THE BAR-STEWARD SONS OF VAL DOONICAN /

2008-2018

LYRICS

Morris Dance (hidden track on CD version BEFORE Track 1 - press rewind to find it)

Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican / Amanda White

You can dance if you want to

Stomp yer clogs - wave a garland high
You can Right-Hand Star your way to the bar 

And your tankard never will run dry

At the Olde Cock & Pullett
Join the Mummers as they start to mime

And as your sticks ascend, just shake your bell ends

Making sure you pull out on time    -    You can dance…

 

Border dance if you want to
It's tradition, it's not a trend 

It's a rare old place where a blacked-up face

Is not there to offend

Dance with swords if you want to
Face a partner who is parallel

And when you raise your shaft, you won't feel so daft

Cos the lads are raising theirs as well

 

And Morris Dance, Morris Dance - with accordion or violin

Morris Dance, Morris Dance - here your hankies don’t go in the bin

Morris Dance, Morris Dance - for Solstice or Equinox

Take a chance, you can prance, with your keks tucked in your socks

Morris Dance, oh yeah Morris dance 
Come on Morris Dance, Morris Dance

Pace-egg if you want to
Or wear a hobby-horses head

Horn-dance like a stag if that is your bag

Or dance like a fool instead

On May Day, if you want to,
You can do it at the village fair

The size of your pole's a sight to behold

When erected for the people there

 

Morris dance Morris dance - if you're feeling that way inclined
Morris dance Morris dance - like it’s 1599

Morris dance Morris dance

Get your baldricks out tonight

Morris dance Morris dance

There’s nothing wrong with men in tights

Morris Dance, oh yeah Morris dance 
Come on Morris Dance, Morris Dance...

 

 

Bag For Life

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

We did the Big Shop yesterday…
Ar lass bought loads of stuff  - all nouvelle cuisine
And loads of two for one stuff that we dun’t need
She went crazy on promotions
Our bank account depleted as the trolley piled up
With loads of stuff - chuffing tonnes of stuff

On top I saw at least four free-range chickens
But as we started queuing up
There was shock horror at the check-out

Forgot the Bag for Life

Forgot the Bag for Life
 

I’m not the type who likes surprises
But she went beserk - wouldn’t let to go

She had a massive strop - and began to moan

She said “Asda saves us millions in prices,
But now we’re forced to pay for plastic carriers
You forgetful chuff - they’re 5 pence a bag
I said 5 PENCE A BAG!” - I said 5 PENCE A BAG!”

And then she starting going nuts
Like World War 3 there at the checkout,  when I…

 

Forgot the Bag for Life - Forgot the Bag for Life
Forgot the Bag for Life - Forgot the Bag for Life
Forgot the Bag for Life - Forgot the Bag for Life
Was just a Bag for Life - Forgot the Bag for Life
Forgot the Bag for Life

 

Well I’d had about enough
Of ar lass whinging in me ear because

I forgot the Bag for Life - forgot the Bag for Life
 

Then she pipes up once again
‘bout the damage I’ve done - now she’s acting all Green

She might as well be telling me in Chinese

“The ice-caps will melt into the oceans
These things will stay in landfill for hundreds of years”

Oh shut up love - I’ve had more than enough
And why the clucking hell d’ya buy four chickens!?”
Well I am quite a patient guy

But I’ve never lost me shit before
Over a Bag for Life - It’s just a Bag for Life
A chuffing Bag for Life - It’s just a Bag for Life

I don’t need the strife - over a Bag for Life
Forgot the Bag for Life - Forgot the Bag for Life
Bag for Life, Bag for life

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

She’s From Dodworth

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Dr. Chris Sammon

 

She's from Dodworth, thinks she’s looking good 
Her Sanskrit tattoos are misunderstood 
Wears an Oompa Loompa fake tan when she’s on the lash 
While a carefully-placed vagazzle hides her shaving rash 

Wears a onesie to her local pub at half past 8 
And anyone who looks at her she wants to feight 
She has an electronic tag so must be home by 8

And she sups like Ollie Reed until she wants to feight

She also nicks consumer products from the Tarn 
An i-phone and an e-cig and a dressing gown 
Judge Rinder stopped her claim against the Aldi there 
‘cos the cucumber she took back  looked quite worse for wear

 

Arse On Fire  

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

It’s 1 o’clock in the morning

And you’ve been rarnd the Tarn

And you’ve now got the munchies… you’re hungry

Like bees around honey, like a moth to a flame

You stagger off for a curry… no worries

Your legs work like a Sat Nav and tek you to the K2

You stumble in lookin’ plastered,

“I’ll have pork vindaloo”

They don’t hold back on the chillies,

They don’t hold back on the spice

And you wolf it darn quickly… so quickly

 

Bugger! Your mouth is on fire!

