Leveling up !

I ventured South of Solihull and could not believe my eyes.
Nearly starved to death, there were no shops selling pies.
Further down from Watford of pies they are bereft
A lad like me from Lancashire could easily starve to death.

I don’t know how they function, or how they stay alive.
They don’t have Greggs the bakers and don’t have tata pies.
A cultural misadventure.among the nouveau riche
With jaws too slack to eat a pie they’d rather have a quiche.


It’s all about genetics, our evolved chin and jaw
Born to eat black puddings, tripe and offal raw.
Not like those Southern softies, their silver spoons in gobs
Raised on Pimms and Foie gras, those public school boy snobs.


They’re raised on semolina, jellied eels and mash.
These Southern softie chaps are the ones with all the cash.
These boys they have no culture, football teams or bands
They’re shocked to see that we can hold a knife and fork in hand.

These London chaps have plums in mouths, when they pipe up to speak.
They sound like they’ve a pebble wedged firmly in each cheek.
We have to educate 'em, or tell ‘em to shut up.
Coz there is no “R in bath” and there is no “A in cup.”

They have a place called “ Soho where ladies live in cellars.
They stand outside in their underwear, smiling at us fellas.
They stand outside in scanty clothes, morning, noon and night.
No wonder they’re too warm, bathed in coloured lights.

They think we’re thick as two short planks because of how we speak.
Consider us to live like those on Coronation Street.
And when we come to London town, you hear us in the crowd.
Looking rather gormless but talking very loud.


We live in windswept cities, villages and towns.
Our landscapes aren’t in colour, our backdrop sepia brown
We’re Northern and we’re handsome, intelligent and tough,
And of pies with concrete pastry we can never have enough





I called into a London pub to educate the throng.
The pint of beer they served me was fruity, flat and wrong.
It tasted like my Grandad's socks after ten hours down the pit.
I shouted to the Landlord “ Here mate your beer is ……….. Shocking!”

They don’t like Northern humour, those posh folk from the smoke
They say we are too friendly, us jolly Northern folk
They say we have an accent whatever we might say.
There will come a time when us Northerners have our day.


When poverty descend on Downing Street and Westminster goes broke
We’ll teach those “Lar de dars” about our industry and smoke.
Where good men worked in factories, steel mills and pits.
The profit went to London town to make those people rich.

A place where generations followed Fathers to hard graft.
They tell us that we're leveled up, they must think that we’re daft.
Where real men wear flat caps and keep their pigeons in ‘t back yard.
Where whippets run round race tracks, and chips are fried in lard.

They think we’re thick as pig muck, uncultured, rough and loud.
We’re friendly and tenacious, humorous and proud.
We say it as we see it “A shovel is a spade.”
We’re Northern and we’re proud, it's just the way we’re made.