The Vile Stuff Lyrics

Year 7s on a school trip to Featherstone Castle
And some wee scallywag's brung
A Coca-Cola bottle containing a spirit
Poor Peter Hepplethwaite cracks open his head
On a shiny brass doorknob
And has to be rushed by helicopter ambulance
To Haltwhistle Hospital

Si Shovell fills a Reebok pump
With the pulp from his belly
Then sets off a fire extinguisher
In the girl's dormitory
And finally clambers into bed with Miss Bartholomew
Much to the chagrin of the deputy headmaster
Whose scarlet skull is firmly locked between her thighs

I only drank a few little droplets
I only took a tiny draught of the vile stuff

Downing Asda's own-brand stubbies in the lad's bogs
I listen to the dull reflection of a carillon in the toilet bowl
My A-levels drifting away from me
Matthew Mooney's hockle in my hair
Smells like menthol tabs

Outside the chip shop Thaddeus Wagstaff fractures my cheekbone;
3 empty cans of Castlemaine XXXX
Go rolling down my trouser leg
Blood, snot and curry coalesce in the corners of my nails
My friends drifting away from me

I only drank a few little droplets
I only took a tiny draught of the vile stuff

Attempting to penetrate a coconut husk with a Philips-head screwdriver
I pierce a hole straight through my hand into the laminate worktop It's a major operation to repair a damaged tendon;
I come around with the tube still down my throat
The milk of amnesia fills my cup and back into the hole I go

Snoring like a pan of broth, I arouse the ire
Of my fellow patients
Wagging their ladles in the dark

My neighbour Andrew lost two fingers to a Staffie-cross
Whilst jogging over Cow Hill with a Pepperami in his bum-bag
He's a junior partner at James & James no-win-no-fee solicitor
Thinking of relocating to a Buddhist monastery in Halifax

He reckons I should try meditation
He reckons it could benefit my peace of mind

My bedroom walls are papered with the stripes of Newcastle United
Between which I perceive the presence of a horse-headed figure
Holding aloft a flaming quiver of bramble silhouettes
He is the King of Children
Singing like a boiler: 'Tomorrow is on its way'

I haven't had a wink of sleep and now the sun is in my porridge
I'm starting a BTEC in Engineering at Tynemouth College
My thermos flask leaks parsnip soup on the metro
Clogging up the keys of my MacBook

Carrot pennies steam amidst a pyre of pencils
Ruck-sack dripping up the steps of WH Smith's
To buy a fresh pad of paper

I only drank a few little droplets
I only took a tiny draught of the vile stuff

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