Woah! Can’t help but perspire!  

 

Now it’s early next morning,

You could drink a tap dry

Your mouth’s like Ghandi’s flip-flops,

But you cannot think why

And your head it is pounding and you can’t stop the pain

You’re feelin’ so dehydrated… so wasted

But your gut’s feeling jippy, you know it ain’t right

And then you remember... what you ate last night

And you push back the bedsheets, and you race to the bog

And you only just make it... you made it

 

Bugger! Your arse is on fire!

Woah! Now the temperature’s higher

 

Yes, your bum’s like a cherry, it’s red and it’s raw

You daren’t move from the toilet…

It feels incredibly sore

‘cos it seems that it’s hotter on the way out

Than going in in the first place,

You have good reason to shout

The toilet-roll’s on the fridge shelf,

Yes, you need some relief

But your Ring of Fire… it beggars belief

As your Khyber Pass suffers from Ghandi’s Revenge

It smelt so bad I could taste it… taste it

 

Bugger! Your arse is on fire!

Woah! With the flames burning higher!

Walking In Man-Piss

Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican

 

Hit Tarn in me new suede shoes, blue with Cuban heels
Supped pints until nature called

The time had come to brek the seal  

W.C. was handy, but when I walked in it beggared belief 
There must’ve been a blockage

The urinal had overflowed and leaked
 

So I was walking in man piss

Wished I was walking ten feet off of the floor

Walking in man piss, and it was too bad to ignore
 

Had a neet art in Sheffield - I went to see Motley Crue

Took my place near the front of the stage

To get a real good view

The security laughed suddenly 

So I turned my back on the show 

But a suspect yellow pint, had suddenly took flight

And drenched me from head to toe

 

Yes I was covered in man piss 

It was dripping down me face and onto me shoes 
Soaked through with man piss - and there was nothing I could do…

 

I was stood there chuffing fuming                                        

And my rage it filled the air                                                        

‘cos my blue suede shoes, that were brand new                
They hadn't got a prayer                                                    

Now they were soaked with man piss                                 
 

I went to see the doctor - as my feet had both turned blue
I'd been scrubbing at them for weeks and weeks
And didn’t know what to do
He said “Son, it’s a chemical reaction 

Must be the dye leaked from your shoes
But that would need ammonia - can you give me any clues?”

Yes I’ve been walking in man piss

I know it sounds like a pretty weird thing to do
But I’ve been walking in man piss
And it has knackered me blue suede shoes?
They were ruined by man piss
They used to be a deep blue but now they're pale grey
Faded by man piss
Now I can’t even shift them on ebay

 

Had to bin my new suede shoes the very next day
Walked round lookin’ sad and blue in the middle of the pouring rain
Walked round lookin’ sad and blue in the middle of the pouring rain

Since You’ve Been Ron

Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

I get the same old dream, same time every night 
Of you in that dress and make up 
I still remember when you turned to me in bed and said 
Your life needed a shake up 
Six months of work in West Berlin 
But now my her has changed to a him 

Oh since you’ve been Ron, since you’ve been Ron 
I’m struggling with the whole ‘man’ thing 
It just seems so wrong, ‘cos since you’ve been Ron 
Now you can wee while standing 

I just can’t understand, why you want to be a man 
Your curves were in the right places 
Your chest is all hairy,

But still the weirdest thing for me is 
Beards on both of our faces 
I used to love to watch you dance 
But now I’m scared of what’s in your pants 

Oh since you’ve been Ron, your voice has gone 
All gravelly like Joe Cocker’s 
I’m far from impressed, you swapped your bra for a vest 
I preferred you when you had knockers 

