Steve Morris
So there's little Frankie Forrester
An' Albert Mac an' me
Off wi' St Augustine's church
Fer a few days by the sea

Eighteen lads wi' not much sense
Not thinkin' 'bout the cost
Cos we've brass in our pockets fer chuckin' away
An' we've cherries to be lost

I gets the lecture 'fore I leave
About what I should expect
Mi dad sez I'll meet Jezebels
Who'll steal mi self respect

He warns about strong drink as well
An' an oath he makes me swear
But I keep mi toes an' fingers crossed
I'm determined t' 'ave mi share

Well, it's 'alf-past-six on Friday night
An' I'm ready fer 'ittin' the street
Wi' mi drainpipe pants an' luminous socks
I'm lookin' a rare ol' treat

Plenty Old Spice an' Brylcreamed 'air
Can't fail wi' the wimmin I'm told
But mi mam says I 'ave to wear a warm vest
So's I don't go back 'ome wi' a cold

Me an' Frankie start off on t' Draught Guinness
But I've never been used to strong beer
An' I've guzzled eight pints by a quarter-past-nine
An' I'm feelin' decidedly queer

The room starts spinnin' round clockwise
So I dart round the bar fer a pee
An' mi mates drag mi out an' they put me to bed
An' I sleep until Saturday tea

By Saturday night I've grown wiser
No more o' that boozin', no fear
I'm in need of a woman fer frolics an' fun
An' I've spotted one down on the pier

She's big, an' she's bonny an' busty
A short frock an' a Kiss Me Quick 'at
So I buy 'er a big bag o' chips an' fish bits
An' she takes me back 'ome to 'er flat

I tell 'er she'll 'ave to go gentle
On account I'm a sensitive lad
So we sit on the couch an' she spins me a yarn
On the 'undreds o' lovers she's 'ad

She teaches me all about foreplay
Them erogenous zones I can rub
An' she's got me stripped off to mi vest an' mi socks
When 'er 'usband comes in from the pub

He's brought 'ome 'is mates fer some supper
They're hard lookin' buggers an' all
So I'm out o' the 'ouse like a rat up a pipe
An' I'm 'idin' behind t' petty wall

In less than a minute they've found me
Reduced to a blubberin' wreck
An' they drag me on t' beach an' they dig a big 'ole
An' they bury me up to mi neck

Ten o'clock, Tuesday they find me
Washed up under t' Great Western Pier
I'm wearin' sod all but mi luminous socks
An' a donkey's stood nibblin' mi ear

I gives 'em mi statement at t' cop shop
It's all sorted in ten minutes flat
Then a bloke who's in some sort o' media job
Takes mi picture an' 'as a long chat

Mi dad's none too cheery next mornin'
When I rolls 'ome in Mr Plod's car
Cos the neighbours've started to gossip an' laugh
An' I'm on the front page o' the Star

'AIN'T LIFE A BEACH' runs the 'eadline
Then tells all the world the sad fact:

I'll never forget that encounter
An' I think the same's true fer mi dad
Cos the Bishop called round later on in the week
An' he seemed just a teeny bit mad

He posted th' owd chap to the Orkneys
Where we've been now for nearly six year
An' if I couldn't lose mi cherry on a weekend wi' Frank
Well, I've no bloody chance livin' 'ere
The end