Biog

When Morten Harket Hit the High Notes - Lyrics

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Skinny Ties & Synthesisers

White make-up and dead-pan faces
Serious & concentrated
That was us back in the early 1980s

Moody looks and long trench coats
Androgynous, Black & white videos
We stood apart, in the kitchen at the party

We pressed a little button on our greatest hits machine
The latest pop sensation with a catchy melody
A DX7 Yamaha, another killer chorus
The tie-dyed highlights in our hair
Were always going to date us

Skinny ties & synthesisers
Two fingered basslines, nearly gave us all arthritis
Our friends are so electric and exciting

Down in Waitrose heard Ultravox’s “Vienna”
It had more pathos then I ever remembered
Oh my Visage whatever happened to the pop star

Strumming tennis racquets & striking a pose
Hairdryer in the mirror makes a mean microphone
Aloof and introverted, twiddling knobs and sliding faders
Our skinny ties and synthesisers
Were always going to date us

We used dry ice and liked reverb on the vocals
We applied black eyeliner and played diminished minor chords
(On our keyboards)
We had existential themes
And played in Eastern Bloc countries, before the fall of the wall
Looking consumptive and unusual

That was then, seems a long, long time ago
That was then when Morten Harket hit the high notes

So Cabaret

Another night in your dressing gown, cup of cocoa, the cat put out
All is hum drum all is still, All as it should be, that is, until
An invitation by post arrives, To join Noel Coward and his acolytes
A chance to sparkle, a chance to shine
A chance to show off your devil may care side

‘Cos we could be so cabaret So elegant, glamorous and gay
Like eggs by Faberge We heard Liza Minelli turn to us to say
You’re so cabaret You’re so sho sho baby, hey, hey
You’ll be rich and famous perhaps one day
As long as you don’t upstage me, that’s Ok

In a red ruche-necked dress with a slit up the seam
In gold lame to die for by Issy Miyake
In a siphon creation from Christian Dior, yeah
Straight off the catwalk of Jean Paul Gaultier

We were cabaret So elegant, glamorous and gay
Like eggs by Faberge We heard Frankie Sinatra turn to us to say
You’re so cabaret A schmaltzy smile, a tan that must be fake
You’ll be rich and famous perhaps one day
Just take my advice, do it My Way…

You may say that it’s make believe But this is more than mere fantasy
Forget Kit Hesketh Harvey, forget Dily Keane
When we woke up this was more than just a dream

‘Cos we were so cabaret So elegant, glamorous and gay
Like eggs by Faberge I swear Liza Minelli turned to us to say
You’re so cabaret (darling) In a fat Elvis kind of way
You’ll be rich and famous perhaps one day
As long as you don’t upstage me, that’s Ok

Don’t be bashful, don’t be shy share your inner Oscar Wilde
In a flash and a flourish and a wave of a wand
Once ugly ducklings, now we can be swans

Pop Star Confidential

When I was seventeen I was dreaming of becoming a popstar
Now I’m fifty something I can safely say I’m that bit closer

It was never my vocation To be an overnight sensation
I’m tapping into the zeitgeist All drum machines and dry ice
It took Jarvis Cocker over fifteen years
I figure there’s still time, well, we’ve all got ears

I’ve written lots of songs and I’m longing to be a popstar
To have a hit these days you don’t need too many sales
To get in the pop charts

I’m recording a new album n my studio-cum bedroom
Got a new single Available on coloured vinyl
I’m thinking of releasing it on MP3
‘Cos the bottom’s fallen out the market for CDs

When I was in my teens I was dreaming of being a popstar
Making videos standing on the prow of a boat
Or a beach in Sri Lanka

Instead of festivals in Devon With that bloke out of Shed Seven
I’ve seen the music of the future It’s all done on a computer
I’m standing on the crest of the next big thing
At least that’s what my horoscope seems to think

I realise this song sounds like Hotel California
Going to put it on the internet and hope that there’s some interest
on social media

Put my songs all up on You Tube, available on itunes
Maybe it will raise my profile As well a few eyebrows
I’m hoping they’ll go viral all over the world
Though to date I have to say they haven’t even caught a mild cold…

Back There

We danced away the night of the summer solstice
In our white espadrilles which we bought from Dolcis
With Pepsi & Shirlie or was it Jo and Suzanne
Well I never could remember the girls in the band

Back there, years ago, when we were all bright eyed and big bouffant hair
Back there, adrenalin flowed, with the throb of the bass and the drum and the snare

With a roll of the dice we found our lucky break, yeah
On Top of the Pops ‘cos Shalamar couldn’t make it
No money to speak of, we were rich in joy de vivre
With Our Ibizan sun tans and a head full of melodies….