I’ll make a bob or two

All your Jimmy Choo shoes are going on ebay… 

Oh since you’ve been Ron, since you’ve been Ron 
You’ve learnt how to leave pans soaking 
Oh since you’ve been Ron, something’s gone wrong 
I used to do all the poking 

 

Ever since you’ve been Ron

 

If I Could Punch A Face…  

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

There’s a fever sweeping ‘cross the country now

It’s even worse than all the fans of Glee

He’s on every bloody cover, of every magazine

Irritating normal folk like me

 

If I could punch a face… it’d be Justin Bieber’s

There’s not a trace of doubt in my mind

He’s a chuff - can’t stand Justin Bieber,

I hope he gets fever or even hives

 

He’s only twelve and he wrote his own biography

(in crayon)

His face adorns the shelves of every shop (it’s sickening)

All the girls go crazy; he’s the prince of pop

But what will happen when his bollocks drop?

 

If I could punch a face… it’d be Justin Bieber’s
There’s not a trace of doubt in my mind

He’s an arse… I hate Justin Bieber singing “Baby-Oh”,

Like, a billion times

 

He’s got a stupid haircut, and his music’s crap

You couldn’t tire from giving him a slap

If I could punch a face… it’d be Justin Bieber’s

There’s not a trace of doubt in my mind

Switch his music off…

Destroy ‘Bieber Fever’ and poke Justin Bieber in the eye

 

If I could punch a face… it’d be Justin Bieber’s

Seek medical advice if you’ve got Bieber Fever

‘cos it’s worse than clap!

 

The Zipper

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

I’ve lost the power to talk after what I’ve gone through 
Though it’s hurting me, I want no-one to see 
Feeling deeply scarred from torment I have been through 
Words cannot convey the pain I feel today 

The zipper caught me balls 
You could hear me wailing through the walls 
I screamed a hundred decibels, because it hurts like chuffing hell 

I tried to stay calm, but the shock it was horrendous 
Looking down on my mistake

And my mangled trouser snake 
I want to be free to let me dingles dangle 
But how can I abandon ship, with me conkers in me zip? 

Wish I’d been much more precise 
I’ve tried to cool me plums with ice 
But now I’ve got no tail to tell 
Because me mojo’s trapped as well 
The zipper trapped me balls 
Yes I’m quite far from enthralled 
Because this tragic injury 
Has caused nowt but misery 

I can hardly move, ‘cos it’s throbbing so bad 
Frozen where I stand, it’s laid in tatters in my hand 
I’ll say sorry in advance, to the paramedics 
‘cos I know how much I’ll shout

When they pull the bugger out 

The zipper caught me balls 
Singing falsetto down the hall 
Oh yes my strength was quickly sapped 
When me space hoppers got trapped 
And size it clearly matters not 
Me chuffin’ zipper ate the lot

All The Dinner Ladies

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

All the dinner ladies  (All the dinner ladies)
All the dinner ladies  (All the dinner ladies)

All the dinner ladies  (All the dinner ladies)

All the dinner ladies  -  Now put your hands up

 

They’re giving us grub, just served up
Sausage, mash-spuds and peas

The bigger kids, are getting first dibs

There’s bugger all left for me

Dun’t mek ‘em cross, ‘cos they’re the boss
And you’ll only end up in detention
They’ve been there for years, it’ll end in tears
They’re meaner than Mohammed Ali

 

They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it

They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it

You mightn’t like it, cos it’s gonna have a skin on it

They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it

 

Oh, no, no - No, no, no, no, no, no - No, no, no
Oh, no, no - No, no, no, no, no, no - No, no, no

 

They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it

They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it

You mightn’t like it, cos it’s gonna have a skin on it

They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it

 

Serving rock hard chips, can’t get to grips
With cauliflower cheese or stir-fry

But dun’t act up, they’ll mess you up
After giving you the evil eye

Stop chatting, just eat! Stay in your seat!

