The lyrics of these songs are written by us, and the music is by Suno. Some of these songs are also available in video form on our YouTube channel.
If you enjoyed these, you might also like to listen to songs from The Thomas Rufford Mysteries, which were inspired by Berwick and Northumberland.
I was drawn by the spirit of Berwick, to a windswept old town on the mouth of the Tweed,
With its swans by the Quay and the sound of the sea
That beauty and calm is what I need.
Now they're killing the spirit of Berwick, with a knife through the heart of the place
Painters Lowry and Stott would have hated this blot
And Turner would smudge out this visual disgrace.
They're rebranding the spirit of Berwick, to a standardised cultural mall
Our leaders sleep at the wheel while architects steal
The soul from our home with a view-munching sprawl.
The beauty and spirit of Berwick, inside walls that we thought could not be breached,
With bluster and spin, our town just cashed in,
For a temple where Hollywood's gospel is preached.
So goodbye to the spirit of Berwick, to the skyline of red and grey undaunted by war,
Farewell to the history, and that feeling of mystery
It's progress to kill all the things we adore.
Now I've sold all my paintings of Berwick, the pain of its downfall too fresh and too keen,
But just now and then, I contemplate when,
That box of obnoxious still couldn't be seen!
I was drawn by the spirit of Berwick, to a windswept town at the end of the Tweed,
The swans pass the Quay, and the pier breaks the sea,
And the skyline bears tokens of vanity and greed.
How developers do damage limitation before moving in for the kill
There's a pattern to look for in plan applications
A feature that's found in all counties and nations
Expensive consultants have practised the knack
Of glibly asserting that white is off-black
Heritage fans, there's no cause for alarm
We're doing less than substantial harm.
With pages and pages of serious text
Each application, like previous, like next,
Will never admit to the maximum hit,
This will hurt, yes of course, but only a bit
You can bet your house and the farm
It's less than substantial harm.
A classical builder and modernist once met for pistols at dawn
And the modernist fell, the sleeve of his shirt now all torn
The victor declared, inspecting the poor man's right arm:
Why, it's less than substantial harm, my friend,
It's useless and bleeding, beyond interceding, but it's less than substantial harm.
If you want to erect a tasteless carbuncle
And make a fine town a bland concrete jungle
Just say that pastiche would be a great sin
Pile on the jargon and ramp up the spin
Gas-light the public: such modernist charm!
And less than substantial harm.
We all know the blether so let's sing together
It's less than substantial, no reason to cancel, it's less than a great deal of harm.
Thank you one and thank you all, for listening to this song
I hope my humble stanzas won't detain you for too long
But maybe when it's over you'll see reason to object
To a threat to Berwick's beauty which we surely must protect.
It's fair enough, of course it is, to spruce and renovate
But we don't give consent for them our town to desecrate
Our institutions have all chosen to capitulate
So now it's down to you and me before it gets too late.
You'll hear a lot of guff about what modern looks should be
That flat roofs are a virtue in the present century
But ugliness and modernism represent a choice
Such design that seems malign rejects the people's voice.
In their plan each one of us will fork out twice the dough
On all the extra goodies, as they screen each mainstream show
Well excuse me if I'm out of line but this is optimistic
And the need for domination seems a tad hubristic.
Now you may feel quite ill at ease to scoff at these pretences
But they don't care about your view, in both semantic senses
Opposing stances were suppressed, in case by now you haven't guessed,
They want their status symbol, and to hell with all the rest!
Knowing how these projects go, it's two years, maybe three
That cranes and lorries blight our streets without a certainty
That sacrifice of businesses will pay off for the town
When the trend of the common spend is likely going down.
So now by phone, PC or Mac,
Resist this senseless, crass attack
Tell our leaders not to harm us
They can't silence or disarm us
If you're feeling some inertia
Think of how this thing will hurt ya
When you're looking to the Quay
A charmless block is what you'll see.
Now if you reckon that this song is just a long guilt trip
Well, maybe, but do you want this final chance to slip?
There's nothing wrong with writing down the sadness that you feel
When in cahoots, a bunch of suits, think our beauty's theirs to steal.
So here's your chance to make a mark - the die is not yet cast
Logging on won't take that long, but eyesores last and last
You know that if this folly's finished, guests will be aghast
You'll rue it forever
If you never nail your colours to the mast.
