Grime Streetscene

Check, look.

Three hours in the whip,

and we’re all just staring At the sat-nav screen,

while the tension’s flaring Gaz is driving,

but he’s blind as a bat And he’s wearing a bucket hat—yeah,

imagine that. We’ve got a boot full of crates,

two bags of charcoal But the vibe’s getting shaky,

we’re losing control Someone forgot the towels,

someone’s complaining And the sky’s looking grey,

looks like it’s raining.

But we’re committed now,

we’ve left the postcode Five man in a Corsa,

about to explode. We’re hitting the coast with the mandem,

trust In a rented car that’s starting to rust Suns out,

guns out? Nah, just a cooler bag And a cheap beach umbrella

that’s starting to sag.

Sand in the speakers,

salt in the creases The plan was a vibe,

but it’s falling to pieces Just a bunch of roadmen in flip-flops,

fam Trying to look fly while we’re stuck in a jam.

Finally arrived, we claim a little plot The sand is like lava,

man, this beach is hot.

T’s tried to be the chef,

getting the grill sparked But he’s burnt every sausage,

the flavor’s departed. And look at Big Mike,

trying to act all refined With a tiny pair of trunks and

a sunburned behind He said,

“I’m good with the oil,

just rub it on my back” Now he looks like a lobster

in a polyester track.

Then we saw a group of girls,

so we switched up the lean Went from “wasteman” to “gentleman,” if

you know what I mean.

I’m trying to be smooth,

talking ‘bout the tide While my sandals are slipping and I’ve nowhere

to hide.

Then the seagulls came.

Yeah, the seagulls came.

One took a chicken wing right out of Gaz’s hand The other

one’s currently looting all our sand.

Absolute chaos, a feathered brigade And we’re just standing here,

out of the shade.

We’re hitting the coast with the mandem,

trust In a rented car that’s starting to rust Suns out,

guns out? Nah, just a cooler bag And a cheap beach umbrella

that’s starting to sag.

Sand in the speakers,

salt in the creases The plan was a vibe,

but it’s falling to pieces Just a bunch of roadmen in flip-flops,

fam Trying to look fly while we’re stuck in a jam.

Now we’re heading back,

but the vibe’s gone cold The Corsa’s smelling like old fish—or so

I’ve been told. We’ve got sand in the gearstick,

sand in the seat And the walk from the car park was

a blistering feat. But we’ll do it again,

yeah, we’ll do it next year With more sunscreen,

more snacks, and a bit less fear.

Though we look like clowns in these neon slides It’s better than

staying indoors where the boredom resides.

Yo, who’s got the keys?

Seriously, who took the keys?

Stop laughing, man. I’m not paying for the petrol.