'EY UP! LET'S GO!

LYRICS

Bar-Steward Bop

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

‘EY UP! LET'S GO! ‘EY UP! LET'S GO!

‘EY UP! LET'S GO! ‘EY UP! LET'S GO!

 

We’re dressed to kill in tank-tops

In Chinos and superb locks

And we’ll liven up the crowd with the Bar-Steward Bop

Our show is just incendiary

We’re gonna rock, but gently

Playing till yer knees go trembly, Bar-Steward Bop

 

‘Ey up! Let’s go! Put the geetars in the boot now

Gonna head out to the show,

So load the car up, ‘cos we’re ready to go

Chuck the banjos on the back seat, ukuleles under my feet

Accordion on t’front seat, Bar-Steward Bop

 

Although the space is confined

The crowds are losing their minds

That’s just the way we’re inclined, Bar-Steward Bop

Our show is just incendiary, we’re gonna rock, but gently

Playing here instead of Wembley, Bar-Steward Bop

 

‘EY UP! LET'S GO! ‘EY UP! LET'S GO!

‘EY UP! LET'S GO! ‘EY UP! LET'S GO!

 

 

No More Heroes

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

Whatever happened to Arthur Scargill?

He fought for the pits ‘gainst Maggie Thatcher

Whatever happened to dear old Parky,

Or Billy Casper, or Gerry Taggart?

Whatever happened to the heroes?

Whatever happened to the heroes?

 

Whatever happened to all the heroes?

They were not zeroes, but they won’t return

 

Whatever happened to the heroes?

No more heroes any more.

 

Whatever happened to Brian Glover,

Or Charlie Williams?

And wheere’s Sam Nixon?

 

Whatever happened to the heroes?

No more heroes any more.

 

 

Barnsley Rock City

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

(‘ey up!) It ain’t so grim here in t’Tarn, thannus

(‘ey up!) Oi Casper, gerroff those goal posts

(‘ey up!) We’re art to get off us face

And a Barnsley lass could really put yer spine art of place

(‘ey up!) Me mates are insane

(‘ey up!) They all sup John Smiths like drains

(‘ey up!) And with their beer-goggles on

There’s only ten pints diff’rence ‘tween a fox and a dog

 

It’s the greatest place man, so go and get thissen a ticket

Go art rarnd Barnsley Rock City

You’ll ‘ave a reight neet art,

It’s full of pubs n’ feights n’ wimmen

You know my Barnsley Rock City

Is art of sight... it’s not shite

 

(‘ey up!) Nah Billy, dun’t be a chuff, gi’ o’er

(‘ey up!) A pint of mild is gret stuff, thannus

(‘ey up!) Nah watch tha dun’t spill me beer!

I’m havin’ one before the leets go art

And then I’m art of ‘ere

 

In Barnsley Rock City… Hey nan, wheer’s the chip pan?

In Barnsley Rock City… Quite alright

In Barnsley City, too fine

In Barnsley Rock City… Oh my Barnsley Rock City

Barnsley Rocks!

 

 

Hi-Ho Mr Traffic Warden

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

You’re everywhere and nowhere, lately, you sneaky prat

Going darn the local roadsides in your stupid hat

Sticking tickets on the windscreens, slyer than a rat

You’re jumping art just like a ninja,

As soon as I’ve turned me back

 

And it’s hi-ho Mr Traffic Warden;

Oh you slimy toad, you got me

Stick yer ticket where the sun ain’t shining

‘Cos you’re a sneaky chuff… and it’s obvious

 

You’re always hiding rarnd the corner,

Sneaking art nar and then

Armed with a fixed penalty notice,

Your notepad and your Argos pen

Anything I say is pointless,

You’d only tow me car off instead

Your hat must have that yellow line on,

So no bugger parks on your head!

 

And it’s hi-ho Mr Traffic Warden;

Oh you slimy toad, you got me

Stick yer ticket where the sun ain’t shining

Ooh you cheeky chuff… You think yer marvellous

 

I was parked on the double yellas,

And like some renegade, you got me

I could try and talk you art of it

But you dun’t give a stuff… you’re quite oblivious

 

And it’s hi-ho Mr Traffic Warden;

Oh you slimy toad, you got me

Stick yer ticket where the sun ain’t shining

‘cos you’re a flamin’ chuff… and it’s obvious

 

And it’s hi-ho Mr Traffic Warden;

Oh you rotten get, you got me

I’m off to B&Q to get an angle-grinder

To tek this wheel-clamp off… it’s just ridiculous

 

 

Strung Up Like A Good Un’

Lyrics: Andy Doonican  

 

I always knew it would happen

With me and the girl from Shafton

Art rarnd Worsbrough Common,

That neet I ain’t forgotten

When she dished art her passion,

She din’t give it in rations

When I said “Thar not a lady,”

She said me dad’ll bray me...