The rules of planning justice must be seen to be observed
Even though the scales are skewed and judgement is self-served
Advice is sought from those who ought to stand up for our views
But herd behaviour means no saviour, just the same excuse:
We're weighing up the beauty and our old skyline
Against the right to see, Mission Impossible Nine
It's such a difficult call. Integrity or massive mall?
And is everyone so clueless they need a giant sign?
We're weighing up the cons and pros
The joy of generations, or a steady stream of shows?
How deep's each purse in times adverse no one really knows
And we dare not ask for a better plan though this one clearly blows.
It used to be pretty
But now it's a pity
What happened to charm at Tweed's famous mouth
Hostile to beauty, renouncing our duty,
Our town in the North went South
You're welcome to walk round the ruins of Berwick
I'll show you what used to give me a kick
From Cumberland Bastion, you see the fine views?
Me neither, just prefabs, it's urban abuse.
Now you ask if the banks of the Tweed are protected
Well, towers to rival Dubai's are projected.
You'd think that such crimes would happen no more
But look where they put this huge pet store.
It used to be peerless
But now it's a clear mess
Cheapness and greed came to Tweed's famous mouth
Cabals of the clueless seduced by the newness
Helped our town in the North go South.
Elsewhere, we're used to the crass and the bland
So we think new and ugly should go hand in hand
But people, it's Berwick - no need to conform
Or believe that this rubbish must be the new norm.
At least we can admire a roofscape unmatched
Well, about that - a plan has been hatched
To hijack the skyline, a heist that's plain cruel
But movies, they say, are Berwick's renewal.
It used to be pretty
If a little bit gritty
What happened to charm at Tweed's famous mouth?
A common sense drought drove heritage out
And our town in the North went South.
Oh, the fear of our peers, and sea air between the ears
Helped our haven in the North go South.
Young John Wilson! He's a chip off the old stone block
He built his workshop on this land, down by the Tweedmouth dock.
William was a sculpting man, he breathed life into stones
An eagle spreads his brittle wings, by a dreaming Robert Burns
His household gods still gaze and smile
Out to sea and the Holy Isle
William makes his perfect child
How quickly Johnny learns!
Young John Wilson! He's a chip off the old stone block
He learned his trade and made the grade on this land by the Tweedmouth dock.
The council and the harbour folk, they've got some clever plans
Bulldoze Wilson's Workshop, and welcome in the vans
Rowan trees don't bring no fees
And nature only spreads disease
Protect the views? Oh spare me, please
Gotta monetize these lands.
Young John Wilson! He's a chip off the old stone block.
Stone angels from his workshop
Still haunt the Tweedmouth dock.
People came from far and wide, the beauty here to see
The ramparts and the bridges, the Barracks and the Quay
But heritage is now passé
Who needs history anyway?
Heaven is an empty parking bay
Stuff all else, especially you and me.
Young John Wilson! He's a chip off the old stone block.
He's turning in his grave now,
At plans for the Tweedmouth dock.
This is a fictional 19th century perspective on rapid industrialisation and its rampage through the beauty of Britain.
Those whose cheer today is blind to woes of 'morrow
And have a merchant's eye for what we only borrow
Mistake a rose's bloom and doom as model for this land
Whose beauty's duty is to bow to base demand.
Janus, welcomed as a friend in every hallowed place
Devours all within his path no matter what its timeless grace
Till wringing hands, and crying Cease! its victims wail their ugly fate
But Janus merely smirks and finds more works of God, his greed to sate.
Where shall we find the wit to skewer Janus 'fore he wrests
The very waters from our valley, nightingales from out their nests?
Our children in their cots sleep still, dreaming not of birthright thefts;
While stealthily moves Janus,
To crush the charms of man and God that he detests.
In the empty halls of Paxton now, a mournful shadow lingers;
The ghost of Patrick dreams he kisses Sophie's veiled fingers;
But all that Bella Dea left, for Scottish lover now bereft,
Are gloves of love's remembrance and the ice of Prussian winters.
A young man leaves his books behind to find a gleaming palace
He wins a precious heart, but his is crushed by Frederick's malice.
