Chris’s songs over the last 20 years or more have been a reminder to find the comic absurdity in many aspects of our society and the campaigns to change it for the better. Reminding us that in being able to laugh at ourselves, we can then feel freer to experiment and enjoy a culture with more complex forms of expression being understood.
He’s gone from risking his own skin walking into dodgy far-right pubs to sing songs making fun of racism, to writing songs making light of the head spinning speed in the 90s in which someone could go from leafleting against fox hunting to being asked to help liberate beagles from a laboratory. He’s poked fun at the history of land ownership and past along tales of drug smugglers robbing their van back from the RUC.
Ideally when it’s fully finished it will contain illustrations, a finished bonus song fan tribute and more commentary from the Captain which I hope to glean from him at some point on a podcast or in conversation.
If you’d like to help illustrate or write the bonus fan tribute hit me up at theosladehome@gmail.com
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lyrics
When I was about 24, I was having a bit of a bad do, these lads tried to kill me and my brother, blah, blah, blah.
I’d been awake for a few nights, I’d lost my house. And everything was going a bit shite, so I ate this big lump of hash thinking this’ll get me to bed, aha, silly cunt.
And then I had a seizure in my girlfriend’s bed, not knowing what a seizure was because it was the first one I’d ever had, I was that sleep deprived and I was very frightened as well, so I had loads of adrenaline in my head.
And in my tripping sort of state, I went downstairs naked, covered in piss.
And I’m saying to our James; Shamus, listen to me man.
And he’s like; what are you doing with no clothes on you cunt?
And I’m like; Shamus, listen. I’ve died.
And I was convinced that I’d died in this seizure. And what I’d been experiencing in the convulsions was my soul leaving my body, so I was actually totally convinced that I was dead because I was in the middle of a cannabis psychosis, not realising after eating a massive lump of hash. Silly bastard.
So my brother’s going; you haven’t died.
And my girlfriend and my mates are going; you haven’t fucking died mate. You’re naked, you’re being a bit annoying, but you’re certainly not dead.
And I was getting really annoyed, because I’m thinking why aren’t they listening to me, why are they denying the most spiritual experience I’ve ever had? I died up their in that fucking bed you cunts!
He said; yeah we could hear fucking something was going on, we thought you were having a wank or something.
And I was like; I died!
And they wouldn’t have it, and then because I got so irate with my poor brother, the poor bastard, him putting up with me, I fucking had another seizure.
But everybody saw me then having a fit, so they did what you’d imagine would be sensible, they got an ambulance.
So I’ve come round from the second fit, in the ambulance, still convinced that I’ve died.
So I’m thinking they’re wasting NHS resources, they could help somebody else.
So I’m shouting to the driver; mate, I’ve died, you’re wasting petrol.
Don’t take me to BRI, take me to Ecleshill cemetery where I used to huff the glue and I’ll be alright.
And I’ll be a ghosty and I can huff ghosty glue and it’ll all be fine.
And my poor brother was in the ambulance with me and I’m saying to him: James look, you’ll have to ring mum and tell her I’ve died.
And he was like trying to hold me still.
And it’s shameful to admit, but I kind of got a big fighty, a bit fighty with the ambulance guys.
Which you should never do, because fuck me they actually save lives man.
And I was more fighty with my brother, but we did fight a lot as brothers anyway.
So they ended up strapping me to this ambulance, fucking stretchy thing.
And I’m there in Bradford Royal Infirmary, I’m there in A&E, strapped to a stretcher and I’m shouting at all the pissheads going; will you show a bit of respect for the dead! I fucking died earlier you cunts! I fucking died I’ll have you know!
Then they put me onto a heart monitor, because they’re obviously thinking what is going on with this mad cunt?
And after a bit of calming down I had another fit, and the little things came off my chest didn’t they, so the machine went ooooooooooo. Not because I had died, but because they came off my chest.
But me, I saw that and I’m saying to the nurses; I fucking told you, I fucking told you cunts, I fucking died.
Why is no one listening to me today? I fucking died at tea time and you’re still fucking me about with this fucking heart monitor.
Can I not just get a taxi to go to the pub now I’m a ghosty?
And anyway as you might imagine I ended up in a mental hospital.
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