Victoria Wood Saturday Night
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
Eight o’clock at night on a Saturday,
Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Coming to town double quick.
They rendezvous in front of a pillar.
Tracey’s tall like Jonathan Miller.
Nicola’s more like Guy the Gorilla,
If Guy the Gorilla were thick.
Their hair’s been done. It’s very expensive.
Their use of mousse and gel is extensive.
As weapons, their heads would be classed as offensive
And put under some kind of a ban.
They’re covered in perfumes, but these are misnomers.
Nicola’s scent could send dogs into comas.
Tracey’s kills insects and dustbin aromas,
And also gets stains off the pan.
Chorus:
But it’s their night out.
It’s what it’s all about,
Looking for lads, looking for fun,
A burger and chips with a sesame bun.
They’re in the mood
For a fabulous interlude
Of living it up, painting the town,
Drinking Barcardi and keeping it down,
But it’s all alright.
It’s what they do of a Saturday night.
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can than terrible crunching and clatter be?
It’s the cowboy boots of Nicola Battersby
Leading the way into town.
They hit the pub, and Tracey’s demeanour
Reminds you of a loopy hyena.
They have sixteen gins a rum and Ribena,
And this is before they’ve sat down.
They dare a bloke from Surrey called Murray
To phone the police and order a curry.
He gets locked up. It’s a bit of a worry,
But they won’t have to see him again.
They’re dressed to kill and looking fantastic.
Tracey’s gone for rubber and plastic.
Nicola’s dress is a piece of elastic.
It’s under a heck of a strain.
Chorus:
But it’s their night out.
It’s what it’s all about,
Ordering drinks, ordering cabs,
Making rude gestures with doner kebabs.
They’re in the mood
For a fabulous interlude
Of weeing in parks, treading on plants,
Getting their dresses caught up in their pants,
And it’s all alright.
It’s what they do of a Saturday night
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can that terrible slurping and splatter be?
It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Snogging with Derek and Kurt.
They’re well stuck into heavyish petting.
It’s far too dark to see what you’re getting.
Tracey’s bra flies off, how upsetting,
And several people are hurt.
Oh dear, oh dear,
Oh dear, oh dear,
Oh dear! What can the matter be?
What can that motheaten pile of old tatters be?
It’s Tracey Clegg and Nicola Battersby
Getting chucked off the last Ninety-Two
With miles to go and no chance of hitching,
And Nicola’s boots have bust at the stitching,
Tracey laughs and says, "What’s the point bitching?
I couldn’t give a bugger. Could you?"
