CPL. KIPPER'S BARNSLEY TRADES CLUB TURN

CPL. KIPPER'S BARNSLEY TRADES CLUB TURN

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Cpl. Kipper’s Barnsley Trades Club Turn

(Lyrics: Scott Doonican)

It were a couple of years ago today,

Cpl. Kipper got locked away

And his singing’s never been in style,

But he’s guaranteed to raise a smile

So may I introduce to you,

The act you’ve known for all these years…

Cpl. Kipper’s Barnsley Trades Club Turn

It’s Cpl. Kipper’s Barnsley Trades Club Turn

He’s the greatest Karaoke King

Cpl. Kipper’s Barnsley Trades Club Turn

You’ll love him ‘cos he loves to sing

Cpl. Kipper’s Barnsley, Cpl. Kipper’s Barnsley,

Cpl. Kipper’s Barnsley Trades Club Turn

It’s champion to sithee

Sit back, enjoy the show

You’re such a lovely audience

I love to sing in public, but if I do I’ll breach me ASBO

I dun’t really wanna stop the show,

But I thought you might like to know

That the lad’s are gonna sing their songs,

And we want you all to sing along.

So let me introduce to you,

The one and only Bar-Steward Sons

With Cpl. Kipper’s Barnsley Trades Club Turn

Darn Tarn

(Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Danny Doonican / Amanda White)

It’s seven o’clock, the taxi’s honkin’ his horn

He’s here to take you there… rarnd Tarn

Your best floral shirt and you’re covered in Brut

And now you’re on your way… rarnd Tarn

You’re thinkin’ ‘bout your big night out

And all the classy totty

And drinkin’ half your weight in beer

To piss it darn the potty

We’ll all be there

The lights are much brighter there

You can forget all your troubles - forget all your cares

When you’re rarnd Tarn

Things’ll be great when you’re rarnd Tarn

You and your mates are off rarnd Tarn

The ladies are waiting for you

Hitting the bars and having too many jars

The lads are art in force… rarnd Tarn

Trying to flirt when you’ve got beer down yer shirt

The ladies aren’t impressed… rarnd Tarn

Girls with skirts that look like belts,

And bouncers seeking trouble

“Yer names not darn, you can’t come in,

So piss off on the double”

This pavement’s quite hard

Everyone’s a fighter there

You’ve lost all your mates; you’ve got sick in yer hair

And you’re rarnd Tarn

Can’t get in the club, you’re stuck rarnd Tarn

You go for some grub somewhere rarnd Tarn

The kebab-shop is waiting for you

It’s quarter past three and your tekkin’ a wee

Against a shop window… rarnd Tarn

Kebab in yer hand, you think it tastes grand

Until you throw it up… on t’ground

You stagger to the taxi rank,

Your legs they feel like rubber

No money in your wallet, you’re a paralytic bugger

You get in the queue

You’ve not got a single care

You’ll forget your address, lose your taxi fare

When you’re plastered

Everyone stares when you’re plastered

All the girls think you’re a numpty

Nobody cares about you

Wath-On-Dearne Blues

(Lyrics: Mike Harding)

Well I wok’ up this mornin’,

Din’t feel reight grand tha knows

I wok’ up this mornin’,

Din’t feel reight greatly tha knows

Got so drunk last neet,

Fell in love wi’ a big garden gnome

Well I put me arms ararnd him

Laid him on the grass

Well I put me arms ararnd him

Laid him on the grass

But I got reight worried

When he started kissin’ me… back

Tha knows I play all them blues

By Blind Lemon Jefferson and Booker T.

Tha knows I play all them blues

By Blind Lemon Jefferson and Booker T.

But it sounds like Burt Weedon strangling Gracie Fields

I said I met a lass in Barnsley

So I thought I’d tek a chance

I said I met a lass in Barnsley

So I thought I’d tek a chance

I put Brut in me socks

And self-raisin’ flour down me pants

She said “Lad take off thy underpants,

I tell thee this is it”

She said “Lad take off thy underpants,

I tell thee this is it”

I says “You can tek ‘em off and yer welcome,

But I doubt if they’ll bloody well fit!”

