Proper British Medley \\ Official Video

Where all my Brits at?

Lyrics:
Tea in the morning, kettle screams loud,
Rain on the pavement, grey on the crowd.
Queue at the Tesco, coupons in hand,
“Sorry mate, was you here?” — the unwritten plan.
Greggs on the corner, sausage roll hot,
Football on telly, pint hits the spot.
Proper roast dinner on a Sunday, yes—
Yorkshire pudding rising like it’s nobly blessed.

Oi, we’re marching through the city, with a chip-shop strut,
Union Jack sneakers and a cheeky nut.
From the pubs to the pitch, let the stories be told,
It’s a British medley, mate — bold as gold.

Fish and chips by the seaside breeze,
Chippy salt shaker, vinegar squeeze.
London bus rumble, Camden crowd,
Oasis on the jukebox singing out loud.
Doctor Who’s wobbly sets, TARDIS spin,
Sherlock pipe smoke, clue locked in.
Top Gear blokes in a battered machine,
Driving through a roundabout — proper obscene.

Oi, we’re marching through the city, with a chip-shop strut,
Union Jack sneakers and a cheeky nut.
From the pubs to the pitch, let the stories be told,
It’s a British medley, mate — bold as gold.

Cuppa in the rain, sarcasm’s free,
Waving at the Queen on the BBC.
From Liverpool streets to the Brighton pier,
We’ll rhyme our way home with a pint of beer.

“Mind the gap, mate… put the kettle on… fancy a biscuit?
That’s Britain, innit.”