You better be paying attention!
It’ll only get worse, if you aven’t ‘ad yer firsts
You can kiss yer afters goodbye

 

Bringing custard but it’s allus got a skin on it

Bringing custard but it’s allus got a skin on it

You may like it, but it’s gonna have a skin on it

Bringing custard but it’s allus got a skin on it

 

Oh, no, no - No, no, no, no, no, no - No, no, no
Oh, no, no - No, no, no, no, no, no - No, no, no

 

Take your trays and go and scrape ‘em in the bin, poppet

Take your trays and go and scrape ‘em in the bin, poppet

And if you spill, they’ll keep you in until they can mop it

Take your trays and go and scrape ‘em in the bin, poppet


Out you go

Go, go, go, go, go, go
Go, go, go

 

Out you go
Go, go, go, go, go, go
Go, go, go

 

Out you go

Go, go, go, go, go, go
Go, go, go

 

Out you go
Go, go, go, go, go, go
Go, go, go

 

They’ll blow the whistle and it allus got a string on it

They’ll blow the whistle and it allus got a string on it

When the bell goes it’s allus got a ring on it

They’ll blow the whistle and it allus got a string on it

 

If it’s spitting then they’re gonna get you in for it

If it’s spitting then they’re gonna get you in for it

If you act silly in the classroom then you’re in for it

If it’s spitting then they’re gonna get you in for it

 

Oh no no

Massage In A Brothel

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

Lost in Amsterdam, so drunk that I can’t see, oh 
And I can’t find me mates, there’s no-one left but me, oh 
And on those cobbled streets, I slipped and put me back out 
And I could hardly move, all I could was shout-out 

 

A lass walked up to me, she was ever so polite 
She said “My name’s Roxanne”, under crimson neon lights 
She helped me to my feet, and walked me up some stairs 
To a small red apartment, it was then that I got scared 

I’d send an SMS to me bird

But I know that she’ll go completely berserk 
I know I’ve really cocked up

I never meant to end up 
Or even planned to get a massage in a brothel 

I woke face down, I got up to get my coat 
I knew by then it was time to depart 
But she blocked the door, she was all dressed in leather 
With a gimp mask and a riding crop, she’d break more than my heart 

 

I’d send an SMS to me bird

But I know she’ll go completely berserk 
I know Roxanne did not stop, and I could hardly stand up 
Me back felt worse after that massage in a brothel 

Woke up next morning, I don’t believe what I saw 
Whips and chains and rubber objects scattered round the floor 
It was then I screamed at the top of me lungs 
As she gave me lacerations right across me plums 

I’d send an SMS to me bird

But with me hands in chains it won’t work 
I didn’t need a close-up, I know I nearly threw up 
I never thought it would get messy in that brothel 

 

Sendin’ out an SOS, rather than an SMS 
I need some time to convalesce

After all of this undue stress 

I’d send an SMS to me bird

But I know that she’d go completely berserk 
I’m looking pretty messed up

She’ll say you better grow up 
And to think it started with a massage in a brothel

Nandos

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White / Elliot Smaje

 

It was dimly lit by candle

When I took you out for a romantic night of bliss

The waiter poured the Vino Blanco

Should have poured it darn the sink

Because it tasted just… too tart

I looked down at the menu,

And what I saw there, struck terror in my heart

 

It could’ve been in Esperanto

For all the sense it made, it was all Greek to me

No food should look so mangled

You know just where to shove your Piri-Piri recipe?

I closed my eyes and hoped and prayed

That what they brought was fish n chips with peas

 

There was summat on me plate last night

The food was shite at Nando’s

I dunno what it was they brought to eat

It smelt like feet at Nando’s

Although it seemed that there was tonnes of choice

I had regrets

If I had to do the same today

I’d say “No way” to Nando’s

 

I acted smooth like Marlon Brando

In ‘The Wild One’ back in 1953

But my plate looked like John Rambo

Had attacked the lot with an unsharpened machete

And if the chicken was free-range

I’m pretty sure that it was not happy.

 

There was very little I could do

It tasted poo at Nando’s

It smelt just like a septic tank

The food was rank at Nando’s

And when they brought the bill

My wallet broke into a sweat

And even if I could forget the smell

I’d say to hell with Nando's

 

Even Abba wouldn’t take a chance

The food was pants at Nando’s

Dun’t know what it was that took us there

I found a hair at Nando’s

And though I try to block that image out

I can’t forget

I wouldn’t recommend the pitta wrap

It tasted poor at Nando's

Festival Heroes

Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican

 

From May until September, across our lovely land

There’s loads of folk who hit the road, with tents or campervans

The festival’s a Mecca for the likes of you and me

But there are folk, it’s not a joke, who take things to extremes…

 

You know, the weirdos; you know the festival weirdos

Give them all a wide birth

It doesn’t take that, to spot a real twat

Starting with the lad dressed as a Smurf

So many weirdos

Like the hippies in kaftans wanting to free Tibet

Or the posh-bird called Grace, who wants to embrace

All the folk in the dance-tent on ket… dance-tent on ket

 

Then there’s those who buy their tickets, but dun't go to see a band
Who spend their weekend sat in chairs

Outside a clapped-out transit van
That seventh can of Stella isn’t helping her Tourettes 
They’re Neighbours from hell, who share a brain cell

The sort you can't forget...

