we open with the subject of mankind's continual digging of his own grave. We learnt nothing by our mistakes over the centuries. Unless we invent a gene or a virus which makes everyone caring and kind, we are all doomed. The quicker the better says us.
mrs. playing dead>
This is about trying to coax a woman into submission. Your compliments fall on deaf ears. Is she dead or does she not like men with no muscles. When we recorded this song me and Dan argued over the piano sounds for days. In the end Dan thew water over my computer keyboard and I jumped on his head.
You die. Go to Heaven. God welcomes you, listens to an account of your awful life and then cannot make his mind up whether to let you stay or not. I would say I was God but I can't grow a beard properly. In the meantime I don't believe in his existence and I wrote this song because everyone seems so wrapped up in the fairytale that is the bible.
chicken Vs. macho>
I hate people that are threatening. I hate knowing the truth. I want to be surrounded by white lies spoken through th fleshy lips of smiling Swedish women. Mary Hopkin sings on this song. We are very honoured to have her working with us.
We (like most young people) enjoy going out and getting smashed day and night whenever possible. The song is written from the perspective of looking at one of your friends, unconscious in the corner, covered in vomit, crapping himself and chewing his tongue off, but somehow still enjoying himself.
What can be said. Man is evil. Woman is good, kind, clever. Disagree with this statement and you are evil, wicked, and stupid.
survival of the prettiest>
No matter how perfectly pretty anybody is, they still grow old, wrinkled, and ugly. We still die, rot, and get eaten by maggots. Everyone is equal in death. No matter how long their legs or how blonde their hair.
a pity youth doesn't last>
This song deals with the horrific truth of time. It dissapears. We forget things. Name me a man who is happy to see their waste widen or a woman pleased to find her breasts sagging. Growing old = shit.
This is about sitting home all day. Festering, watching telly, and ordering pizza. You imagine having a woman with you. Imagine sticking your willy into the beautiful girls in skimpy bikinis holding up numbers on crap early morning afternoon gameshows.
Here I am beggin the grim reaper for more time. I want to watch football. Drink beer. Smoke so many cigarettes I can't talk. I want to laugh at famine and war from the safety of my own couch. I want to fuck the same woman for half a century. I want to live until they invent something which means I never have to go to the toilet again. Go away grim reaper. Pick on an old man.
If you can't have the woman you want then what point is there in living? Why plenty. You can stand outside her front door, drunk as a skunk and singing Michael Bolton songs. You can practise karate in front of your bedroom mirror for six whole years before you get brave enough to kick seven shades of unholy shit out of the woman-stealing corpse to be. Everyone has their own Ella luciano. Has had a lover stolen by a better looker.
It was just the occasional punch to begin. Our creator made his greatest mistake when he made men physically stronger than women. The noise at the end of the album is what doomsday will sound like if we don't pull our finger out and help old ladies with their fucking shopping. Enjoy.
Davey's song meanings originally appeared on crocketts.net, curtosy of Holly Boswell.