IntroductionThe Great Money TrickScrapyard EmpireNothing to show for itAn infestation you can't clearI.D. on my gravestoneIt'll never turn out nice againDon't they have homes to go to?Options instoreProblems in a plastic bagMiddle of the road 2 stepBilly SlagThe A.A.W. MugsboroughFor the loan of your earYuppie flats

The eponymous first album from Julian Gaskell & his Ragged Trousered Philanthropists, recorded at Dan’s flat in Penzance, as well as various locations in Falmouth and Manchester. The astonishing artwork is by Thomas Barwick.

The Great Money Trick

Money is the root of poverty my friends, Money is the root of poverty
Take it from the poor, give it to the rich
Get your best shoes on and get down in the ditch
Money is the root of poverty, oh yeah, always at the root of poverty
Give it to the rich, take it from the poor
Doff your cap my friend and ask for more!

Ain’t no use in tinkering with it, everything is wrong
Only one thing to be done with it
Smash it up and build a different system altogether

Money is the root of poverty my friends, greed is the soil ‘pon which it grows
Taken from the lesser, given to the greater
To put a match to it to make another crater
Money is the root of poverty my friends, gluttony the dung on which it feeds
Served up on plates by us, dumb waiters
Buy now, pay later!

Ain’t no use in tinkering with it, everything is wrong,
Only one thing to be done with it
Smash the means by which the idle rob us of everything that we create

Money is the root of poverty, comrades; death is the hand upon its plough
You may be clever, you may be big
They’ll have you shuffling round on the ground like a pig
When money is the root of poverty, you see, that buries us and breaks us in the soil
You may be big, you may be clever
But you’ll be slaving under the yoke forever

Every drop that trickles down to us floods back up to them
When will we stop pandering to it
And smash the means by which the idle rob us of everything that we have

Money is the root of poverty, again, that bubbles round us like an asphalt spring
It travels to the north, travels to the south
Chewed and spat on biggest plate by the biggest mouth
Money is the root of poverty, it can only strangle us and bleed our landscape dry
While it travels to the west, travels to the east
Always in the hand of those who create the least

And when a generation holds it breath, and counts the price of air
Will we ever stop it in its tracks
Destroy the means by which the bastards rob us of the only life we have
Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2006

Scrapyard Empire

Stood in the wrong place
Where it didn’t know
That somewhere a planner planned his plan
Roots stretched over floor-
Capacity space
Unwittingly waiting under shade

We never voted for this
They must be taking the piss
Do you hear them cutting down the wrong tree
Howling ‘bring it to the party, bring it to the party!’

Wizened, weather-worn branches had no need
For outward investment, re-modelling, cross-cutting measures
Workstreams, flooding my dreams
Arrange for the safe removal, call a hotline…

We never voted for this
They must be taking the piss
Do you hear them cutting down the wrong tree
Howling ‘bring it to the party, bring it to the party!’

No ‘new Islington’ here, once was enough
If that’s all the same and ta very much
More than three quarters of what?
A hundred and ten percent of a scrapyard empire

We never voted for this
They must be taking the piss
Do you hear them cutting down the wrong tree
Howling ‘bring it to the party, bring it to the party!’

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2006

Nothing to show for it

Rot in the wardrobe, rot on the brain
Crawling down all the steps and up again
If I kept just half of anything I’d be buried in the shit
But I don’t want to know about it

What point in this material, what point in all this time
To take another sentence and put it on the line
Take it to the frontier
Put it to bed
Oh, don’t wake me up with it

Nothing to show for it
Nothing, no, no, no benefit
Turning dead skin into dust
Weathering the boom and bust
With nothing, nothing to show for it

Stolen stamps and stationery and uniforms
To keep the landlords fat and keep the draughts from getting warm
The well is never empty but the rope is always slack
Cos I don’t want to drink your spit

Nothing to show for it
Nothing, no, no, no benefit
Turning dead skin into dust
Weathering the boom and bust
With nothing, nothing to show for it

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2007

An infestation you can’t clear

It’s not right
But who are we to judge
Who’s living off the back of who
And who’s feeding the slugs
So I’m not wrong
To harbour some kind of grudge
That now you’ve brought it in you can freeze it out

It’s written in the small print on the side of the pack
It’ll never be a substitute for all that you lack
It seems you’re gonna have to just get used to it dear
This love is like an infestation you can’t clear

So I don’t know
What to say anymore
Now I’m crawling with the shit you throw down on the floor
Though I won’t go
I’ll always be about
Cos now you’ve brought it in you can’t buy it out