…Years ago, when the sun always shined
Back there, adrenalin flowed, you said we’d always choose life

And although I know we’ll never get to go back again
Still skip another heart beat When the vocals kick in
And I can feel eighteen again

“Sometimes you wake up in the morning with a bassline, a ray of sunshine”

Played every basement dive on the cabaret circuit
Until the big time arrived, now tinged with heartache and sadness
Dead on Christmas morning, but you said you’d choose life
Found dead on Christmas morning, but I swear you’d choose life

Back there, years ago, when we were all bright eyed and big bouffant hair
Back there, adrenalin flowed, with the throb of the bass and the drum and the snare
And although I know we’ll never get to go back again
Still hear myself repeating all those catchy refrains
Still wanting more, more, more….

Well I know we’ll never go there but I feel it again
I know in my heart there will always be part of me there…..

Where Everybody’s having a good time x 2

And although I know we’ll never get to go back again
Until that time machine can take us where it began
Back there

In the rose-tinged light of the pub quiz theme night
Where the glitter ball shimmers and the memories shine bright
In the fickle who’s-who of pop star fame
Where my band was better than your band any day
We wrote the book, had the look undeniably
The A, B, C of the 1980s

The dream is never over 'til it’s over
Looking back on everything although we’re so much older
It takes more than one last Christmas to forget those youthful wishes
Wanting more, more, more…

Well I know we’ll never go there but I feel it again
I know in my heart there will always be part of me there…..

Back there, years ago, when we were all bright eyed and big bouffant hair
(Where Everybody’s having a good time)
Back there, adrenalin flowed, with the throb of the bass and the drum and the snare
But I know we’d do it all again if we could go back there

Gedge

Done punk, funk, prog-rock Psychedelic dandy pop
Rap, scat, skiffle, ska Cool cats & the theme from “Shaft”
Brit-pop, hip hop, doo-wop, electro-pop
New wave John Cage Crooners singing “My Way”
Early eighties ghettoblasters, Body-popping & break-dancing
Folk by blokes with beards and goatees Don’t you want me Phil Oakey
Trash, thrash, metal, grunge But indie was my number one

Single reviews and weekly inkies
Interviews in NME
I could out-Lamacq Lamacq & Jo Whiley (It’s easy)

Gedge is on the radio
Gedge is on the TV screen
Gedge is my obsession
In session on John Peel again
Gedge is a goliath
On the fringes of the indie scene
Gedge is circa ‘86
He’s making perfect sense to me

Done dance, trance, drum & bass, Baggy, Goth & mirror shades
Glam, Slam, New Romance, Spandau & Duran Duran
Black tie, white noise, Blue suede shoes & teddy boys
Photocopied fanzines to Observer music magazine
Shoegazers, acid ravers Scenes that celebrate their navels
Mods & Rockers, ZZ Toppers & Bubblegum & Teenyboppers
Gangsta Rappers toting guns But indie was my number one

Farewell, so long now my Wednesday weeklies
No more interviews in NME
We’ll always out-Lamacq Lamacq & Jo Whiley (You & me)

Gedge is on the radio
Gedge is on the TV screen
Gedge is my obsession
In session on John Peel again
Gedge is a goliath
On the fringes of the indie scene
Gedge is circa ‘86
He’s making perfect sense to me

(Now that’s what I call music)

Done Eno, Fripp and ambient Stock, Aitken and Waterman
Roland Juno emulators Marshall amps and Stratocasters
Mark and Lard and Mark Le Mar, and skid’n’daddy t-shirts
Taping off the radio Techno, house, Detroit, Chicago
Classic golden oldie favourites remixes and perfect playlists
R&B Disco diva, Saturday night fever
Madness in the house of fun But Indie was my number one

Farewell, so long now my Wednesday weeklies
No more interviews in NME
We’ll always out-Lamacq Lamacq & Jo Whiley

Miss Music

You sang in perfect pitch to me On a beach down by the sea
And In a field in Lancashire You said “that sheep it bleats in E”
Across 88 piano keys Your hands they flew effortlessly
No note superfluous The lost chord within your reach

Miss Music play your magic keyboard for me
'Cos we both love the music
(Miss Music) I’m touched that you wrote a song about me
And we both love Debussy

