’s best friend,

As my brother Pete bowled me a sprout

It’s rude to play with your food, what’s more

If you don’t stop it now, I shall give you what for!

But it was too late.

The peas on my plate

Were ripe for a swipe from my cricket bat knife

As I whacked one for four and the sprout for a six

Sadly the boundary was Dad’s ‘Weetabix’

The umpire called ‘out’ as mum started to shout

About the sprout that had landed

In the biscuit of wheat that was ‘Weetabix’ branded

Mum threw a wobbler and Pete had a chuckle,

As I felt the harsh justice of mum’s right hand knuckle.

Fancying girls in my class wasn’t cool,

Especially the one with the glasses,

So I resorted to playing the fool.

I pulled on your pigtails when I longed to pull you,

My wooing technique was appalling,

I longed to embrace you, but I couldn’t face you,

So I made do with childish name calling.

Oh ‘stinky bum’ we were only ten,

There was no chance of romance,

For I could never call you ‘my sweetheart’,

Only ‘specky four eyes poo poo pants’.

That was one of the many names

That I would pluck out from the air,

Name after name, oh the sin, oh the shame,

Every name except your name – ‘Claire’.

Lovely Claire, gentle Claire,

Were you ever remotely aware

That every hair on your head had me tossing in bed,

Had me grinning from ‘ere to there.

I could only muster school boy pranks

Instead of mustering kisses or hugs,

I should have given you chocolates or flowers

Instead of filling your satchel with bugs.

Claire, lovely Claire, you know life wasn’t fair

Though I hoped, when we grew, we’d get ‘pally’.

No, it wasn’t to be, for in junior three

A new girl had started called ‘Sally’.

Oh, Sally the lovely, Sally the gentle

Did you know that your legs, hair and face drove me mental.

I tried to behave more maturely,

I tried to give you a bit of a laugh,

But you just called me ‘stinky’

And ‘wee willy winky’

After all, we were ten – and a half.

He’s had a drink or three or four

The guests are heading for the door

As disco dad puts lives at risk,

He twists and nearly slips his disc.

He’s going to put his back out

He’s going to have a black out

And embarrass me even more than he is doing

His toupee needs a bit of gluing

As he jumps and jives in his blue suede shoe…ing.

Disco dad don’t care for fashion

Got his flares from the local cash ‘n’ … carry,

With his best mate Barry

Whose dress sense is as bad as his.

“You kids don’t know what real music is!

Back in my day, bands could play,

None of this techno … techno …techno … notice.”

Yes dad,

Thanks dad.