There was one in the gang
who had scalectrix
and because of that
he thought he was better than you
every day after school
youd go around there to play him
hoping to compete for some kind championship
And it always took about 15 billion hours to set the track up
And even when you did, the thing never seemed to work
It was a dodgy transformer, again and again.
It was a dodgy transformer, again and again.
It was a dodgy transformer, again and again.
It was a dodgy transformer, that cost 3 pound 10.
So he sent his doting mother
up the stairs with the stepladder
to get the Subbuteo
out of the loft
it had all the accessories
required for that big-match atmosphere
the crowd and the dugout
the floodlights too
and you’d always get palmed off
with a headless center-forward
and a goal-keeper with no arms
and a face like his
and he’d managed to get hold of
a Dukla-Prague Away Kit
’cause his uncle owned a sport shop
and he’d kept it to one side
and after only five minutes
you’d be down to ten men
as hed sent off your right back
for taking the base from under his left-winger
come to half-time, you were losing, four-nil
each and every goal, a hotly disputed penalty
so you smash up the floodlights
and the game was abandoned
and the dog would bark
and you’d be banned from his house
and your travelling army
of synthetic supporters
would be taken away from you
and thrown in the bin.
and now he’s working
in a job with a future
he hands me my Giro
every two weeks.
and me, I’m on the lookout
for a proper transformer