This lot aren’t weirdos, they’re just festival bell-ends 
And their time is mis-spent

They use all of the night, to talk absolute shite
When they should be asleep in a tent
They're chuffing morons 
They spend most of the evening talking bollocks but then

He goes to his car, gets an acoustic guitar
And plays Wonderwall badly again... again and again 

 

The hipsters taking selfies, fashion-conscious, self-obsessed

Wait for the band’s hit single, but then talk through all the rest

The pillocks on their camping chairs, in the moshpit what a farce

Dun’t stand-in-front-of-me-with-your-flag,

Or that pole goes up yer arse

 

Give me torpedoes; give me a sawn-off machine-gun

And I’d sort them I know

I’d start with the lad filming on his i-pad

Is it so hard to just watch the show?

Or all the zeroes, who can never be happy,

They were just born to moan

‘Bout the state of the ground, the line-up, the sound

The weather or charging their phone

Why not stop at home?

 

To all those folk I sing this song, as I count to ten and breathe

You think you’re so original, shouting Alan! Alan! Steve!

Just remember often this thing’s run by volunteers
And they all work bloody hard, so raise yer glasses and say CHEERS!

Cos they're the heroes, they're the festival heroes
And you know that I'm right
They're doing their best, to make a success
So we all have a chuffin’ good time
Yeah they're the heroes, they're the festival heroes
Making things run okay
Planning months in advance, just so we all get chance
To come here for beautiful days
For such beautiful days

 

The Ornithologist Waltz

Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican

 

I met her on Facebook in April
Because I'm incredibly shy
I saw her photos, and her videos
She’s up for it and so am I

We met down the pub, it was Quiz Night
She whipped out her clipboard and pen
She said “I love birds”, I was lost for words

I couldn't believe what she said then…

You've got a handsome Cock Robin (Nice Cock!)
I've got a pair of Great Tits (Great Tits!)
Her down the road, she's got nothing but Thrush
But her Twitter gets plenty of hits (lots of hits)
Cos we like to twitch in the garden (the garden)
Seeing what birds we can bag (we can bag)
Some folk go pale, when they see a Wagtail 
But I'm on the hunt for a Shag

She said if I go round one morning
She'd happily show me her Chuff 
A new one to me, but I just had to see
I went often... once wasn't enough
I promised to show her my Red Shank 
If she would help me tempt it out
So we waited a while, then he came out in style
When she saw it she let out a shout!

You've got a handsome Cock Robin (Nice Cock!)
I've got a pair of Great Tits (Great Tits!)
Her down the road, she's got nothing but Thrush
But her Twitter gets plenty of hits (lots of hits)
Cos we like to twitch in the garden (the garden)
Seeing what birds we can bag (we can bag)
Some folk go pale, when they see a Wagtail 
But I'm on the hunt for a Shag

Now romance it started to blossom
As winter turned slowly to spring
We found lots to do, waiting for the Cuckoo
And the Lark on the morning to sing
I told her I’d seen a Brown Booby
Though we still didn’t spot that Cuckoo
But my Dickcissel pic, would take something to lick
But then she got a Great Cockatoo


(She said) You've got a handsome Cock Robin (Nice Cock!)
I've got a pair of Great Tits (Great Tits!)
Her down the road she's got nothing but Thrush
But her Twitter gets plenty of hits (lots of hits)
Cos we like to Twitch in the garden (the garden)
Seeing what birds we can bag (we can bag)
Now Spring has sprung, the Summer has come
And I finally got my first Shag!

 

How Deep Is Your Glove?

