We sold out of these but we've now had a limited repress of the beautiful digipack CD with 16 page lyric booklet. Most of them are going round the English motorway system in Gav's merch box but we've keep a handful back at My Little Owl HQ for our lovely Bandcamp customers.
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lyrics
When we left we hoped we’d get back to strawberries and cream teas
Back to when we all just left our back-doors open
But you took everything that we loved including feta cheese
Forty-eight-per-cent of our hearts are broken
Without the French we never sink into a proper kiss
So I haven't had too many of those lately
And though we've got Elgin Marbles you've got the Acropolis
And we lost the recipe for Danish pastry
No-one commentates like an excitable Icelandic
Every restaurant is now badly understaffed
A Brit wins Wimbledon each year now, but I just cannot stand it
Cos no-one's got legs quite like Steffi Graf
I'm wearing a jaunty beret, smoking Gitanes cigarettes, reading Kafka quoting Rilke watching Scandi-noir box sets, I am sorry I’m ashamed and I’m profoundly embarrassed ‘cos I am you, you are me, I am us, I am we, I'm a international human being, I am English, I'm a Brit, but if you want a name that fits, then I'm a European
There’s no croque-monsieur no more monsieur, all we’ve got is a sandwich
Adios, auf wiedersehn it won’t come back, And I miss words like ‘chou-fleur’ since you took away your language, Dzienkuje, danke, gracias and Tak
We’ve had to give Italy back the Roman Baths we bathed in, Had to say farewell to German Shepherd dogs, Without Switzerland and Liechtenstein we’ve run out of tax havens, And we mourn the loss of windmills, spliffs and clogs
So I’m wearing lederhosen, outside Buckingham Palace, wishing I was under the aurora borealis, I never said I was an expert and I’m so very embarrassed
Now we’re stuck here under cloudy skies, Under doctor’s orders
Eating endless steak and kidney pies, Gazing at our tighter borders
We forgot those Polish pilots in that 1940 summer, On our side during the great Battle of Britain, Now all the Poles have gone, no-one wants to be a plumber
And no-one built a house for us to sit in, To Prague and Bratislava and your small sweaty dancefloors, We owe you an apologetic thank you
How we miss your bargain-basement beers and long penis-shaped straws
Cos there’s nowhere here good enough for a stag-do
So hit the grand bazaar in Istanbul, cross Malmo-Copenhagen Bridge
Buy poetry along the Seine, raid Oktoberfest fridge
Turn up the Europop and dance like crazy to Kraftwerk
Hasselhoff and Haddaway and everything by Bjork
Throw three coins in the fountain all Italians probably pee in
When in Rome it feels like home inside the Coliseum
Buy local art in Montmartre and a joint in Amsterdam
If you ever go to Belgium, dress up like Jean Claude van Damme
‘Cos one day they’ll take it all away and we’ll miss it when it’s over
Gazing across the Channel from these old white cliffs of Dover.
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