oxblood red

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who we are

Welcome to the cyberspace home of The Punch Drunk Pirates. In the real world, we are a group of mature boxers who love to hit each other on a weekly basis at the Fitzroy Lodge Amateur Boxing Club and have been doing so, for more than twenty years. Our longest serving pugilist has clocked up twenty six years in the ring, with everyone else not too far behind. 

As (would be!!) musicians, we all met by accident via open banter in the changing room. We had all been playing and/or singing for years at home, never daring to go public with our secret passions. Having come out of the ‘communal closet’, we began rehearsing together and graduated to our first gig. We were up and running. 

The general consensus was that one gig would be the sum total of our ‘rock n roll’ lifestyle and we all felt lucky to have the opportunity to experience a live performance just the once.  

But life really is a ‘funny old thing’ and within weeks, we found ourselves at the iconic Abbey Road Studios, recording three of our own songs!  The whole day was mesmerising and wonderful (which sounds a bit ‘flowery’, but it really was that good). The songs turned out better than we could have hoped for and our musical journey trundles on.  

We still don’t claim to be good at what we do, because we know our skills are limited. But we make up for it in bucket loads, with our love of music and a determination to share the feel good vibe we experience every time we play. And it makes a pleasant change from engaging in physical violence!!

We want everyone to smile when they view our website, so please enjoy our songs, share in our stories and maybe come and join us at a gig if we’re in your vicinity. To become a Punch Drunk Pirate, you just need to turn up, enjoy the music and develop the ability to listen beyond the odd ‘dodgy’ chord we tend to hit when in full flow; it’s an open invite!  
 

And check out OXBLOOD RED. An Eastend saga.  As the saying goes... "Its a funny old world ain't it?"

 
 
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the rock opera

 
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songs

 

OXBLOOD RED

I’d go down the pub, but there ain’t none left,
Upton Park is buried and dead,
Double skint ain’t got two bob
She gets on my tits with her moaning gob

Oxblood red, oxblood red,
16 hole oxblood red,
Won’t leave the East End till I’m dead,
In my 16 hole, oxblood red.

Canary Wharf bankers in power suits,
City boys in Versace shoes,
Working class, that’s my roots,
I stand proud in Dr Marten boots

Oxblood red, oxblood red,
16 hole oxblood red,
Won’t leave the East End till I’m dead,
In my 16 hole, oxblood red.

Isle of Dogs, Bow and Mile End,
I used to have loads of skinhead friends,
They’ve all moved out, towards Southend,
DM boots are all that’s left.

Oxblood red, oxblood red,
16 hole oxblood red,
Won’t leave the East End till I’m dead,
In my 16 hole, oxblood red.

Don’t screw me out, like I’m someone bitching,
Just keep your eyes on my yellow stitching,
Stick me in a box and I’ll go downstairs,
With my DMs on, I won’t fucking care.

Oxblood red, oxblood red,
16 hole oxblood red,
Won’t leave the East End till I’m dead,
In my 16 hole, oxblood red.

Oxblood red, oxblood red,
16 hole oxblood red,
Won’t leave the East End till I’m dead,
In my 16 hole, oxblood red.

===

Music and lyrics by Glenn Charles


POPLAR TOWER BLOCK

Rain’s coming down, another grey day,
Blackwall Tunnel’s chucking fumes my way,
I ain’t down there, I don’t fit in,
I need a few cans to make me grin.

No honours degree university days,
Zero hours on the minimum wage,
Stay in bed, interrogate God,
More attractive than a dead-end job.

I feel like Elvis Presley, the undisputed king of rock,
When the fame kicked in with the pills and the bling,
He found he was hopelessly lost.

Job-centre’s only got shit jobs,  
Broken lifts and I live at the top,
I ain’t seen the kids for several years,    
If I jump out the window, no one cares.

I feel like Elvis Presley, the undisputed king of rock,
The Memphis Mafia couldn’t save him, 
And I’m all alone in a tower block.

