songs

they say (whoever they are) that if you give a monkey a typewriter and enough time, he could reproduce the works of shakespeare. well the goalfood songsmiths have set themselves the equally daunting challenge of recreating every song on arctic monkeys’ ‘favourite worst nightmare’ album with a football theme. “why?”, you may well ask. “why not?” we chorus in a kop-esque unison. we’ll do it anyway ‘cos we love a bit of trouble…

an ode to richard scudamore and the 39th game

(once again with apologies to Arctic Monkeys)

Running off over foreign pastures
Before the season is done
It's more a question of money
Than it is a question of fun
The trump card is Man United
I'm sure you'll baffle 'em good
Is the pressing need just Big 4 greed
And topping up your tan

Or will tears run down the faces
Of foreign fans bewildered and scorned
Promise Chelsea deliver Wigan
And you’ll wish you'd never been born
FIFA thinks the idea’s cack
But there isn't no going back
And it's wrong wrong wrong
But you'll try it anyway ‘cos you love a bit of trouble

Are you pulling teams from a burning building
Or throwing them to the sharks
Can only hope that the idea gets binned right from the start
The trump card is Man United, I'm sure you baffle 'em straight
And it’s wrong wrong wrong, but you can hardly wait

That's right, your idea is shite
Football’s blaggers perform
And the daggers are drawn
Who's the crooks in this crime?

That's right, your idea is shite
Football’s blaggers perform
And the daggers are drawn
Who's the crooks in this....
Crime!

That's right, your idea is shite…
That's right, your idea is shite…

That's right, your idea is shite…

Your idea’s struck the post, been derided by most
As the worst of all time

The Premier League’s been trouble since before the first chance was missed
Quiet and assuming, it’s Scudamore who’s the naughtiest
We pleaded with him to call it off
But he resisted and fought
Sorry Richard, we'd much rather play games in molten lava

relegation struggle blues

(with apologies to Arctic Monkeys)

You used to get it in the goal nets
Now your whole strikeforce is in a right mess
Discarded ruthless finishing for niceness
Landed in a relegation crisis
That Play Off push gone down a black hole
Your midfield couldn’t string a pass though
You loaned a Spanish schemer called Tabasco
Remember when your striker was a rascal?

Your gaffer is a slag
The best you ever had
The best you ever had
Is just a memory and those dreams
Weren't as daft as they seem
Not as daft as they seem
My love when you dreamed them up...

The terrace wags all shouting sex tips
Remember when the lads’ play was electric?
Now when your striker’s gonna get it
He’s looking like he'd rather just forget it
All the fans and coaches going mental
Once well-drilled back four are now stood still
The midfield general’s got too gentle
Is it a metatarsal or does he feel ill?

Your gaffer is a slag
The best you ever had
The best you ever had
Is just a memory and those dreams
Weren't as daft as they seem
Not as daft as they seem
My love when you dreamed them up
Oh, so where did they go?
Where did they go?
Where did they go? Woah…

Relegation
You took a left off Last Laugh Lane
You're just going straight down
And you're not coming back again.