Miss Music play your magic keyboard for me
Go on Rhythm & blues it
No note is wasted when you play for me
And we both love Mussorgsky

At the station in St Pancras standing A piano out of key
But An old Joanna in those hands Becomes a thing of rare beauty
From crescendo to diminuendo Legato to fortissimo
If music be the food of love Miss Music come let’s boogie

Miss Music play your magic keyboard for me
'Cos we both love the music
(Miss Music) I’m touched that you wrote a song about me
And we both love Debussy

Miss Music play your magic keyboard for me
Go on Boosey & Hawkes it
No note is wasted when you play for me
And we both love Tchaikovsky

And where are you now my musical friend
As I picture us both at an exhibition Wondering when the first cloud will descend
Songs to be savoured, each crotchet, each quaver
A shared golden-oldie, an all-time hit favourite
Through the crackle and statis still feel the vibration
Forgive us our synths that lead us into temptation

Miss Music play your magic keyboard for me
'Cos we both love the music
(Miss Music) I’m touched that you wrote a song about me
And we both love Debussy

Miss Music play your magic keyboard for me
Want to feel it like felt the first time
Miss Music play your magic keyboard for me
Like sunshine on a spotless mind

Never Go Back

To the church hall with your brother to rehearse a bunch of covers
It was always such a drama trying to find a decent drummer
See the younger whippersnappers now all stealing your old thunder
As the years all disappear your hair receding ever thinner

Though the past is just a blast from a far-off foreign country
It’s so different there
Recalling all the bad but intimately written poetry
you never dared to share

You can never go back to the past my friend
Never go back although your heart may keep on harking
Never go back
To the golden age where the memories steeped in stardust lay
Never go back unless you get yourself a Tardis

All the demo tapes we posted all the hours that we wasted
Scouring through the Yellow Pages Listing record company addresses
Writers’ and the artists’ yearbooks borrowed from the reference library
Dusty and anachronistic just like us now really

Where the past is just a blast from a far-off foreign country
You can’t reach anymore
With the passing fads and the fashions all repeating in a pattern
You’ve seen somewhere before

You can never go back to the past my friend (however hard you try)
Never go back although your heart may keep on harking
Never go back
To the golden days where the memories speckled with stardust lie
Never go back unless you get yourself a Tardis

Revivals, reissues Remakes and tributes
Recycled and retro Through rose tinted spectacles
Vintage and hipster The gang back together
Just like the old days When we were the future, eh?

All the gigs we played at summer fetes The set lists lovingly selected
Hours spent in the studio trying to get the songs perfected
Soundscapes created & chord shapes notated
Such stuff dreams are made of, all taped and catalogued
Where the hills are alive with old treasured times, Lost in the air
The memories sketchy, fragmented, selective
But still out there somewhere

You can never go back to the past my friend (however hard you try)
Never go back although your heart may keep on harking
Never go back
To the golden days where the memories speckled with stardust lie
Never go back unless you get yourself a Tardis

Celebrity Girl

Bust up with your boyfriend on the telephone
It’s all in the papers, now everybody knows
About your manic temper tantrums, your fragile mental state
But you’ve opened up about it on your Facebook page anyway

A drama queen, so-called celebrity
But what is it you do again, can you remind me please?
Not heard of you, to tell the truth
What exactly are you famous for
Your hair, or your nails Or your tattoo

In the chatter on the chat shows, you’re just another voice
A pointless celebrity on Celebrity Pointless
Soap star, pop star, bit part in Emmerdale
Now sitting on a sofa chatting with Phillip Schofield

China doll wrapped up in cotton wool
You Want it, then you get it, now regretting it all
'Cos they build you up and then they knock you down
After rehab and a facial
Say you’re feeling much better now

Making waves with endless tittle tattle in the Metro
Saw you in the jungle trying to re-inflate your ego

It’s a new generation of snowflake sensations
In an ever warming world
It’s so confusing, identity losing
Are we boys or are we girls?

Principled points of view on all the big issues
In an ever stormy world
It’s so confusing, identity fusing
Are we boys or are we girls

One wonders, with all these new celebrities now famous for 15 people
Where do the old celebrities go? Maybe there’s a secret quota system in operation
When a new chef is admitted to the world of celebrity
Perhaps there’s a fading quiz show host simultaneously pushed out the other side

A new generation of snowflake sensations
In an ever warming world
It’s so confusing, identities fusing/losing
Are we boys or are we girls?

