We used to have a football club
T’was in the Royal borough
Two championships we won back to back
It was looking good for tomorrow
We thought we’d like to change it round
And this I can’t condone
We’re no longer now a football club
But a footballers retirement home
Coming to the end of yer career?
Feel yer time is up?
Get yer agent to gizz a bell
Then we’ll sign you at our club
Age is so important
You must be twenty eight plus
We’ll pay you dough your mind to blow
If you come and play for us
Three year deals, brand new wheelchair wheels?
Don’t matter much to us
A zimmer frame before the game
With a Prada suit? No fuss
There’s rack outside the dressing room
Where you can park yer sticks
Where two age concern representatives
Will advise you on new hips
A hundred and thirty grand a week?
Is sure some pension plan
To an over the hill kinda idol
Who thinks he’s still “The Man”
What chance has any young player
Who comes to join our club?
Sadly days are long, long gone
When you met yer idols in the pub
Yes London is the place to be
In the lovely Royal borough
Where the first eleven are too old to train
But Mourinho don’t seem bothered