I moan these days about youngsters -

The chavs and the scuzzies and thugs;

Their swearing and gobbing and ASBOs -

Their smoking and drinking and drugs.

But I recollect I was no angel

And partial to that Special Brew

And me and my mate have knocked teeth out

And pissed in a doorway or two.

But I’m sure that time in the 80’s

When we got banged up in a cell

We never thought that years later

We’d have this story to tell.

Cos it’s hard to see into your future

And no doubt we’d drunkenly scoff

That he’d end up as a Lawman

And I’d be a man of the cloth.