Appearing on Strictly & Celebrity Masterchef
I saw you on Love Island and The Only Way is Essex
Looking for some meaning in the answers you’re seeking
Should you dye your hair strawberry blond or maybe brunette instead

Be nice, be kind And if you can’t we’ll post it up on social media
Caring, sharing For all the world to see cos we’re such social creatures

Euro Bop

Pop pop bop Euro pop vision
Jukebox Italio disco nights
Got got lots of continental rhythm
Bobby Socks bopping in spandex tights

"Everything's amazing, ironic & surreal" quote unquote
In this post modern melting pot called life
Everything’s ever changing Yet how we remember
Puppets on a string and Benny & Bjorn My My…

Pop pop bop Euro pop vision
Jukebox Italio disco nights
Swiss clocks and lots of German precision
Lip gloss, hot, shiny & bright

It's all gone digital which is difficult for a relic of the analogue age
Reminiscing on the days of Bucks Fizz & Brotherhood of Man
Save all your kisses for the Eurovision
Congratulate the tacky and the wacky and the also-rans

Pop pop bop Euro pop vision (heady days)
Jukebox Italio disco nights (Hi-NRG)
Got got lots of continental rhythm
Bobby Socks bopping in spandex tights

Pop pop bop Euro pop vision
Rap rap rap Rapido guy
Back stop Barnier EU commission
Jean Claude Juncker twinkle in the eye

Give me a bit of Eurovision
Where Love will always shine a light
Where We’re lip synching to the music
Having the best time of our lives

It's fantasy fantastic Terrifically tacky, camp & sexy & strange
Adrenalin all slopping & sliding inside As we take to the stage

Pop pop bop Euro pop vision
(Give me a bit of Eurovision)
Jukebox Italio disco nights (Hi-NRG)
(Where Love will always shine a light)
Got got lots of continental rhythm
(Where We’re lip synching to the music)
Lip gloss, hot, shiny & bright
(Having the best time of our lives)

Sound Engineer

I love the studio sound engineer
I love his outboard gear
I love the headphones in his ears
I love his classic eighties Korg keyboard
The way he twiddles his knobs
He knows his watts from his ohms, of course

Sound engineer give me some noise reduction
Sound engineer put the Dolby button on

I love his multi track mixing desk
I love the signal processors
And the reverb analogue FX
I love the way he likes to mic up the drums
To a level which brings my tinnitus on

All mixed down onto DAT & cassette tape
Patch-bay wiring system reminiscent of a Jackson Pollock portrait

I’m just a slave to the main gain fade
I’m just a servant to the limit on the master level gauge
Let’s add a little signature sound modulation
Some stereo delay and a bit of bass station

Hold on a minute, what’s that buzz?
Can you hear a buzz? It must be a loose connection
Or a dodgy cable….it’s always cable

Down in the studio all night and long
Trying to find the perfect snare and hi-hat combination
He’s got classic speaker cabs and a sound module rack
And his microphone’s from Maplins or Radio Shack

Phantom power on, Ghosts in the machinery
With your sonic screwdriver, Reverse the polarity
Treble, middle, bass we’ll be pushing the frequency
Tweeters and the woofers pulsating so sexily

In the vocal booth with the headphones on
Hands around your ears singing into the microphone
A Fairlight fantasy, Trevor Horn production
Think you’re Lisa Stansfield or Celine Dion

So Long Cindy

Shy boy dreams, and vinyl album sleeves
So many careless whispers at the end of term school disco
Want to be some popstar Play our cheap guitars
Atari ST Fostex Four track tape decks

So long Cindy Wrote your name on my hand
Love hearts on my pencil case We wrote Cindy in the sand
So long Cindy Never found the right words
Called you up from that phone box It was your mother’s voice that I heard

Watching Swap Shop & Tiswas Saturday Superstore
Hula hoops and Rubiks cube No computer blues
Kids in sweetshops Buying sherbet dabs and fruit drops
Space hopping off on our half term holidays

So long Cindy Cheggars played our last song
Listening to Bucks Fizz and Marrillion Your Sony Walkman on
So long Cindy What did you become
Watched your brunette bob bouncing Walking home in the sun

Shy boy, cry boy, play your synthesiser
Chord shapes, Cure tapes, beats and bossanovas
Boys in fur lined hooded Parka jackets
Girls in pig tails and pretty summer dresses

Vowel or consonants From Carol Vorderman
Crush on Suzie Birchall Grange Hill sixth former girls