Empty handed he returns, but deep inside his passion burns,
And so he builds his hope, and then his darling Sophie's fortress.
Horses heave the stones and timber up the hill
The columns rise and Patrick dreams of Sophie still
A Roman grandeur fit for queen, a view of tranquil river scene,
For only Bella Dea, is his tender act of will.
The last stone has its mortar, the windows have their glass
Though Paxton stands in fertile lands, no wedding comes to pass
On the lawn there stands forlorn a figure with no bride
The house that never hailed its mistress mourns the day she died.
The bitterness hangs heavy, and the master's quickly leaving
He'll build another castle for the vastness of his grieving
And so the house for Bella Dea, hosts a man who doesn't care
Abandoned bower that never found its parted lovers' meaning.
Two centuries go by, and in his lonely nest
The clothes he wore with Sophie are discovered in a chest
In the costume of a knight, he danced and held his princess tight
Never knowing that those Prussian days would be by far the best.
In the empty halls of Paxton now, a mournful shadow lingers;
The ghost of Patrick dreams he kisses Sophie's veiked fingers;
But all that Bella Dea left, for Scottish lover now bereft,
Are gloves of love's remembrance and the ice of Prussian winters.
Now listen up people, hear my information
'Bout a slice of somethin' nice that's needin' preservation
It's a tale of betrayal, 'bout taking a bite
Out our fruit, grab the loot, y'all, it just ain't right.
The county men, the bounty men, they've got all the power
Shaft the little guy, gonna buy and crush every flower
Bring the trees to their knees and blow down the house
The wolf's at the door, ain't no time to be a mouse.
Don't turn your back, we're under attack,
It's them or us, baby, who's gonna crack?
They're coming at us, gonna use our dime
That crew are gonna do a frickin ' heritage crime.
Now you thought your precious bridge was way out of reach
From the vandals, come to mangle, come to suck like a leech
It's a lie, say goodbye to your beauty spot
They're gonna give your golden goose a frickin head shot.
Don't turn your back, we're under attack,
It's them or us, baby, who's gonna crack?
They're coming at us, gonna use our dime
That crew are gonna do a frickin ' heritage crime.
In Victoria's reign the townsfolk decreed
That a fine new Infirmary was a burning need
Our people crossed the border to commission their man
And he drew a big H to Florence Nightingale's plan.
He built some fancy schemes from Scotland's East to its West
But for Berrickers their medical mansion beat all the rest.
Starforth, Starforth, you raised us a tower
A beacon for the sick, aesthetic superpower
A Romanesque creation, healing castle for all;
When beauty was prescribed, you helped us stand tall.
Now times have changed and Starforth's health pavilions
Are being replaced at a cost of millions
But the old Bell tower will cast its shadow still
To tell its noble story of a communal will.
Starforth, Starforth, you raised us a tower
A beacon for the sick, aesthetic superpower
A Romanesque creation, healing castle for all,
When beauty was prescribed,
You helped us stand tall.
John Edgar Boal was a schoolboy,
Before the cannons had started to roar;
A scholar, a sportsman, adored by his parents,
A fine Berwick lad with no knowledge of war.
Thomas and Lily had only one child
and they couldn't be prouder as boy turned to man,
But his fate had been fixed, and with millions was needed
For Kitchener's New Army plan.
Oh Corporal Boal, with your Military Medal,
knee deep in mud while loading a bomb,
Your parents are pacing their parlour in West Street,
Waiting for comfort and mail from the Somme.
John was admired as a great Fusilier,
And the news in October was written with pride,
Of a medal he earned for his courage and skill,
But brief was the joy; in December he died.
Oh Corporal Boal, with your Military Medal,
Soaked to the waist while loading a bomb,
Your parents are pacing their parlour in West Street,
They'll find little comfort in mail from the Somme.
John has been resting, for over a century,
in France with the comrades who never returned,
But he stares at us still from a tattered old photo
Reminding us all of when the world burned.
John's classroom of steel in the Grammar School yard
And a hut from the Great War, are fading away
If you see them, remember the lad in a blazer
Then a Corporal's tunic, marching out to the fray.
Oh Corporal Boal, your Military Medal,
Shines like your duty, you served with aplomb,
Your parents will weep in their parlour in West Street,
When they get their last letter from a trench in the Somme.