Kevin and Dave were the Lords of the Manor, They ruled Bethnal Green with an iron rod, If they didn't like you, they'd hit you with it, And that Kevin could be a right spiteful sod, When he took a dislike, and he usually did, You'd best sling your hook and get out of the place, Or you'd wake up next morning at the bottom of the river With your legs round backward and a spike in your face.
They were brothers, they were twins, Their old mum loved her boys, She brought them up to be tough, self-sufficient, They had fishhooks and flick knives instead of toys. When they turned fifteen they went out in the world, To make a honest living, to have a useful life, But the butcher wouldn't take them, he said they were dodgy, So they pulled off his head, posted it to his wife.
They were nutters. They were vicious. They commanded respect. They were good for the area. They sorted out trouble. When you paid your dues, they'd see you were safe, Then they'd knife you, the bastards, and charge you double. The old bill were scared. They never done nothing. Kev and Dave were beyond the law. You only had to look at them a little bit wrong And they'd brush your pearly whites with a rotary saw.
It just weren't right. They were out of control. An inspector came to make an arrest. The boys wouldn't have none of it, you must be joking, He was giving it all that, but the lads weren't impressed. Anyway, he fell under a bus. Tragic, but it happens. An ambulance came, Kev made the call. Four more coppers arrived after lunch And do you know, they all fell under buses an' all.
So this new restaurant opens up by the station. Indian food. Now Kev and Dave don't like that. Everyone knows what they do in them places, You order some chicken, they cook you a cat. So they smashed in the windows, they pissed on the carpet, Suave as you like though, these boys didn't hurry. And up comes this little brown bloke from the kitchen Smiling and bowing and smelling of curry.
Dave said, "This is our manor, son, we make the rules, We don't want you round here, or your dodgy money, You lot should go back where you came from, And stop smiling you git, I'm not being funny - I'll cut you, I'll slice you from your eye to your arse, Kev here don't like foreigns, I'm not partial myself, And this filthy food that you're always cooking It's a danger to old-fashioned British health."
So they stomped round the gaff, they smashed stuff up, They disrespected Indian culture, made fun of it, And Sanjit may have been quiet, smiling at the door, But he was all there, and he weren't having none of it. He said he'd give them their money. He give them no trouble. "Please, sirs, come to the kitchen, please, break no more glasses." So they followed him down to his culinary den Where good old Sanjit got post-colonial on their pink cockney arses.
He went crack with the mallet, he went whack with the cleaver, He slung them on hooks and he fired up the stoves, He chopped up some fillets and whipped out their giblets And poured on some yoghurt, coriander and cloves. He made basmati rice, cooked a nice veggie side dish Put it on trays, went upstairs with his load, He put out some bunting and long trestle tables And had an Indian street party on Bethnal Green Road.
And everybody came, it was a right knees up, And they all loved the curry, it was pukka, lovely jubbly, Steve the chippie brought them all free chips, And Nigel from the offie cracked open a case of best bubbly. It was just like the old days, they cheered good old Sanjit, He was like family now, a decent geezer. The Wanka Tikka Masala was delicious And Sanjit said he had more in the freezer.
And Kev and Dave's mum was there, and she was loving it, Chomping and chewing and sipping her drink, She was onto her seconds when she started to gag, She choked and she coughed and then suddenly - kerchink! Out flew her false teeth, and a scrap of her Kevin's sweater. She looked at it, she looked at the meat on her fork, she shrugged. "Fair play, Sanjit," she said, raising her glass, "those boys should of known better."