It’s written in the small print on the back of the can
And it’s blowin in the wind from air conditioning fans
It seems you’re gonna have to just get used to it dear
This love is like an infestation you can’t clear

Sort it out
Get a grip on it now
You may be swatting with your tail at flies on a cow
But I’m sure footed
Sure as the mule
You can push me to the edge but I won’t fall down, you fool

You may be swinging in the rigging
But there’s rot in your mast I’d leave this sinking ship for you if I just could be arsed
It seems we’re gonna have to just get used to it dear
This love is like an infestation you can’t clear

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2001

I.D. on my gravestone

There’s nothing round outside but cars and streets and lights
No one tapping on the glass but the window will shake tonight
The church bells don’t ring for you and didn’t call in the fog
And that howling at the door it didn’t from any dog

And I’ll cling on to the seasons to survive another year
But save my ID card for my gravestone
I won’t walk this earth in fear
Who issued you a licence to wage war against the world?
I won’t go in, stay in, tune in
I won’t walk this earth in fear

So let us shut the door my friend, draw the bolt just in case
Let us not take any chances or make promises in haste
For though the demons on earth, their faces may not show
There are folks working on things tonight that we won’t want to know

And I’ll cling on to the seasons to survive another year
But save my ID card for my gravestone
I won’t walk this earth in fear
Who issued you a licence to wage war against the world?
I won’t go in, stay in, tune in
I won’t walk this earth in fear

When their time round here is over will security on the gates
See that their vigilance and suspicion will not protect them from their fates?
For he who propagates the fear in life must surely face the same in death
And see the terror he created as he draws a final breath
And I’ll cling on to the seasons to survive another year
But save my ID card for my gravestone
I won’t walk this earth in fear
Who issued you a licence to wage war against the world?
I won’t go in, stay in, tune in
I won’t walk this earth in fear
In fear

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2005

It’ll never turn out nice again

Ain’t no ships in the shipyard
Ain’t no coal in this hole
The choices aren’t rationed at Tesco, but then
The world’s got us over a barrel again
Count your blessings and enjoy the warranty
And they’ll compound the interest while we serve up our tea
My stiff upper lip will rust in the rain
It’ll never turn out nice again

ee George, is that really you, laughing in your grave
Cos you never had to embrace the digital age
The wife’s gone and left you a kettle to boil
While the world’s got us over a barrel of oil
The wind blows plutonium
From Basra to Blackpool Sands
My stiff upper lip can’t adjust to the pain
It’ll never turn out nice again

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2006

Don’t they have homes to go to?

To light a fire with a fire, kick a tooth out for an eye
To scorch the ground to get the fruit, throw the shit to get the fly
But don’t they have homes to go to?
Isn’t there something they’d rather do
Ain’t there something they’d rather do

You can push it through the slot but you can’t reach and get it back
Just like you boast about defense but you keep quiet about attack
Don’t they have homes to go to?
To get what you can’t receive
To get what you can’t receive

When the surfaces are wiped and the concrete is hosed
The dirt has all been stamped and the bodies decomposed
Won’t they have homes to go to?
Isn’t there somewhere they’d rather be?
Isn’t there somewhere they’d rather be?

You can’t add up or spell but you can send numbers to hell
To bunker down under the shells that cousin George’s uncle sells
But don’t they have homes to go to?
To reap whatever you sow
To reap whatever you sow

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2007

Options instore

Send the mules, winter fuels, put horses in cans
Stack em high, don’t bring, buy, unload the vans
Reduced for quick, brick by brick, saved pound by pound
I’ll laugh and I’ll spit on your sale when I see you closed down

I want more than the options instore
Give me more, give me more, give me more than these options instore
I’ll take more than these options instore
Give me more, give me more, give me more than these options instore

Delegate or dictate, but show who’s in power
When judgement’s left by the door, paid by the hour
But it waits for us when we swipe out one very last time
It’ll laugh at us, spit on our timesheets and send us on down

I want more than the options instore
Give me more, give me more, give me more than these options instore
I’ll take more than these options instore
Give me more, give me more, give me more than these options instore More, more more etc…

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2004

Problems in a plastic bag

Put your problems in a plastic bag
Throw the fuckers into the sea
Let somebody else clear it up after you
Why wipe it yourself when someone will wipe your arse for you

Scrap the skyline, screw it to the wall
Hide the half-life, hang it in the hall
Or bury it deep under old carbon streets
Forget all your guilt and chuck it on the back seat

The world’s a wheelie bin, put it out for me
To fill it up and wait for eternity
For somebody else to clear up after me
Why wipe it yourself when someone will wipe your arse for free

So put your problems in a plastic
Put your problems in a plastic bag.

