Growing up where I'm from can be pretty brutal,
No home to speak of, just a bedsit in Bootle.
When asked to do previews I sit and I think,
No ideas coming so I sit and I drink.
I drink to forget, so it's usually rum,
I drink far too quickly so I'm sick and I'm glum.
Maybe I can escape by dreaming up lies...errrr
So I steal a computer and type "trip advisor"
The reviews of places I've never been
Pictures of places I've never seen,
Entice me in my drunken stupor.
What's that? This bottle? Oh...Bought straight from Cuba.
I lie about trips where I've bathed on the sand,
When I've never been further than up to the Strand.
All of these holidays I've been from my bed
Are with me forever, stored in my massive head.