17.03.2017 test 2

17.03.2017 test 1

10.11.2013 Последняя запись британских провокаторов Chumbawamba «In Memoriam: Margaret Thatcher»

12.02.2013 BIG SOCIETY! (“Большой свет”) Перевод двух песен из последнего альбома Chumbawamba

24.09.2011 Что есть панк? (если этот вопрос уместен)

09.06.2011 Делать панк самому или со своими друзьями

27.05.2011 Протест средствами искусства

24.05.2011 На «Максидроме» поубавилось русских

19.05.2011 Первое знакомство с веселыми анархистами.

11.05.2011 Из истории Chumbawamba



Mary, Mary

(spoken: the Hail Mary)

No virgin me
For I have sinned
I sold my soul
For sex and gin

Go call a priest
All meek and mild
And tell him, «Mary
Is no more a child.»

It’s raining stones
It’s raining bile
Throw in the luxury
Of your denial

So I don’t deny
I don’t make do
I’ll press alarms
Place bets on truth

I’m so up and down
And I love what’s not allowed
I was lost, now I see
And now I’m growing old disgracefully

Whatever happened to Mary? (x5)

(spoken: the Hail Mary)

I’ll spit on floors
And do more drugs
Burn every bill
Get drunk on love

Wear next to nothing
In the pouring rain
Be a bad example
And do it all again

I’ll be uncareful
I’ll cause such scenes
And I’ll never talk
Of used-to-be’s

Tattoo my face
I won’t go grey
Be a dancing queen
I’m growing old disgracefully

I’m so up and down
And I love what’s not allowed
I was lost, now I see
And now I’m growing old disgracefully

Whatever happened to Mary? (x9)

Mary, Mary, Mary, quite contrary (x12)

(spoken: the Hail Mary, played backwards)


Walking down the street on my own
Lost in the world of my headphones

Safe inside the boom and the hiss

Marking out the time with my feet
The d and the s of the beat

Wondering if there’s something that I missed

Morality Play In Three Acts

Act one, the smell of green leather, French polish, quite pristine, not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle, not a crease, the silverware all clean. Exquisite chaussures grace marble floors, be upstanding, for men of yore. But wait, who’s this, sticky under the collar in Elsinore? Enter silent comedy geek with dynamite down his pants. Nervous, shuffling on his feet, leading a merry song and dance. A back seat driver of good moral fibre, holding up the light. He’s made his own bed, now he’s got to lie in it. Ha ha! Serves him right.

Act two, a new New England, watch the good seed grow. But who is this miss out-of-wedlock, with children of her own? Enter witch finder general, of melancholy humor, and irascible power, all dressed in goody-goody two shoes, pulling the heads of flowers. ‘Let this be,’ said he, ‘a lesson, your dirty linen is your own reflection.’ Said I, ‘Somehow it just doesn’t wash, away with your petty inquisition. In the vernacular, most unkind sir, f**k with me and you will see the flesh and blood and bone, the black eye of thine enemy.’ Dance, dance.

Act three, ‘I am the lord of the dance,’ said he. John the Baptist, dripping wet, playing sir politick-would-be. Backslapping, backsliding, back to basic instincs, backfiring. By your own choice you’re on a hiding to nothing, I ask you which is more comforting? The thought that I am bad seed, gone to seed, turned sour by TV sex and violence. Or even worse, am I unleashed by my own volition to do you ill? ‘Condemn a little more, understand a little less.’ Oh sad sir, thou jest! Ha ha! I am Prometheus, prepare thee to meet thy nemesis.

Mouthful Of Shit

I can’t hear you ‘cos your mouth’s full of shit
Do something about it

Well I’m really back to basics right beside a bar
Choke the double trouble big one to the joker with card
Good call
What’s the crack what’s the damage done today
From teh commons to the common a banana skin away
Knock it back knock it out
Chuck a nightmare dart
Compere on the mic turns turning to the court
Putting beef vol-au-vents across the union jack
Bolinger and bitter says the colonies are back

I can’t hear you ‘cos your mouth’s full of shit
Do something about it

You think you’re god’s gift
You’re liar
I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire

Up yer ronson
Take a tab
With a flash of zippo light
Catch the hip parade passing the polaroids right
Check the manic little rebel with a bottle in his hand
A rhyming manifesto and a butty from his mam
Local lad made bad with cowboy charm
Claims he doesn’t really mean every screw-’em-all barb
Pass the mic
Karaoke with the yesteryear stars
Time to weep into your beer til the fireworks start

I can’t hear you ‘cos your mouth’s full of shit
Do something about it

You think you’re god’s gift
You’re liar
I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire

Mr. Heseltine Meets His Public

Mr. Heseltine you drove into our town
The northern rain always drizzling down
Shoppers at the window stop to look
As you sign another copy of your book
‘Cause you have all the power
And you have all the wealth
And we’ve got nothing but ourselves
We’ve got nothing but ourselves
We’ve got nothing but ourselves
So we’ll do away with leaders, bosses and police
Reclaim our actions, rediscover our voices
Salvage our integrity, reassert our dignity
Power in the heart of the community
Mr. Heseltine listen to me
We don’t want power
And we don’t want money
We’re fighting for the right to decide
How the power and the wealth
Be equally divided
Old people in Seacroft need money for bills
Single mums with kids want decent meals
And we all want new coats
When all’s said and done
They’re all worn out
From being walked upon
There comes a time when we organize
When we take control of our daily lives
When we don’t obey orders from authority
When we disbelieve the myths of democracy
Democracy Street, Britain’s longest running soap opera, with the added illusion of audience participation. Our act tonight, on the left, capitalism that’s right, on the right, capitalism is it, in the middle, probably the best capitalism in the world. Remember it’s your choice, your five seconds worth of action that counts. I mean that most sincerely folks. Sit tight, keep quiet, ’till the next time. The next time being one thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days away. If freedom is the choice between three different types of the same oppression then I’ll take the one thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days. Never mind the ballots, here’s the rest of your life.
Mr. Heseltine drove away
Two more appointments in the north today
Helpless and powerless
We join the queue for the metro bus
And Mr. Heseltine I’ve made up my mind
I’ll never give support to you and your kind

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