Lyrics:  Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican / Amanda White

Went to Phuket for some winter sun

And on the way back, as I got off the plane

Me feet had barely touched ground

When I was dragged out of the customs lane

Officers quizzed me, and with a frown

With me tank top off and me trousers down

screamed, “I need to know

How deep is your glove!?

How deep? How deep is your glove?

How far do you need to go?

Cos when I said I had a crack in me arse.

You misunderstood

I'm not a mule, you've took my dignity

With your hands colder than the North Sea

There is nothing nice

About finding out that lightning can strike twice.

When I went along to my GP

Because me choc’late locker din’t feel right.

I said “It takes an age when I try to pee"

She said "lay on your side, while I try to see"

All the clinic heard me shout

How deep is your glove!?

How deep? How deep is your glove?

That’s no hand it’s like a boiler shovel

I was suffering with me Jeremy Kyles

But she was all smiles

As the tears came to my eyes

I think she loved to see grown men cry

I could hit those notes like the Bee Gees

Are you past me ears? Christ, I dare not sneeze!

I’m not a human puppet show!

How deep is your glove?

How deep? How deep is your glove?

I’m really quite concerned

Don’t even think about a second opinion

Or I will break down

That is one thing I can guarantee

Thought you were ramming up a Christmas tree!

How deep? How deep is your glove?

You never bought me flowers or dinner

You didn’t even give me time to prepare,

Before you were there

Knuckles deep inside my derriere

Cos BUPA doesn’t cover wear and tear

How deep? How deep is your glove?

I’m not ashamed to say it

But I may have bit a hole in your bench

As I battened down

As your digit entered into me

Feels like you’re up there with a JCB

Paint 'em Back

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

I saw you from behind but was ta-ken aback

When you turned round I nearly had a heart attack

I see girls pass me by, but I’m far from aroused
What makes you do the things you do with your eyebrows?

 

Why pluck your eyebrows out and then just draw them back?
Especially if it’s clear you haven’t got the knack

They look like they were drawn on by a three year old

Who’s used a magic marker, wearing a blindfold

 

And there’s the metro guys who try to stay ‘on fleek’

You need to get art more, you narcissistic freaks

Why can’t they face the facts like Burt on Sesame Street

Instead of sculpting their monobrow with a metric tonne of Veet

 

Some lasses shave them off and draw them back too high

I’d tell them to their face, but they’d still look surprised

Armed with huge tweezers that they got from Marks & Sparks

Why take ‘em off and draw ‘em back like Groucho Marx?

 

That pained expression that you drew for all to see

You’d still look narked off, if you won the lottery

I see folks shake their heads and quickly run and hide
They’re like angry caterpillars in formaldehyde

 

Don’t wanna to see ‘em painted, painted, painted, painted back
Black and wide

You dun’t need ‘em stencilled on - looking cross or surprised

Don’t want to see ‘em painted, painted, painted, painted back

  

Silent Farter

Lyrics: Alan Doonican 

 

Methane eminato, Trouser fumigator, Secret botty burper, Nasal persecutor
I'm a silent farter, 
Sneaky silent farter

You're a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter

I'm a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter
 

He who smelt it dealt it, Fragrance of a cesspit
Surreptitious tooter. 
Atmosphere polluter

I'm a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter

You're a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter

 

Naturally furtive, Stink bomb detonator

Socially explosive,Noxious fume emitter 

I'm a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter

You're a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter

I'm a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter

The Lady In Greggs

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

I’ve nivver seen your baps

Look as lovely as they did tonight

They looked tasty, wholemeal and white

I’ve nivver known a lass

Who really knew the way to a man’s heart

A gorgeous muffin and a good lookin’ tart

And I have never seen quite a dressing

As the stuff you’re packing into that baguette

You’ve got me in a sweat

 

The Lady in Greggs, she meks pasties for me through the week

And when she meks sausage rolls I forget how to speak

She’s really got technique

And I can’t resist her steak bakes on the side

I’ll nivver forget the super snap that she supplied

 

Nivver had a BLT taste as gorgeous as it did tonight

Tonsils tingling with savo’ry delight, and smokey bacon

I’ve nivver seen a chocolate éclair

With such a creamy inside

And then I turn to you and smile

‘cos it teks me breath away

And I’ve nivver had such a feeling

The feeling that I’m well and truly stuffed,

But I’m satisfied

 

The Lady in Greggs, she meks pasties for me through the week

And with muffins so moist, my knees just go weak

They really are unique

And I am so sure, her goods they won’t turn stale

I’ll nivver forget the gorgeous grub she’d got on sale

B.I.S.T.O.

