Paul Cree - The Plight of St George lyrics

Paid to watch girls go by. Powered by bacon sarnies. Lubricated with Tea. Calibrated once in a while by a supervisor with a clipboard. Educated by the Syn. Cultured by the Sun. Under the sun we watched girls go by. The 12 oclock catwalk was the firmest fixture on the building site. Lunchtime for the indigenous female's in this particular coastal town. The town in which our contracts had paved a metaphorical path made of Queens heads. Enabling this band of merry men, Too drift in on the sea breeze and claim the throne for their own. Bricklayers by trade, Dog's bodies by pessimism, Skyvers by truth, Young Chris and I, Partners in crime. In between our strenuous studies of the female species We'd take small breaks to occasionally do some work. Transporting bricks here and there. The nature of the job afforded us a generous amount of time to talk. To talk sport. The teams we chose to support. Who got nicked, who was in court. Who got court trying to nick. Who got large and took a gla** to the chin. If 66 England played 96 England who would win. Virginity's lost somewhere behind a Biffa Bin. Talk of that sort. Rarely deviating beyond shop or the above. Chris followed football. Chris stalked football. He swallowed statistics and regurgitated tactics. A library of information, Containing, history, current affairs and speculation. All in relation to the world wide game, As well as the domestic. His obsession was accepted and respected amongst his contemporaries. A prophet for gamblers searching for profit. The joker in the pack of the quiz-team. 21 and Slim. Pasty white skin kissed by the Sun. Cropped brown hair, A sharp 0.5 round the back and sides. Wiry frame. What astonished me most about Chris, Was his aptitude for research, And his quick ability to think on his feet. Absorbing information like a sponge An academic dream. As sharp as they come. Except where Chris came from, Studies of a formal nature, Were disregarded. As the guardian preserve of the middle cla**es Compulsory education. Was compulsory. Sums were of no use. Unless one was waging funds on the running of a horse, Or the legs of a dog, Or the afternoons scores. An inherited distrust of education, Being told what to do. By an imaginary man in a bowler hat, holding a briefcase, Wearing shiney shoes and a pinstripe suit. One particular afternoon, Perched 3 stories up on the temporary scaffold of a new build, We observed like eagles on the people below. The sea in the distance putting our small worlds into perspective. Hard hats protecting our Skulls. Mug's of tea warming the palms of our hands like hot water bottles. Chris had removed his T-shirt. His wiry torso only partially covered by his hi-visibility waistcoat. I noticed he had a new tattoo on his right bicep. I knew it was new. because it looked like I could peel it off like a transfer, Along with the bright red skin surrounding it. The flag of Saint George. A red cross on a white background. It looked to me a like a peaceful cry for help. Of course it was world-cup year. Tournament time. The tabloids had the wiped the country into a frenzy. As always, An electric storm was on the horizon and the hacks were waiting eagerly, With the fire blanket, Ready to take the credit, For extinguishing the flames they ignited. Any shop with a window, Any car belonging to a country to cross England's path, Any wife or girlfriend with a violent boyfriend, Police and politicians, And sub-scriber's to BBC Points of View, Dreaded England's inevitable exit l Like the flash before the bang of a firework. Chris behaved like most lads of his age and background. Nice at heart and game for a laugh. Occasional bouts of misbehaviour. Occasional bouts bought on by too much strong larger. The type to help an old lady cross a road, The type to intervene in a fight on a bus where people who appear civlised, Would pretend not to know, The type to fight outside a club at 2.a.m and be labelled an example, Of broken Britain. With our feet dangling over the edge of the wooden platform, Between the scaffolding rods, Into an empty space where a wall will eventually be. I asked Chris why he had the tattoo. "I'm English, he said.” “I work and I get pissed. It's what I do. I sat at the back of the cla** in the shadows, Disliked and feared. Why? I'm supposed to have an England tattoo. It's not a way to display my pride. It's a badge of my rank in life. Getting bolloxed and watching football, Gives me an excuse to vent everything I hate about England. Look at her, the one in the red, she's fit"