Monday, January 19, 2009


We should have been off to Europe next week for one of our regular breaks, but with the state of the pound we decided it's too expensive at the moment to bother. So here are the words to Majorca by John Cooper Clarke, a poem about package holidays.

m a j o r c a

fasten your seatbelts says a voice
inside the plane you can't hear no noise
engines made by rolls royce
take your choice
...make mine majorca

check out the parachutes
can't be found
alert those passengers
they'll be drowned
a friendly mug says "settle down"
when i came round i was gagged and bound
...for Majorca

and the eyes caress
the neat hostess
her unapproachable flip finesse
i found the meaning of the word excess
they've got little bags if you wanna make a mess
i fancied Cuba but it cost me less majorca

(Whose blonde sand gently caresses the cool blue lips of the mediterranean)

they packed us into the white hotel
you could still smell the polycell
wet white paint in the air-conditioned cells
the waiter smelled of fake chanel
gaulois... garlic as well
says if i like... i can call him "mig u el"
...well really

i got drunk with another fella
who'd just brought up a previous paella
he wanted a fight but said they were yella' Majorca

the guitars rang and the castinets clicked
the double diamond flowed like sick
mother's pride, tortilla and chips
pneumatic drills when you try to kip majorca

a stomach infection put me in the shade
should have joined the international brigade
'cause the fascists won and by christ i paid majorca



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