Вступление
(intro) G Em C D (x4)
I wandered around to the back of the petrochemical plant where they’d found Mr
Gwatkin’s jacket in 1974. Sleeves turned inside out
With a tin of sweetcorn in each pocket. The rumours surrounding his disappearance
Are many and varied. Though we should for the time being at least accept the version of
Events given to us by the lamentable chap himself on his eventual return.
In doing this however, we must also keep in our thoughts
The findings of better minds who conclude that Gwatkin as-is no longer
Represents Gwatkin as-was.
Piecing together an occasional vague sentence and some garbled chanting heard during the
Small hours, it appears that our victim was making his way home from the Pessimist
Festival in Mollington when he was set upon by a gang of miscreants, the
Chief malefactor of whom was a particularly vicious character going by the name of
Bridgedale. So called on account of a thermal sock with which he
Gloved his fist whenever he became tetchy and needed to punch somethink.
Unable to comply with the rabble’s hot tempered demands for unreasonable
Things such as cathedral juice and vicar shit, the heavily pummelled
Innocent was dragged into the churchyard of St. Lawrence and there left to his own
Devices next to the grave of young Nelson Burt – whose own tragic
Tale is of particular interest to the local historian.
It is believed that within twenty minutes of this episode, a further attack was witnessed by
One Slow Dempsey of Woodside Farm, who alleged that he saw the
Aforementioned Bridgedale scuttle a full four hundred feet along the Wervin Turnpike
To deliver a perfect Haymaker onto a stray colt. This afternoon I
Visited Daniel Gwatkin in the confined place which he will probably never leave.
I was offered redbush tea and a fig roll. The pleasantry gave
Hope for lengthy discourse but cheer was swiftly dismissed as the pitiful subject
Proceeded to gaze out of a large window for what seemed like an age, before
Turning around to fix me with pitch black sockets which simply said
“Help me”. Then came the song:
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
I write to people, they don’t get back to me. I write a second time, they don’t reply.
To ease the loneliness and pass the time I pace the room, inventing bands;
Experimental trio from Borehamwood – ‘Hall, Stairs and Landing’: they’re really good.
Scott Verplank did not get back to me. Newcombe and Roche, still no response.
Congolesi Unsworth, Glaswegian Runes, the singer’s granddad writes all the tunes.
Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd. Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd.
Uh-oh Chongo! It’s Danger Island!
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd, Jodie Mudd.
Cresta! What the fuck were we drinking?
Cresta!