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 first got off the bus, Maria looked at me and said “Wow, gosh”, then stared up at the skyscrapers, and down at free newspapers, that were littering the streets, and she took my hand and took a deep breath, and opened up our coffee flask and sat down on a bench.
Filled with luminous impatience just outside Victoria Station, and she said that being there reminded her of when we met. At a festival in Somerset, she came over and said that, I looked just as confused as she felt, drinking whisky and iced tea from a plastic water bottle, she said “God there’s such a lot of us things I really wanna see”, Allo Darlin’ clashed with Art Brut, She banged on and on about seeing The Fall. Oh the agony of choice left us paralysed so we missed it all. So when Maria looked up from that bench, all she saw was one giant tent, aware that this event was her life, finally getting started, And so far from home in Keynsham, there in Victoria Station, she said “It’s like we’ve got invitations but we always miss the party”
(And I said) Come on Maria, let’s paint this big old city
Every colour of the rainbow, we’ll make it so damn pretty
If we believe every tale we’re told,
Then these London streets are paved with gold
So we took the tube on every line, busked and sang No Woman No Cry and danced along in time with Bowie’s Changes. Wandering the trail of hidden waterways and rail tracks, rowing pedaloes in the Serpentine, feeling the wind on our backs, sneaking into Madame Butterfly and finding some binoculars, Maria cried as sleeping toffs missed the soaring melody that sank so deeply into her and me, ten-pin bowling, karaoke, kissing by Westminster Abbey, the knowledge of black cabbies and red double-decker buses, and sweet Maria gushes that “one day maybe we’ll ride on that big wheel. We’ll look down on the river and from up there even high-rises will look beautiful”. And sitting in a park, on the south side of the river, we picture our destiny somewhere far off in the future.
Right now we may be sitting in a rocket meant for children, rocking back and forth just to keep each other warm. But tomorrow this rusty rocket could propel us anywhere, and we will look down on eight million arms and legs below us, book ourselves a sell-out show and then we’ll be the ones inside that jazz club on the river, in Chelsea restaurants steak for dinner, spinning in that wheel, prosecco in our hands, backstage passes with the band, sing with oddballs kooks and hippies, reading Steinbeck in the chippy, We’ll make our Marx in Highgate, smell Columbia Road flowers, climb Crystal Palace dinosaurs we’ll sit and talk for hours. ‘Cos there’s nothing ugly here, there’s just possibility, we’ll get jobs in bookshops by day, and by night read poetry, and the audiences will get bigger ‘til we’re not missing the party at all. We are the party. We’re the ones in Time Out listings, never again will we miss things; museums, exhibitions, afternoon tea on the Strand, holding hands in Hyde Park, singing underneath the stars, oh it’ll all be ours, dancing in the dark, by the stalls in Borough Market.
And Maria’s taking pictures of the council high-rise tenements, for an exhibition, sometime and somewhere. She sees romance in rusty bikes and poetry in washing lines, rows and rows of wind-blown underwear.
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