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White / Kay Fitzpatrick

 

I like it spicy and hot… I like it thick but runny

I like it in big warm jugs... with all the fat spooned off

I like it moist and meaty… I like it at simmering point

The juices exude from it… I like it with fagots

 

You need B.I.S.T.O.

 

It is B (Bloomin’ tasty) 

It is I (In yer cupboard)

Go and S (Shove the kettle on)

And then T (Tip the watter in)

And then O-O-OOOOOHHHH 

It is B (Brill with mixed grill)

It is I (In yer meat pie) 

Not for S (Southern fairies)

What's for Tea (Tastebuds tingle) 

It tastes O-O-OOOOOHHHH

 

Come dunk your meatballs… Smother your sausage

Ahhhh Bisto… Ahhhhhh!

The Cockwombling Song

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

When life isn't fine, or you've had a bad day

Or you're feeling quite dejected, or you're filled with dismay

Once you hear these words of wisdom, you'll be feeling okay...

Remember, remember, remember, remember

Remember, remember, remember (member-member)

 

Kanye West is a Cockwomble (Kanye West is a Cockwomble)

Kanye West is a Cockwomble (Kanye West is a Cockwomble)

Kanye West is a Cockwomble (Kanye West is a Cockwomble)

Kanye West is a Cockwomble (Kanye West is a Cockwomble)

Just remember-member-member what an absolute Cockwomble he is

 

When things have got you down, and you are far from okay

And you need an instant pick me up, then all I can say

Is at least you’re not a racist with an awful toupee

Remember, remember, remember, remember

Remember, remember, remember (member-member)

 

Donald Trump is a Cockwomble (Trump is a Cockwomble)

Donald Trump is a Cockwomble (Trump is a Cockwomble)

Donald Trump is a Cockwomble (Trump is a Cockwomble)

Donald Trump is a Cockwomble (Trump is a Cockwomble)

Just remember-member-member what an absolute Cockwomble he is

 

When you listen to the radio, and it all sounds the same

There’s a hundred million wannabes, all hunting for fame

But there really is just one bloke that’s truly to blame

Remember, remember, remember, remember

Remember, remember, remember (member-member)

 

Simon Cowell is a Cockwomble (Cowell is a Cockwomble)

Simon Cowell is a Cockwomble (Cowell is a Cockwomble)

Simon Cowell is a Cockwomble (Cowell is a Cockwomble)

Simon Cowell is a Cockwomble (Cowell is a Cockwomble)

Just remember-member-member what an absolute Cockwomble he is

 

Gordon Ramsey’s a Cockwomble (Ramsey’s a Cockwomble!)

Michael Gove is a Cockwomble (Gove is a Cockwomble!)

Geldof’s a Cockwomble (Geldof’s a Cockwomble!)

Jeremy Kyle is a Cockwomble (Kyle is a Cockwomble)

Just remember-member-member there’s a hundred more Cockwombles…

Jeremy Clarkson’s a Cockwomble (Clarkson’s a Cockwomble!)

Katie Price is a Cockwomble (Jordan’s a Cockwomble)

Piers Morgan’s a Cockwomble (Morgan’s a Cockwomble)

And Katie Hopkins is an arsehole (Hopkins is an arsehole)

Just remember-member-member there’s 1000 more Cockwombles out there

 

 

The Devil Went Darn To Barnsley

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

The Devil went darn to Barnsley Tarn 
He war lookin’ for a soul to steal. 
He war in a bind ‘cos he war way behind 
And he war willin’ to mek a deal 
When he came across this young ‘un 
Laikin’ on t’fiddle and playin’ shit ‘ot. 
And t’Devil jumped up like a big daft lump and said, 
“Ey up, let me tell thee what. 
I guess you didn’t know it, but I’m a fiddle player, too. 
And if you’d care, to tek a dare, I’ll mek a bet with you. 
Now, you play pretty good fiddle, lad,

But I’m gunna mek thee see.
I’ll bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, 
‘cos I think I’m better than thee.” 