She said “Let’s get some baby oil

And tek it up to bed with us”

She said “Let’s get some baby oil

And tek it up to bed with us”

Well I drank that baby oil,

But it just made me throw up

She said “I want to feel the earth move

When tha meks love to me”

She said “I want to feel the earth move

When tha meks love to me”

I said “At this time of night,

Where am I going to find a JCB?”

When We're Playing Tough Gigs

(Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White)

Well, we gig at the weekends

After working hard all week

Some nights are good some nights are grand,

And every one's unique

But, some nights they are are tough as hell

The horror stories we could tell

Of Barnsley's chronic clientele

When we’re playing tough gigs

In pubs in Tarn you have to play two sets of 45

But there are nights we watch the clock

Hopin' we get out alive

Playing Dodworth Club for Working Men

We're on from 9 til quarter t' 10

They talk over every song but then

They're deathly quiet for bingo

The meat raffle's drawn, and Deidre wins

Some offal and a pound of mince

While you're playing Purple Rain by Prince

She's distracted by a sausage

Each nauseating second

Is more painful than first

But once you're done, they shout for more

to get their money's worth

The nightmare gig, you've just arrived

The football's on, on Sky Sports live

On a massive screen on the stage behind

The place you're meant to set up

Knuckle dragging blokes watch you

As you try hard not to block their view

And to mek it worse they're losing too

And the bar's run out of Stella

You wonder why they've booked you

But you see the ends in sight

Til a last minute equaliser teks it into extra time

A wedding with a family feud

You're background noise, an interlude

While guests catch up and wait for food

They'll only dance for t'DJ

A hour in things escalate

A drunken lass, she dun't look great

Shouts "Play Adele for my best mate"

"And she'll sing it, if you let her"

I've seen it all, so not a lot will make this lad see red,

Ask one more time for Skyfall

And this uke's wrapped round your head

So when we’ve been entertaining

To earn an honest bob

For a knackered Bar-Steward

It’s a dead exhausting job

Now it’s quite clear, it’s plain to see,

I’m not Tom Jones, won’t ever be

Coz they throw pints, not pants at me,

When we're playing tough gigs!

No Fillin’ In Me Pie

(Lyrics: Danny Doonican)

I nipped to Terry’s butty van for a belly bustin’ treat

There were a picture of a massive pie

With about half a pound of meat

I parted with me £2.10, ‘twas cheap at twice the price

But when I cut the crusty top, I couldn’t believe me eyes

Bloody hell mate! Hold the gravy!

There’s no fillin’ in me pie!

I delved around inside the crust to try and find me meat

But all I found were onions

And they don’t agree wi’ me

I found a bit of carrot, and half frozen pea

And then to top the bugger off… no sugar in me tea!

Bloody hell mate! Hold the gravy!

There’s no fillin’ in me pie!

I marched back to the butty van,

Me patience was wearing thin

I slammed the tea upon the counter

And I chucked the pie at him

I said “This pie has got no meat,

There’s no sugar in me tea”

He said “You want some filling, cock?

That’s another 80p”

Bloody hell mate! Hold the gravy!

There’s no fillin’ in me pie!

Where Do You Go To My Lovely

(Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Joseph Anthony Capstick)

You talk like her that played Mandy Dingle

And you dance like a pissed Fred Astaire

Your clothes they are all made by Kappa

And there’s yesterday’s soup in your hair

(Yes there is… quite a lot)

You live darn on Worsbrough Common,

In a flat darn Bruce Avenue way

And you prop up the bar in The Silkstone

Where you once copped off with Darren Day (yes you did)

So where do you go to my lovely,

When you’re alone in your bed?

Tell me the parts that surround you,

I want to look inside your head

(Yes I do, but not for nits!)

I’ve seen all your lengthy convictions

That you got from Barnsley Magistrates’ Court

And your ASBO for glassing a barman

And the knocked-off flat-screen that you bought

When you go on your summer vacation

To Ibiza: San Antonio Bay

With your carefully designed crotchless swimsuit

You can tan, while all the blokes run away

(You’ll never see them for t’dust!)

And by nightfall you’re found darn the boozer

With others who drink to forget

And you neck your tenth Red Bull and Vodka

And moan about all of your debts (yes you do)

So where do you go to my lovely,

When you’re alone in your bed?

