Songs from The Smell of Reeves & Mortimer Series 1 introductions

Constantly irritate our minds

Like a shrimp in a suitcase laying on a window ledge,
like a pair of tartan slippers and they’re underneath a hedge,
like a scout master at daybreak putting peanuts in his glove,
like a specially formed ice arch for climbing over doves,
like a sardine in a hair net and he’s staring at a priest.

These things you’ll find constantly irritate our minds.

Like a sugar unicycle that’s being ridden by a fork,
like a batten berg owned by Jesus that can miraculously talk,
like a lemon pip with sideboards fighting a bearded crab,
or Bono in a boob tube on the choir master’s lap,
like a elaborate heating system apparently in Kent.

These things you’ll find constantly irritate our minds.

Like a badger with an afro throwing sparklers at the Pope,
like a family of foxes and they’re glowering at some soap,
like a lump of Nazi nougat walking down an avenue,
like a Tudor vacuum cleaner saying “How do you do?”
like a kestrel having sex above a television set.

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Cool Conditioned Air

I thought I had the prefect home,
I had my cavity walls filled with foam,
the central heating’s on full,
the roof’s full of wool,
but I’ve still got dampness in my walls, walls, walls, walls.

My ledges were starting to curl,
I had dampness in my world,
the kids were crying,
the coats weren’t drying,
and the shelves were covered in spores, spores, spores, spores.

We need cool cool conditioned air,
feel it flowing though your hair, under your chair and everywhere,
cool, cool air, cool, cool air, cool, cool air.

That was until 7 September 1947 when Catherine Zeta Jones kindly installed the following indoor climate control units to her home;

Dehumidifier,
an ioniser,
an air purifier,
horse drawn hairdryer,
The Who live at Leeds,
a packed of seeds,
and a top hat full of gloy, gloy, gloy, gloy.

We need cool cool conditioned air,
feel it flowing though one’s hair,
under your chair and every where,
cool, cool air,
cool, cool air,
cool, cool air,
cool, cool air,
cool, cool air.

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Don’t Slip on Loose Muesli

Don’t slip on loose muesli,
don’t drink and sleep on a scree,
hang back clergy on a clifftop,
don’t let your children run free.

This is a beautiful story about a little lady called Carol-Anne.

Now Carol-Anne was doing all right,
and she topped up her benefit money with
some work as a magician’s assistant.

That’s right but it all went horridly wrong
when the amazing Mr Potty was sent to jail,
and understandably poor Carol-Anne turned once again to gin.

So one day in a drunked stupor and depressed,
she took her young son Franky to the edge of a cliff,
overlooking the Vale of Pickering,
and for a while the enjoyed the view together.


But where was Franky?

Let me tell you.
Earlier that day a young clergyman came to
the self same spot to have his breakfast,
and remembering a sermon by Sir Harry Seacombe,
his arm involentary jerked forward,
and spilled loose muesli here, on this cliff top.

Now little Franky approached the cliff edge cautiously,
but the soles of his brothel creepers were to thick to
sense the loose muesli below his feet,
he lost his grip, he began to fall,
that’s right, the winds took him away by blowing his
little Elvis Presley costume over the edge of the cliff.

He had no time to cry out.
But ladies and gentleman,
let me tell you, if he had have done,
this is what he would have said:


Don’t slip on loose muesli,
don’t drink and sleep on a scree,
take care clergy on a cliff top,
don’t let your children run free.

Carol-Anne kept on boozing,
didn’t hear a word we said,
got drunk on a clifftop,
now little Elvis is dead.

Don’t blame the clergyman,
for leaving muesli on a mountain,
the blame lies with Carol-Anne,
she just lay back boozing.

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Glass Blower

Oh, the glass bowl glows as the glass blower blows,
a tiny glass swan from his blow pipe flows,
a huff, not a wind blasts into the bowl,
producing these goods here on his stall.

Oh, your delicate swans may well appeal,
but come take a look at my wainwright’s wheel,
the rim, the hubs, the spokes so central,
preferring glass swans, you must be mental.

Le pain de la mer dans le nuit,
the sweet, sweet sea bread of the sea,
les grands garcons est dans la boucherie,
the big boys are in the butchers.

Oh, the dirt here is seen as the dry cleaner cleans,
some sick out of his hat and some blood encrusted jeans,
your wheel is round, that I doubt not,
but my dry cleaning drum is both round and yet hot.

I’m beautifully dressed,
you’re clearly obsessed,
but you’ve not impressed the bloke from Go West.
But what does he know?
I’ll tell you, you fool, he hides Ribena under his stool.

Le pain de la mer dans le nuit,
the sweet, sweet sea bread of the sea,
le grands garcons est dans la boucherie,
the big boys are in the butchers.

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Trapped in my Flat

I haven’t left my flat over three months,
since the council erected an iron door,
an easy mistake for the council to make,
but the grills on the windows are an eye sore.

I shouted out the window,
I shouted out the door,
I tried to tunnel out though the kitchen floor,
I pushed lighted paper though the letterbox,
but no one saw cause of the iron door.

Trapped in my flat,
only my memories for company,
trapped in my flat,
hoping someone will come and rescue me.

I phoned up the council there was no reply,
clearly the staff there presumed I died,
an easy mistake for the council to make,
there was nothing they could do, but they apologised.

There’s nothing I can do and that’s a simple fact,
but sit here and wait ’til they demolish these flats,
till then I’ll sit in my attic space,
trying to attract attention of passing planes.

Trapped in my flat,
only my memories for company,
trapped in my flat,
hoping someone will come and rescue me,
hoping someone will come and rescue me.

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We’re a couple of girls

Hello, we’re a couple of girls,
hello, lipstick and curls,
we read Women’s Own,
tidy up ’round the home,
and brass was used for coins in Roman Britain.

I’m Julie, I’m the one with a limp,
I’m Carol, and I too have a limp,
we read Marie Claire,
shop at Fine Fare,
and the Dutch have no concept of rust.

I’m married to a guy with one lung,
I’m shacked up to a man with one plumb,
we watch Neighbours at one and then again at half five,
and the Cornish industry of tin is sadly now defunct.

Hello, we’re a couple of girls,
hello, lipstick and curls,
we read Women’s Own,
tidy up ’round the home,
and brass was used for coins in Roman Britain,
and brass was used for coins in Roman Britain,
and brass was used for coins in Roman Britain.

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