Britain in 2026 is a land of stark contrasts: where bankers snooze in Arctic bliss while the poor roast in their own flats, and Liverpool managers are discarded faster than a warm pint of lager. The Royal Household apparently needs half a decade to read an email, Wizz Air suggests we camp at the airport for three hours, and Arsenal fans are remaking *Planes, Trains and Automobiles* just to watch football in Budapest. It seems the only things travelling faster than the mercury are the goalposts for justice and the price of a flight to Hungary.
🎵 (s)Hit of the Day 🎵
Version 1
Version 2
📜 Lyrics 📜
[Verse 1]
[Quiet, paranoid upright bass and rim-clicks]
Ninety degrees in the kitchenette flat
The baby is screaming, the wallpaper's peeling
And up in the penthouse, he's doffing his hat
A banker who chose his career by the ceiling
[Distorted baritone guitar enters]
He said "I only did it for the air-con, mate"
A confession of privilege, a twist of the knife
While we boil alive in this council estate
He's enjoying the breeze of a carefully-chosen life
[Pre-Chorus]
[Brass stabs building]
The heat doesn't rise, it just settles on the poor
[Shout] It just settles on the poor!
[Chorus]
[Explosive wall-of-sound, screaming horns]
And the sweat runs down like a class divide
In the breeze of the rich, in the furnace we hide
The fans go round but the air is dead
While the palace sits on what the prince once said
[Feedback swell]
Six years of emails collecting dust
In temperature-controlled, paid-for trust!
[Verse 2]
[Quiet, driving swing rhythm returns]
The Attorney General's scrambling for notes
On sentences handed to rapists and blokes
"I'll get back to you" with a nervous smile
While justice dissolves in the rising pile
Of emails they buried and games that they played
While victims kept hoping the system had changed
But the garage door crumpled under the ram
Of a mother pushed way past the breaking point, damn
[Pre-Chorus]
[Brass stabs building]
The heat doesn't rise, it just settles on the poor
[Scream] It just settles on the poor!
[Chorus]
[Explosive wall-of-sound, screaming horns]
And the sweat runs down like a class divide
In the breeze of the rich, in the furnace we hide
The fans go round but the air is dead
While the palace sits on what the prince once said
Six years of emails collecting dust
In temperature-controlled, paid-for trust!
[Bridge]
[Military snare drum roll, building tension]
Arsenal fans trek to Budapest
On modern odysseys, put to the test
While Wizz Air advises "bring your own water"
Survival tips from the airline's daughter
Two seasons for Arne, then out on his ear
Only the temperature's allowed to stay here
Rising slowly in flats where the poor cannot breathe
While the powerful sweat in the lies they weave!
[Guitar Solo - Distorted baritone guitar with screaming tenor saxophone]
[Breakdown]
[Horns drop to whisper, paranoid upright bass]
But she told the truth after seventeen years
Of marital rape and of invisible tears
And PMDD mothers who battle each month
With courage that systems can never confront
[Final Chorus]
[Maximum volume, full orchestral swell]
Yeah the sweat runs down like a class divide!
In the breeze of the rich, in the furnace we hide!
The fans go round but the air is dead!
While the palace sits on what the prince once said!
Six years of emails collecting dust!
In temperature-controlled, paid-for trust!
[Outro]
[Fading brass, dying feedback]
The heat doesn't rise...
It just settles...
On the poor.
[Final horn stab - abrupt silence]