I know all the smells that surround you

Would have any man wish he were dead (yes I do)

Your name it is heard in high places

By the bouncers in all of the clubs

As they drag you out, kicking and screaming

After being barred from all of Tarn’s pubs

(Oh yes, Pub Watch know your name)

And they say that if you got married

He’ll deserve a medal as big as a bin lid

‘Cos he’ll have to put up with you farting in bed

And how you kick off at your seven kids

(Chantelle, Chlamydia, Tyler… there’s four others

You can’t remember their names)

Where do you go to my lovely?

What goes on inside your head?

On Thursday you're cashing your giro

To put on horses and dogs at BetFred

(There’s no way a horse called ‘Yorkshire Pride’is finishing first)

I remember rarnd t’back of the Netto

Two children playing innocent games

I saw some things playing ‘Doctors and Nurses’

And me life’s never been quite the same

(No it’s not, it never will!)

So look into my face Donna Clegg

And remember just who you are

Then go and leave me forever

But I know that you won’t get that far

(with that chuffing mattress on your back)

I know where you go to my lovely,

When you’re not frequenting Greggs

I know nowt but trouble surrounds you,

So I don’t want to get in your keks

Tarnlife

(Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White)

Competence is summat

That ain’t really goin’ on in what is known as (Tarnlife!)

And a Barnsley Chop can be avoided

If tha teks t’long route rarnd what is known as (Tarnlife!)

Fred’s gorra ferret darn ‘is keks

It’s not intimidated by t’smell o’ black puddin’

It loves a bit o’ it! (Tarnlife)

Who’s that skinny bugger o’er there?

Tha could do wi’ some snap young ‘un,

Git thissen t’ t’chip oil!

All the people - so many people

They all go cap in hand

Cap in hand through their Tarnlife

Does tha know worra mean?

I gerrup when I fancy,

‘cept on Thursday when I go to collect me Giro

I put me flat cap on, have a pint o’ smooth,

And then think abart goin’ rarnd t’Tarn

I feed me whippets; I sometimes feed me ferrets too

It meks me feel full t’ t’brim wi’ Barnsley pride

Then I feel champion fo’ t’ rest on the day

Knowin’ you can tek the lad art o’ t’Tarn

But yer can’t tek t’Tarn art on t’lad

All the people - so many people

They all go cap in hand

Cap in hand through their Tarnlife

It’s got nowt to do wi’ yer Yorkshire Pud

And Roast Beef physique thannus

And it not abart all you chavs

That drive rarnd and rarnd and rarnd

All the people - so many people

They all go cap in hand

Cap in hand through their Tarnlife

Lift Dickie Bird Where He Belongs

(Lyrics: Scott Doonican)

Who knows what the morning brings,

In the Tarn after folks have been art

All I know is when they’re on the lash,

They leave gifts on his finger when dark

Their deeds are wrong

There are times when I sit and pray

For Barnsley council to shift him art o’ t’way

Lift Dickie Bird where he belongs

Just a couple of feet from yobs on the street

Please lift him up where he belongs

Far from his street-level home, where the drunks do roam

They dangle things on his finger-tip

He’s a target, and you can see why

From the minute Graham Ibbeson broke his mould,

He became a joke, night after night

How low can they go?

They leave knickers and condoms ararnd

Dangling from the most famous finger in t’Tarn

Lift Dickie Bird where he belongs

Move him from harm’s way and he’ll be okay

Please lift him up where he belongs

Yes we know he’s a fart, but you can’t do that to fine art

So listen up folks... a joke ain’t a joke,

When Dickie’s had it up to here...

Raise him up five feet, yeah!

They made a plinth where he belongs

Now you won’t need barbed wire, protecting this umpire

Much safer up where he belongs

Pointing way up high, to Barnsley’s bright blue skies

He’s lifted up where he belongs

Raised him up five feet, lookin’ darn on t’street

He’s lifted up where he belongs

No crisp bags or bras left on his outstretched right finger

Who knows what the morning brings...

The Tarn Pub Lament

(Lyrics: Scott Doonican)

Now in Barnsley there’s a boozer called The Grogger’s Rest

And it was home to Kipper Jackson, till they said “You’re a pest”

So they put him on Pub Watch, an outlaw soon to be

But it’s Tarn and we’re proud of it,