British Emergency Alert

spoken-word pop-rock, alternative folk-rock, chant-pop

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V6-WILD

At the bus stop in the drizzle, someone muttered, “What a prick,”
The bus was forty minutes late, so naturally we blamed Mick.
A bloke in shorts in January said, “Bit chilly, innit, mate?”
Then called the weather a bastard while we queued beside the gate.

**Pre-Chorus**
Put the kettle on,
Complain about the rain,
Say “cheers” when someone annoys you,
Then complain about them again.

We don’t need confrontation,
We’ve got passive-aggressive skill,
A single “Right then…” from a British mum
Can make an entire room go still.

**Chorus**
You can say **cunt** here,
But mind who’s standing near,
Your best mate might just laugh,
Your nan might launch a slipper at your ear.
Same word, same country,
Different pub, different night,
One bloke says “You alright, cunt?”
And somehow that means “You’re alright.”

You can say **cunt** here,
Between “mate” and “bloody hell,”
We’ve turned swearing into punctuation
And sarcasm into a national skill.
Raise your pint, miss your train,
Complain about the price of tea,
Welcome to Britain, darling—
Where insults come with “cheers” for free.

**Verse 2**
Scotland said it before breakfast, England said, “Bit much,”
Wales just laughed and carried on, someone nicked another lunch.
A Northern bloke said, “Love,” while absolutely tearing you apart,
A Londoner said “Mate…” so slowly you could feel it in your heart.

Someone blocked the supermarket aisle and Britain nearly snapped,
But instead we stood there silently and internally attacked.
“Sorry, can I just squeeze past?” translated roughly means,
“Move your bloody trolley, Susan, before I lose my beans.”

**Pre-Chorus**
We say “interesting” when we hate it,
“Not bad” when something’s great,
“Bit of a problem” means the building’s on fire
And we’ll probably still be late.

We apologise when *you* bump into us,
Then insult you once you’re gone,
That’s not cowardice, mate—
That’s tradition carrying on.

**Rap Break**
Bus is late—
Bloody typical.

Tea went cold—
That’s political.

Someone skipped the queue—
Call the Crown Court.

Milk before tea?
Deport.

Rain at breakfast,
Rain at lunch,
Someone stole my last Monster Munch.

Pub at five,
Chippy at ten,
Say “never drinking again”
Then do it again.

Neighbour’s drilling
At half past eight,
I’m glaring through the curtains
Like, “You absolute state.”

Someone says “You okay?”
I say, “Living the dream.”
Translation:
Everything’s fucked,
But I’ve still got tea.

**Bridge**
We’ve got potholes,
Grey skies,
Rail replacement buses,
And lies.

We’ve got meal deals,
Dodgy Wi-Fi,
A bloke called Gaz
Who knows a guy.

We’ve got “bloody hell,”
“Bellend,”
“Numpty,”
“Twat,”
“Muppet,”
“Knobhead,”
And whatever Kev just shouted from the back.

**Breakdown**
**British Emergency Alert:**

Someone has skipped the queue.

Remain calm.

Do not engage.

Simply stare at the offender
with the full combined disappointment
of approximately seventy million people.

Then whisper:

“Unbelievable.”

**Final Chorus**
You can say **cunt** here,
But you’d better get the tone just right,
Because “You absolute cunt” can start a row
Or mean “Cheers for last night.”

We’ve got sarcasm for breakfast,
Complaining before tea,
And if the sun appears for twenty minutes,
We declare it thirty-three.

So raise your pint, grab your chips,
Watch the rain come sideways through,
And if somebody asks what British culture is—

It’s saying, “Could be worse,”
While everything’s on fire,
The train is cancelled,
The kettle’s broken,

And some cunt’s nicked your seat too.

4035/7500

**Verse 1** I said **cunt** in Canada and someone dropped their brew, Back in Britain Dave just shouted, “Oi, you massive cunt, how are you?” Nobody called a meeting, nobody rang the police, Kev just took another crisp and said, “Yeah, fair enough, peace.” At the bus stop in the drizzle, someone muttered, “What a prick,” The bus was forty minutes late, so naturally we blamed Mick. A bloke in shorts in January said, “Bit chilly, innit, mate?” Then called the weather a bastard while we queued beside the gate. **Pre-Chorus** Put the kettle on, Complain about the rain, Say “cheers” when someone annoys you, Then complain about them again. We don’t need confrontation, We’ve got passive-aggressive skill, A single “Right then…” from a British mum Can make an entire room go still. **Chorus** You can say **cunt** here, But mind who’s standing near, Your best mate might just laugh, Your nan might launch a slipper at your ear. Same word, same country, Different pub, different night, One bloke says “You alright, cunt?” And somehow that means “You’re alright.” You can say **cunt** here, Between “mate” and “bloody hell,” We’ve turned swearing into punctuation And sarcasm into a national skill. Raise your pint, miss your train, Complain about the price of tea, Welcome to Britain, darling— Where insults come with “cheers” for free. **Verse 2** Scotland said it before breakfast, England said, “Bit much,” Wales just laughed and carried on, someone nicked another lunch. A Northern bloke said, “Love,” while absolutely tearing you apart, A Londoner said “Mate…” so slowly you could feel it in your heart. Someone blocked the supermarket aisle and Britain nearly snapped, But instead we stood there silently and internally attacked. “Sorry, can I just squeeze past?” translated roughly means, “Move your bloody trolley, Susan, before I lose my beans.” **Pre-Chorus** We say “interesting” when we hate it, “Not bad” when something’s great, “Bit of a problem” means the building’s on fire And we’ll probably still be late. We apologise when *you* bump into us, Then insult you once you’re gone, That’s not cowardice, mate— That’s tradition carrying on. **Chorus** You can say **cunt** here, But mind who’s standing near, Your best mate might just laugh, Your nan might launch a slipper at your ear. Same word, same country, Different pub, different night, One bloke says “You alright, cunt?” And somehow that means “You’re alright.” **Rap Break** Bus is late— Bloody typical. Tea went cold— That’s political. Someone skipped the queue— Call the Crown Court. Milk before tea? Deport. Rain at breakfast, Rain at lunch, Someone stole my last Monster Munch. Pub at five, Chippy at ten, Say “never drinking again” Then do it again. Neighbour’s drilling At half past eight, I’m glaring through the curtains Like, “You absolute state.” Someone says “You okay?” I say, “Living the dream.” Translation: Everything’s fucked, But I’ve still got tea. **Bridge** We’ve got potholes, Grey skies, Rail replacement buses, And lies. We’ve got meal deals, Dodgy Wi-Fi, A bloke called Gaz Who knows a guy. We’ve got “bloody hell,” “Bellend,” “Numpty,” “Twat,” “Muppet,” “Knobhead,” And whatever Kev just shouted from the back. **Breakdown** **British Emergency Alert:** Someone has skipped the queue. Remain calm. Do not engage. Simply stare at the offender with the full combined disappointment of approximately seventy million people. Then whisper: “Unbelievable.” **Final Chorus** You can say **cunt** here, But you’d better get the tone just right, Because “You absolute cunt” can start a row Or mean “Cheers for last night.” We’ve got sarcasm for breakfast, Complaining before tea, And if the sun appears for twenty minutes, We declare it thirty-three. So raise your pint, grab your chips, Watch the rain come sideways through, And if somebody asks what British culture is— It’s saying, “Could be worse,” While everything’s on fire, The train is cancelled, The kettle’s broken, And some cunt’s nicked your seat too.

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