You can keep your Alba Truffles and your Pate de Foie Gras

And other treats you'd eat at Ascot posing in your car

All washed down with Dom Perignon or summat posh like that

But give me Sam Smith's any day with bread and mucky fat.

 

And stuff your Russian caviar from near yon Caspian Sea

Your Wagyu beef or bird's nest soup – they'll not do for me

They dragged me up in Little Moscow in a council flat

Where I was weaned on Mackeson with bread and mucky fat.

 

My dad come home from work with coal dust round his panda eyes

(He measured tailored suits at C&A, so Christ knows why)

But every Friday night at Barnsley market he would call

And load up with some “tapas” at Albert Hirst's tripe stall.

 

And handed down through generations like my own good looks

Was mam's own speciality not found in many books

For Sundays crowded round a Jaffa box we'd all be sat

And lathered up white bread with Marmite on your mucky fat.

 

Those halcyon days were precious times, forever dear to me

With breakfasts of fried Whitby whelks, washed down with Yorkshire tea

No greater pleasure beckoned than to watch Geoff Boycott bat

Except for watching t'Sugdens eating bread and mucky fat.

 

But disaster struck one Christmas Day I never shall forget

The memory still brings shivers to me and a clammy sweat

Said Mother in disgust to Pa, “Ez Albert 'Irst turned thief?

What's tha playing at Father, this fat's not pork it's beef”.

 

These days that now I'm married (I allus was a catch)

I dossn't tell Our Gert her cooking falls well short of scratch

She says her Parkin's good as Ma's, bit I's'll eat my hat

Cos nothing she has cooked compares with bread and mucky fat.