The Northern Society /Grim Up North?

 

The Northern Club meets on t’ outskirts of town

In t’club wi’t sign fer Newcastle Brown,

T’greyhounds and whippets are tied up outside

As all things Northern are treated wi pride.

There’s chips and there’s gravy and dollops of peas

Nowt wrong wi dripping or tripe on steak pies.

No mither or scriking, no fuss and nae bother,

Just old fashioned values our kid, that’s me brother.

The caps are all flat an the vowels are n all.

Fat Ladies are names for the bingo we’ll call.

An pasties and pies and Greggs sausage roll,

If drafty we’ll tell thi, put wood i-th hole.

The chair calls to order and all stand ter sing

The Races at Blaydon or Ilkley Moor ring.

Sideboards and braces an buckets of coal,

On t’ jukebox Oasis and rare Northern Soul.

These exiles from homeland, up North where it’s grim 

Are forced to drink lager and cocktails wi gin.

“Now then”, ladies and gents, calls t’ boss

“It’s time we debated: ketchup or sauce?

A sofa or couch, chaise longue or settee,

What time do we serve our supper or tea?

And how do we say the words give us away

Like castle or plastic, things everyday,

And is it more posh having scons or a scowne

And ice cream what’s served in a tub or a cone?

And barmcake or muffin, a stottie or bap,

What do we eat when past Watford Gap?”

Folk looked reet pensive, as pints they did sip,

And packs of pork scratchings they thoughtfully rip.

“Aye!” They all cried, there’s nowt up wi that.

“Here here!”, yelled Justin, the soft Southern twat!

The butties were brung out on tin foil for trays

As t’ Yorkshire contingent swapped names for a spade.

A pot then was brought out of steamin Scouse stew,

Wi puddings from Yorkshire and Eccles cakes too.

And blood in a frier, puddings both black and white,

None of yer prawn cocktails or soft Southern shite.

T’Brass band starts up, playing t’ Hovis track

Eyes turning all watery, eh it teks thee back!

Trouble at t mill, cobbles an all that,

Before gentrification and luxury flats.

And just as debate turned to what’s meant by our pants, 

And fights breaking out tween Scousers and Mancs,

The landlord, fearing some mischief or crime

Holding his pint pot, yelled out now it’s Time. 

But debate spilled out on pavements and street,

On why the North is so hard to beat.

We talk to eachother on buses and trains,

And discuss t’ weather – it usually rains.

So what do we do about arrogant shits

Who think that up North is truly the pits?

Who laugh at our mugs and scoff at our vowels

And call our dish cloths their fancy tea towels?

They tell us to put our powerhouse in order

And talk about putting a wall on our border.

So it’s time to form our own Northern party

With booze and music and all that malarkey -

Enough of the ruling southern elite.

And Bojo and Tories in safe northern seats,

It’s time for rebellion, stand up and fight

Cos life in the North is really not shite.

So tell them in Bristol, in Oxford and Kent

That grim oop North is not what they meant.

With music and nightlife, money a plenty

Our cities are perfect when living past twenty.

So come to where life has so much more meaning,

Where people ask how you are with more feeling.

Grim up North, what’s that you say?

I’d rather live up here, any old day.

 

M x