Had It Up To Here

      As sung by Victoria Wood at The Secret Policeman’s Other Ball—The 1981 Amnesty International Comedy Gala at The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, London on 9–12 September 1981 and featured in Lucky Bag: The Victoria Wood Song Book, 2nd edition published 1992 by Methuen, ISBN 0-7493-0819-2

      What can I say about this song, except that on the nights it goes really well, I know I’m not going to get any laughs with ‘Music and Movement’. It’s out of a musical I wrote called Good Fun. One reviewer described me as ‘dominating the stage like a witty tank’. I was thinner then, but I had a very big anorak. In fact, for some matinees the anorak would go on by itself. It got more laughs but it couldn’t play the piano. The play was about a cystitis rally, which led to lots of unpleasant correspondence with members of the public, who would write brief notes (well, they’d have to be brief, wouldn’t they?), ‘I’ve got cystitis and it isn’t funny,’ to which I would reply, ‘Send it back and ask for one that is.’ The trouble with this song is that people think I hate sex. I don’t. I just don’t like things that stop you seeing the television properly.

      This song is indicative of my deep interest in the act of physical love-making. It’s very short.

          I’ve had it up to here with men—
          Perhaps I should phrase that again,
            Been wearing pretty dresses floral,
            Taking contraceptives (oral),
          Since I don’t remember when.

          I’ve had it up to here with blokes,
          And all their stupid dirty jokes.

            It’s not a lot of fun
            To hear the one about the nun,
          The marrow, the banana and John Noakes.

          Men act as if to have a screw
          Is the last thing they want to do.

            Then they switch the lights off
            And try to rip your tights off.
          They take their coffee with sugar, milk and you.

          It’s not that I expect true love,
          Or gazing at the stars above—

            If as a person they’d acknowledge me,
            Not just bits of gynaecology,
          Or if they’d just take off the rubber glove.

          To start your evenings off in Lurex,
          Finish them with biscuits,

            Doesn’t really turn me on.
          I’ll stay at home in my pyjamas,
          Watch a programme about llamas.
              I won’t need any lip-gloss.
              I won’t need any Amplex,
            Just Ovaltine and buns for one.

          I’ve had it up to here with sex,
          Those nylon vests and hairy necks.

            They expect you to be flighty,
            And they act like God almighty
          ’Cos they’ve got a cock and they can mend a flex.

          And when they proudly strip and pose,
          I want to say, "What’s one of those?"

            They tend to feel a failure
            If you don’t love their genitalia,
          Though why you should, Christ only knows.

          No more nights of drinking,
          Nodding, smiling, thinking,

            "Jesus, when can I go home?"
          No more struggling in taxis,
          In Vauxhalls, Imps and Maxis
              With stupid little bleeders
              With all the charming manners
            Of the average Garden Gnome.

          And when they’re down to socks and grin,
          You know it’s time to get stuck in.

            Full of self-congratulation,
            They expect a combination
          Of Olga Korbut, Raquel Welch and Rin Tin Tin.

          I’ve not had an encounter yet
          That didn’t leave me cold and wet.

            I’d be happier, I know,
            If we could only go
          From the foreplay straight to the cigarette.

          I’ll finish and just say again,

            I’ve definitely had it,
            Well, very nearly had it,
          Had it nearly up to here with men.

      © Victoria Wood, 1980

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