Voices banging loud in my head,
Saying give up, better off dead,
They drive me mad, so I carry on drinking,
With dark depressive, negative thinking.  

I feel like Elvis Presley, the undisputed king of rock,
I lost my Priscilla and my Lisa-Marie,
Woke up and they were long gone.

Can’t chuck myself under a train,
They might want to come and see me one day,
The world outside is cold and bleak,
And I’m on a life-long losing streak.   

I feel like Elvis Presley, the undisputed king of rock,
The world is a stage and I’ve been betrayed,
But I just have to carry on.

Yes I feel like Elvis Presley, the undisputed king of rock,
The difference is, when I bite the dust,
No one will give a toss.  

===

Music and lyrics by Glenn Charles

EMOTIONAL GRAVE

You meet a bird, fall in love overnight.  
It’ll last forever, she’s your loving wife,         
But twenty years down the line,
She’s got her own life, and I’ve got mine.

Flahs, flahs, flahs, come and getcha flahs,
Flahs, flahs, flahs, come and getcha flahs,
Place them on the emotional grave,
Of an old skinhead who’s fading away,
Flahs, flahs, flahs, come and getcha flahs.

Daughter met a dopey bloke, in a student bar,
Said he was clever, said he made her laugh,
He was a middle class snob,   
All of a sudden, she’s ashamed of our tower block.

Assumed my son had brains, he got a degree,
Career bird from up north, swept him off his feet,
She wears the trousers, far as I can see. 
I think she’s a bloke, she don’t like me.

Flahs, flahs, flahs, come and getcha flahs,
Flahs, flahs, flahs, come and getcha flahs,
Place them on the emotional grave,
Of an old skinhead who’s fading away,
Flahs, flahs, flahs, come and getcha flahs.

The missus reached midlife, and said I’d changed,  
She wanted love and hugs, all very strange,
She said I’ve gone cold,
Unsympathetic and old,
She packed her bags, so I just told her to go.

Flahs, flahs, flahs, come and getcha flahs,
Flahs, flahs, flahs, come and getcha flahs,
Place them on the emotional grave,
Of an old skinhead who’s fading away,
Flahs, flahs, flahs, come and getcha flahs.

Alone in a flat, with a big fat useless cat,              
Loads of shit TV, and bills on my mat,
I don’t see no one no more,
Wife and kids think I’m a bore,
I’ll tell them all to fuck off, when they knock on my door.

===

Music and lyrics by Glenn Charles


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CANARY WHARF ROCK

I saw a jacket for nine hundred quid,
Hanging in the window of Paul Smith,
A bloke outside said give us some change,
I live on the street and me dogs got the mange.

It’s a funny old world ain’t it ain’t it?   
It’s a funny old world ain’t it?      
It’s a funny old world ain’t it ain’t it?
It’s a funny old world ain’t it?

A skinny bird with a bony arse,
Caught my eye as she glided past,
A money man’s ego fix,
She was starving herself, just to show off his wealth.

It’s a funny old world ain’t it ain’t it?   
It’s a funny old world ain’t it?      
It’s a funny old world ain’t it ain’t it?
It’s a funny old world ain’t it?

Brogues in Church’s, for six hundred pound,
Trinkets in Tiffany’s for over a grand,
A single mum cleaning on the night shift,
Every hour, gets about ten quid.

It’s a funny old world ain’t it ain’t it?   
It’s a funny old world ain’t it?      
It’s a funny old world ain’t it ain’t it?
It’s a funny old world ain’t it?

In Canary Wharf rock, money is the god,
When I was a boy, it was a working dock,
They weren’t rich or educated, 
But they’d never walk past, a hungry kid,
No they’d never ignore, a hungry kid. 

It’s a funny old world ain’t it ain’t it?   
It’s a funny old world ain’t it?      
It’s a funny old world ain’t it ain’t it?
It’s a funny old world ain’t it?

===

Music and lyrics by Glenn Charles

 
 
 
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