The lad said, “Me name’s Björn, and it might be a sin. 
But I’ll take your bet, you big red get

‘cos I’m t’best that’s ever bin.”

Björn you better get yer bow and play yer fiddle hard, 
‘cos hell’s brok loose in Barnsley Tarn

And t’Devil deals the cards. 
And if you win you get his shiny fiddle med of gold. 
But if you lose, the devil gets yer soul. 

The devil got his fiddle, and he said, “Reight, off we go!” 
And fire flew from his fingertips
And he put on quite a show 
Then he brought in Graham from Saxon

And Eliza Carthy as well 
These stranger’s in t’night, they din’t sound shite 
No they rocked like bloody Hell! 

 

When the devil finished, Björn just said,

“Thar pretty good, t’old lad, 
But sit darn ovver theer for a bit

And I’ll mek thee look reight bad!” 

A Doonican from Sweden livin’ in t’Tarn 
I show thee what’s the crack, I’m t’best ararnd 
The Devil’s goin’ darn cos he’s Number One 
Playing them hits with The Bar-Steward Sons 

The devil bowed his head

Because he knew that he’d bin beat. 
And he laid that golden fiddle on t’ground at Björn’s feet 
Björn said, “Devil, just come on back

If thy ever wants to try ageeain. 
‘cos I told thee once, you big daft chuff,

I’m the best that’s ever been.” 

A Doonican from Sweden livin’ in t’Tarn 
I show thee what’s the crack, I’m t’best ararnd 
The Devil’s goin’ darn cos he’s Number One 
Playing them hits with The Bar-Steward Sons

Jump Ararnd

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

Listen up, listen in, we’re ‘bart to begin

Well I came to sing, bugger me, what a sin

But dun’t git yer backs up, if we turn t’sarnd up

That’s how we roll, till the whole room just cracks up

Get up, stand up, come on, chuck yer hands up

When the crowd are reelin’, we mek ‘em hit the ceilin’

I dun’t wear a string vest, ‘not like I’m a hunk,

But I’ll eat a pork pie and then I’ll tek the crust home

Think it, thunk it, we ha’n’t gorra drum-kit

We’ve got more beats than seeds in a pumpkin

Dun’t be shocked, sure ‘nuff we wain’t stop,

‘cos we’ve got more hits than New Kids On t’Block

 

We came to get darn, we came to get darn

So get art ‘yer seats ‘n jump ararnd

Jump ararnd, jump ararnd, jump ararnd

Jump up, jump up and get darn.

 

Just serve me a pint of Acorn on draught

I’m nowt like a brush, ‘cos I’ve nivver bin daft

Well word to yer mother, I’m ‘ere wi’ me brothers

And I’ve got more rhymes than a cart-load of others

But just like a Bar-Steward Son I’ve returned

For anyone rocking but gently’s concerned

We rewrite lyrics for you to have fun

So if you’ve come to see us, hope you have some

Me rappin’ dun’t scan when I run art of breath

We wear tank-tops, so we dun’t catch us death

Yes we dress to kill, us hair it looks brill

We’re t’Bar-Steward Sons and we aim to thrill

 

We came to get darn, we came to get darn

So get art ‘yer seats ‘n jump ararnd

Jump ararnd, jump ararnd, jump ararnd

Jump up, jump up and get darn.

 

We’re the cream o’ t’crop, we rise to t’top

But we ain’t the kinda stuff

They stick on Top Of The Pops

But y’know we work greater than Mr Motivator

As a personal trainer for Mr Johnny Vegas

But we ain’t going out like no daft chuffs

You know we’ve got style, you know we’re the right stuff

We go art rarnd tarn, sup the pints darn

Fill up yer heead until you wek up

Like t’Dawn of the Deead  

We’re coming to get ya, coming to get ya

Spittin’ art lyrics… Westwood, we’ve bet ya!

 

We came to get darn, we came to get darn

So get art ‘yer seats ‘n jump ararnd

Jump ararnd, jump ararnd, jump ararnd

Jump up, jump up and get darn.

 

© All lyrics copyright of Moon-On-A-Stick Records 

© 2019 The Bar-Steward Sons of  Val Doonican. All Rights Reserved.

  • Facebook Social Icon
  • Twitter Social Icon
  • bandcamp-logo-white2
  • YouTube Social  Icon