So long Cindy Cheggars played our last song
Listening to Bucks Fizz and Marrillion Your Sony Walkman on
So long Cindy Wonder where on earth did you go?
Saw your almond eyes glinting for the last time
Walking home on your own
So long…

Be an adult, not a pop star

You say you’re coming over
With a tape of the Stone Roses
The brightest hope for ages
At least that’s what you’re proposing
It said so in the NME, I guess it must be true
The curtain on the 80s closing out of view

On a decade full of fops
And lots of new romantics
Electro synth pop
And some robot dancing
We’ve all grown somewhat older, somewhat wiser
From Thatcher’s children to Major’s minors

And she told me in no uncertain terms
No messing with her messaging, her tone severe and stern
Can’t be Peter Pan in Neverland for ever more
Dancing like Michael Jackson circa ‘84
Can’t pin your hopes on pin-ups climbing up the charts
Time to be an adult, not an arty farty pop star

With your second hand guitar
Is that a cast off Stratocaster
Borrowed from your brother in law
He won’t play it any more, he tells ya
He’s married and happy says he’s grown up at last
And his wife won’t let him to be a poet or a rock star

In the days when Steve was Strange
And Den & Angie argued
When Wham! were still fantastic
And there was lots of Dirty dancing too
Bez & his maracas, a bunch of bug-eyed loons
A plethora of best in show mullet style hair dos

And she told me in no uncertain terms
No messing with her messaging, though believe me I’ve heard worse
Those Haysi & Fantaysie dreams, won’t see the light of day
Like waiting for that call from Bob Geldof to play Liveaid
Time to get your hair cut boy and hang up that guitar
Got to be an adult, not a poet or a pop star

Though we disagree about the Brontes and the Beatles
You say they’re over-rated, I say so are lots of people
But it’s good to show your feelings and I think that you should know
I don’t like Jane Austen or the Rolling Stones

So put on your cocktail dress
And dust down the Tux
We’ll get baggy on Mondays
And by Friday do synth pop
Though you’ll never be a sultan of R&B or swing
Or a rock god like Mark Knopfler, never make it cry or sing
Let’s resurrect our youthfulness and tune up the guitars
Go back to the 1980s and pretend that we’re all pop stars

Goth Princess

Eyes of carmine shadow Lips of wine dark sea
Wearing weapons grade mascara And tight fitting PVC

Black velvet and lacey
Down by the cemetery gates
Forget Bela Lugosi
A Goth Princess awaits

If I had a sister I’m sure she’d be a bit like you
And if I was a woman I’d want to be you too

Fishnet tights and leather
A night out in the catacombs
Death by Dr Martens
Cadaverous shades and hues

Why don’t you Smile and show your soft side
A wry one, that’ll do
Why don’t you Smile and show your dimples
And the world will smile with you

Flap those latex bat wings
So Romantic and noir
As you fly against the mainstream
Intoxicating and macabre

Take off your sunglasses
Let’s make love amongst the runes
In your silk lined purple casket
There’s room enough for two

Demon in a black dress
Liquorice lips so blue
A reverie that flecked your pale white cheek
That’s the goth princess in you

Woolworth Years

I’m a Voyeur from the future Sucker for nostalgia
In the giddy head rush of a new pop era
See a younger me at the Woolworths music counter

Amidst the hype and hoopla The hot air and chutzpah
In the Record Mirror a glimpse of the future
Neil Tennant’s left Smash Hits to be a pop star

Beats per minute ticking by Every Thursday shining bright
Join the quirky and the queer
Kings and queens of a brand new wild frontier

Oh dear diary what you gonna do?
Got the 21^st century in front of you
Oh dear diary, what you gonna do
Still got time in front of you

I’m calling from the future Coming back to haunt ya

I got the records I got the tapes, I got the disco, got the rave
Gonna let the soundtrack play
(You spin me round like a record baby, round, like a record baby, right round, round round)

All updated and re-booted
Beyond the speak and spell computer
Sapphire, steel we’ve gone graphene
But the future isn’t what it used to be

Celebrate your otherness
On the carousel of youthfulness
Don’t be shy, don’t be embarrassed
Man 2 man it’s time to meet Man Parrish

Oh dear diary what you gonna do?
Got the 21st century in front of you
Oh dear diary what you gonna do?
Got your video computer game console-ing you

I still got the records I got those tapes, and believe me when I say
That you’ll find your voice one day
(You spin me round like a record baby, round, like a record baby, right round, round round)

Soundtrack to the Eighties

In our white towelling socks and our tight V neck sweaters
With a Fred Perry logo on
We were Just Seventeen reading Look In magazine
In an eighties soundtrack disco song/singalong

We were bright and exciting, we were celebrity pop types
On Saturday morning TV
Phone-ins from the fans, interviews with Roland Rat
In an eighties soundtrack disco dream….

