This is the theme tune for a sit-com that’s in development, hence the structure: first half – opening credits, second half – closing credits. Nice bit of flute too (channelling a bit of Taxi, there). A group of disparate men go camping every November (hence the title of the song) to escape the rat race, gather wood, make fire, get hammered, that kind of thing…
lyrics
It Ain’t Half Cold Mum
Your face is creased like three-day old sheets.
Brow lined with canyons from longing too deep.
‘I don’t feel too alive, feel to alive,’ you say.
Chasing the distance and running too fast,
Belting so hard you’ve caught up with the past.
‘Is it mean to be me, mean to be me,’ you say.
Here, around the fire with beer,
No one can touch you and no one comes near
And then there, pushing through charred roots,
You’ll feel the sprouting of sturdy green shoots.
So I say, ‘Here’s to all that burns through the blues.’
Chops like a smacked arse from keeping the peace.
Your coupon’s been stamped while you wait for release.
‘I can’t see things too clear, see things too clear,’ you say.
Decisions, decisions, the wrong ones made quick.
Sorry my lad, looks like you’ve had your chips.
‘I can’t bear to be me, bear to be me,’ you say.
Here, around the fire with beer,
No one can touch you and no one comes near
And then there, pushing through charred roots,
You’ll feel the sprouting of sturdy green shoots.
So I say, ‘Here’s to all that burns through the blues.’
