The Cupboard Song (to the tune of Common People by Pulp)
Mahogany, with a thirst for varnish,
It had a finish that just wouldn't tarnish,
Mr Sheen, made it clean.
I found out that its drawers were loaded,
And its beauty, well it simply exploded,
In my mind.
And it looked so very refined.
I said, I wanna own a common cupboard,
I want an oak one held in place with glue,
Plastic handles and some squeaky casters,
Tacky trimmings and a minor scratch, or two.
And the Ikea man, he knew.
He said, I'll se what I can do.
I rolled it on to the bedroom carpet,
I don't know why, but it wouldn't fit elsewhere.
So I put it - THERE.
I noticed that the glue was runny,
Stuck to the carpet, made my shag pile gummy,
By the stairs.
(Good job the glue was clear!)
Are you sure, you wanna own a common cupboard,
You wanna polish it for all eternity,
Nasty casters leaving dents in carpets,
Tacky trimmings, and a minor scratch, or three?
But you wouldn't understand,
'Til you've owned a chest that's grand...
Rent a chest with fifteen drawers,
Hold its surface close to yours,
Put your ornaments on top,
Dust its surface with a mop,
Still you'll never get a light,
That won't melt its gloss at night,
Watching hatstands fill the hall,
If you burnt the beast it'd keep you warm, Yeah.
You'll never own a common cupboard,
You'll never fiddle with those damn sachets of glue,
You'll never have to see a flatpack,
You'll never have to hunt the missing screw,
With those wretched plans that they drew.
Ah.
Slam the doors on the common cupboard,
Change the knobs and they might just let you through,
Take an axe to the classy cupboard,
Take an axe; it's worth nothing to you,
And the DIY that you do, '
Cause you think that plywood's cooooool....
Like a trunk lying in a corner,
It'll slam, and never warn ya - look out.
The shelves will all fall out.
'Cause every cupboard hates its owner,
Specially one who's master of the craft,
[Sniff], yeah,
And the fake panelled back is nowt but a laugh.
And you'll never understand,
How it feels to spend your nights,
With no cupboard in the hall,
And no hats upon the pole,
And you're amazed such stuff exists,
When you've owned a chest so splendid and so grand...
Rent a chest with fifteen drawers,
Hold its surface close to yours,
Put your ornaments on top,
Dust its surface with a mop,
Still you'll never get a light,
That won't melt its gloss at night,
Watching... hatstands fill the hall,
If you burnt the beast it'd keep you warm,
yeah.
You'll never own a common cupboard,
You'll never fiddle with those damn sachets of glue,
You'll never have to see a flatpack,
You'll never have to hunt the missing screw,
With those wretched plans that they drew,
So you haven't got a clue...
[Quiet, slowly increasing in volume x 7]
I want an oak one, held in place with glue.
[Then...]
Gluuuuue, la la la la la la, gluuuuue, la
la la la la la, Gluuuuue, la la la la la la, GLUE.
From the cumulative braincell of Stuart Kingston
and Stephen Pickwell in a moment of extreme extremity, whilst reality was
on holiday.