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2006

Middle of the road 2 step

Who are these fools, why do they listen so
To the music I can’t dance to and don’t want to know
Who are these fools, where do they all come from?
Why can’t they get a better habit
Learn a better song?

Which end of the road are you on?
Which side of the fence d’ you sit on?
Park your 4×4 right down in the middle, you’ll be two steps after me
Which end of the road are you on?
Which side of the fence d’ you sit on?
This road we’re on is gonna lead us two steps outta here

So I’ll drink your poncy spirits now my cider’s all gone
Put on your cctv, I’ll be pissing on your lawn
My bad hair ain’t that much worse than your style
Always poised to leave but always back in a while

Which end of the road are you on?
Which side of the fence d’ you sit on?
Park your 4×4 right down in the middle, you’ll be two steps after me
Which end of the road are you on?
Which side of the fence d’ you sit on?
This road we’re on is gonna lead us two steps outta here
And now I’m wanted to leave now cos I’m taking the piss
Just as well I can’t abide another track from this playlist
This thing that I’m hearing has got to desist
I may talk pretty liberal but I’m a music fascist

Which end of the road are you on?
Which side of the fence d’ you sit on?
Park your 4×4 right down in the middle, you’ll be two steps after me
Which end of the road are you on?
Which side of the fence d’ you sit on?
This road we’re on is gonna lead us two steps outta here

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2006

Billy Slag

Could you save a bit for me
At work at nine, but now it’s three
Come home Billy, come home Billy Slag
The rows of desks defining me
Don’t fire me up to sell BT
So come home Billy, come home Billy Slag

I tried to make it but I failed
I’m packing up now I’m for sale
Please, Billy, please
Take my basic but please don’t put commission on my soul

If Elvis ran this agency
I’m sure he’d find some work for me
I’d sell some to ya, to ya, Billy Slag
I’d make cold calls, lead my team
Treat them mean to keep them keen
Come home Billy, come home Billy Slag

I tried to make it but I failed
I’m packing up now I’m for sale
Please, Billy, please
Take my basic but please don’t put commission on my soul

All I can do is stay awake
And make it to the next fag break
This dark satanic headset’s such a drag
So take the matches from my eyes
Burn the office
Kill the ties
Come home Billy, come home Billy Slag

I tried to make it but I failed
I’m packing up now I’m for sale
Please, Billy, please
Take my basic but please don’t put commission on my soul

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2000

 

The associated anthem of the workers of Mugsborough

Pour a shot
And we’ll raise a glass
To our masters and good friends
May they lead us on through a life of hell
To be slaves until the end

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2007

For the loan of your ear

Come, gather round people, and lend me an ear
It won’t take long, there ain’t nothing to fear
Until we run out of wine and the whiskey and beer
Here’s another boring song that no one else wants to hear

What kind of a gift can is wrapped in itself
What kind of a beauty gets stuck on the wealth
Until we run out of wine I’ll drink to your health
With another boring song to put up on the shelf

I’ve got hours to kill, I got no more tears
To fall on the weeks, months and the years
So bear with it honey, we got time enough
Though your head’s in the bucket, and I’m looking rough
Still I’m tired of fighting, tired of stalking alone
With a song in my head and my eyes on the throne
Tired of manning the guard when the crooks have all flown
Tired of mining for graves and carving for stones

Come, gather round people, give me a hand
To pull up this turnip from out of the land
We’ll share in the fortune
We’ll live it up grand
With another boring song that no one else can understand

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2007

Yuppie Flats

It’s been good to stay here
In your nice country
But before I leave I’ve
Got to make you see

The future’s bleak
And it’s following me
To where currency’s weak
Far over the sea

To build some boring yuppie buildings made of boring yuppie glass
A boring yuppie rug under a boring yuppie arse
Boring bloody everything it’s just a bloody farce
A boring little world all made of
Yuppie flats

No more hippy studios
No places to rehearse
No more filthy amateur art
No fragrant poetic verse
Because what the chough is the use of it all?
There’s only so much stuff you can fit on the wall

Of a boring yuppie building made of boring yuppie glass
A boring yuppie rug under a boring yuppie arse
Boring bloody everything it’s just a bloody farce
A boring little world all made of Yuppie flats

So don’t get me started on the sprinklers and the rubbish bins
And whatever happened to morris dancing, model trains, violins?
What the chough is the use of it all?
There’s only so much stuff you can fit on the wall

Of a boring yuppie building made of boring yuppie glass
A boring yuppie rug under a boring yuppie arse
Boring bloody everything it’s just a bloody farce
A boring little world all made of Yuppie flats

Words and music by Julian Gaskell ©2007