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A Fine Bromance (Lyrics)

By Duncan Ratters, on May 25th, 2010

I watch her smiling face just like it’s me she’s searching for,
But in her vacant eyes there’s no surprises just rotating doors,
Inside my mind I call for silence but it’s all in vain,
I am a storm of stolen moments all I feel is rain.

It’s times like these that I need your honest words
You’ve heard I’m lost a little,
The way that you seem to get everything,
Knock me down with the truth but I dance,
This is a fine bromance!

In darker days than these you listened as I cursed the world,
Set nights on fire getting high away from guns and girls,
If life is really just a bunch of nearly men and kings
I think we’ve staked our right to fight until the beggars sing.

Oh really, really? This is clearly just my time to fall,
It’s not the first and it won’t be the last time that I call
On you to set me straight and talk until I see the light,
These darkened lanes won’t last forever, they’re just holy frights.

It’s times like these that I need your honest words
You’ve heard I’m lost a little,
The way that you seem to get everything,
Knock me down with the truth but I dance,
This is a fine bromance!

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They've Got Joan!

By Bro. Jo Stern, on May 9th, 2010

Who the fu** is Joan? And who’s got her?

Is she a deliciously dense and dirty bimmer who’s been bundled into the trunk of a sedan, praying for the A-Team to show up just in the nick of time? Perhaps it’s some kind of terrorist plot to overthrow the conspiritorial international spy ring headed up by the sex-starved, Sara-Lee-chocolate-gateaux-plastered Thatcher wannabees on Boots’ make-up counter.

Or maybe she’s an heroic figure in the community and the people who’ve got Joan just don’t know where they’d be without her.

Maybe it’s some kind of slang for a bastard of a disease.

Who knows? Whatever the story is, there’s definitely a reference to someone having Joan in “Silent Fishnets“, another recent music offering from Foilface, and nobody knows how it got there.

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Gateway Not Found (Lyrics)

By Duncan Ratters, on May 8th, 2010

Set me on fire, I’m on my way to Bordeax,
I’m saying, “O-oh, O-oh, O-oh, I’m made of polyester”,
I stress for hours just because I’m alive,
My French is shit, I’m singing, “Ce’st bon Jean-Claude Van-Damme le merde”.

There are no junkies in Uzbekistan,
My gland is not aroused by photo’s of sailors,
Put down your onion sandals,
I handle death threats like they’re titties on a Tuesday,
I bruise like peaches but you will never ever see me
Reaching for a bacon licker!

Holistic Peter,
Aggressive Sebastian,
Talking like the last bastions
Of a nuclear future vision.
Crafty spoonfuls of a creme brulee,
It’s not a Tuesday, it’s a Saturday,
Fuck off Dad I’m going to Bob Hattersley’s,
Coz he’s got a Ninetendo Wii.

What’s that you’re saying?
You smell of translation frenzies,
This isn’t class based, it’s not an anti-euro message,
It’s just a rural riot,
If I had piloted a plane in 9/11
I would of tolf the muslims heaven
Was filled with fat virgin lesbians,

Put out my fire I’m heading back to Soho,
I’m crying, “Oh no, oh no, oh no, I look like Simon Weston”,
I rest on laurels like they’re benches in a park,
I spark the dark but it never ever turns into an early sunshine.