All the young guys in their Hawaiian shirts
Girls on their mind all frizzy perms and puffball skirts
As the memories come flooding back you feel a giddy rush
As you paint out the crow’s feet and fill in the blush

In our clapped out Capris, furry dice in the windscreen
Our Headbands and leg warmers on
A new romantic scene just like punk had never been
Writing thinly disguised Pet Shop Boy songs

We played the black notes, the white notes, the riffs, the refrains
On Synthesisers shaped like guitars
Designer stubble dreams and Shoulder pad chic
Sampling only the best bits from the hits of the past

We showed off our skills on our BMX Chopper bikes (the glamour, the thrill)
All the aliens killed and space invaders vaporised
Before the dodgy lower back and nasal hair proliferation
Now you’re dancing like your dad at a wedding reception

Looking back on it all behind the glitter and powder paint
To A land of ghost towns and high unemployment rates
Social unrest in Toxteth and riots in Brixton
And those vandals who smashed up the Blue Peter garden

In our clapped out Capris, furry dice in the windscreen
Ours Headbands and leg warmers on
Disco Dancing queens just like punk had never been
Writing thinly disguised Pet Shop Boy pop songs

We sang along with Stock Aitken and Waterman
All drum machines and saccharine sweet
Miming in the mirror to Billie Jean and Thriller
In an eighties soundtrack disco dream

A much simpler time, a simpler place to be
No internet shopping or computer based technology
Just the radio on Sunday for the Top forty rundown
Didn’t need a Twitter feed we had John Craven’s Newsround

We came of age, and bowed out gracefully
Called it a day, unlike some of our contemporaries
Before attention spans all waned and fame became ubiquitous
Don’t bore us with the verses let’s get on with the chorus

With our tape decks our hi-fis, C60s, C90s
Our Headbands and leg warmers on
Bucks Fizz on TV with their rip-off skirt routine
Karaoke every Friday with Kylie and Jason

Played the black notes, the white notes and those in-between
We were Dancing with the Kids from Fame
Just seventeen reading Smash Hits magazine
But we’ll never go back to the eighties again

And you can’t reheat a souffle so what you gonna do
You’ll always have the memories there to remind you

Before we grew up

Shafts of sunlight streaming in through the curtains
All dust motes and sepia hues
Should be back in school for double maths
But we’ve got other things to do

Listening to records by Dexys
And Bowie’s on the road again
The future like some kind of life on Mars
So alien and far away

So we set up the Scalextric
And the trainsets from long ago
And remember to remember what it used to feel like
Before we grew up, before we grew old

We all pile round to Henderson’s house
Watching Neighbours in the afternoon
Should be revising but there’s more to life
Than examination time in June

Nine weeks number one in the charts
Frankie say and Frankie do
Long hot summer holidays
Stretching out in front of you

So we load up the ZX Spectrum
Rebuild the Lego from long ago
And reminisce on what it used to feel like
Before we grew up, before we grew old

End of the Eighties

It’s the end of the eighties
Goodbye 1980s…

Love it, loathe it, celebrate it
Enjoy it, hate it, can’t mistake it

Boys from the Blackstuff and Spitting Image puppets
Acorn Electrons and Greenham and wars in the Malvinas
And Glasnost and Reagan and Gorbachev
Miners all striking, and no such thing as society
Mrs T and the Tories and HIV
And shares in BT if you see Sid please tell him
It’s the end of the eighties, all seems like some kind of dream
The end of the eighties, thanks for the memories

Bandaid and Liveaid, and Orgreave and Clause 28
CND, GLC, Murdoch, Wapping and Fleet street
Council house ownership, cashing your giro cheque
Leyland and Westland and Rover and Freddie Laker
Berlin Wall, Chernobyl get on your bicycle
Dallas & Dynasty, Brideshead revisited
Saatchi & Saatchi, Ben Elton & Loadsamoney
Channel 4 TV and YTS training schemes
Negative equity, yuppies and filofaxes
Poll tax and holes in the ozone and that was that
The end of the eighties
Thanks for the memories

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