(Difford/Tilbrook) 



Off to the airport to check in the bags  

Proud of my suntan and good times I've had  

Laying on beaches and writing out cards  

Back to the humdrum and bashing out cars  

Into the aircraft I look for my seat  

A nervous tension builds inside me  

Onto the runway I pretend I'm elsewhere  

In minutes we're flying through the hot evening air  

Down there toy town the twinkle of lights  

The long white beaches of holiday time  

Suddenly someone has pulled out a gun  

His shout for attention has everyone stunned  

Hands on our heads there's a new kind of fear  

We're over the barrel with the hits of the year  



Held up to ransom assured we'll be safe  

The yellow ribbon comes out again  

How many gods can there be in one sky  

All so important and all so involved  

Here on a trigger a disciple of fear  

As we wait without knowing if we're hits of the year