 

We moved into a basement,

She talked abart engagement

We din’t even ‘ave a telly

And the bathroom was reight smelly

We spent our time just suppin’,

Argued ovver who wa’ cookin’

But she got chuffin’ knocked up,

So it was time I f..... walked away

 

I got a job on t’market,

It were indoor selling carpets

They started me on t’Sat’day,

So I had me weekly bath on Sunday

I worked for half an hour,

And I nicked me bird some flowers

She said she’d seen a doctor,

And almost nowt could stop her

 

I grafted through the winter,

I switched from lager to bitter

I almost saved a tenner,

Then spent-up on an all-dayer

And when the time was ready,

I even nicked a telly

She weren’t back’ards at comin’ for’ards

‘cos she even wanted Sky+ (with HD an’ all!)

 

This morning at four twenty,

Contractions, she had plenty

Rushed her to the Barnsley General,

The next few hours were mental

She came home with a daughter

And within a year I wondered

Why she din’t look like her mother

So who the hell’s the mother?

 

Now the babby’s two years older,

Her mother’s pissed off with a soldier

Nivver knew a lass more bolder;

Me mates said she’d do me ovver

Being a dad came and took me

From t’playgroup to the dole queue

No more neets art nickin' tellies

Just chuffin’ loadsa nappies smelling

 

Alone here in’t kitchen,

I feel there’s summat missin’

The kid’s ginger wi’ an afro,

And how the hell, I dun’t know!

The ex wain’t do a DNA test,

‘cos Jeremy Kyle he knows best

And so it’s no assumption,

I’ve been strung up like a good un’

 

 

Friday Neet

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

F – R – I – I – I – D – A – Y  NEET!

F – R – I – I – I – D – A – Y  NEET!

F – R – I – I – I – D – A – Y  NEET!

F – R – I – I – I – D – A – Y  NEET!

 

We’re washin’ us hair, and chuckin’ on the Old Spice

‘cos it’s Friday neet, Friday neet

We’re donning us best knitwear and it looks reight nice

‘cos it’s Friday neet, Friday neet

Hi-I-I we’re here to impress

The ladies love a man who knows how to dress

 

We’re gonna rock you gently,

We’re The Bar-Steward Sons

And it’s Friday neet, Friday neet

Let Dooni-mania sweep the borough

We’re number one

And it’s Friday neet, Friday neet

Friday neet, F-F-F Friday neet,

F-F-F Friday neet, F-F-F Friday neet

 

Gonna get the lads together for a pint or two

‘cos it’s Friday neet, Friday neet

Gonna sing a few songs abart the Tarn for you

‘cos it’s Friday neet, Friday neet

Hi-I-I our knitwear looks reight swell

And we’ve got immaculate hair as well

 

 

(You Gotta) Fight For Your Pint (In Barnsley)

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Andy Doonican 

 

It’s Friday night, you’re with your mates

And you’re off ararnd t’Tarn

You head into t’Wetherspoons

‘cos you know that it’s your round

The bar is chocker-block so it’s gunna tek a bit

And they’re queuing seven deep

Even though the ale is pretty shit...

 

YOU GOTTA FIGHT FOR YOUR PINT IN BARNSLEY!

 

You reach into your pocket and you say no way

You’ve spent fifty quid already,

So how the hell ‘you gonna pay?

The DJ drops a beat,

And your mate says “What's that noise!?”

You say: “Lad they’re rockin’ gently,

It’s the Bar-Steward Boys!”

 

YOU GOTTA FIGHT FOR YOUR PINT IN BARNSLEY!

 

You’ve been waiting thirty minutes

And you’re working up a thirst

You try to catch the barman’s eye

But he’s chatting up the birds

“Nar then, I’ll have four Stellas and a WKD

Mek it blue for t’lady”

“Yer kidding lad, I'm 32… I’ve just got ID’d!” (Busted)

 

YOU GOTTA FIGHT FOR YOUR PINT IN BARNSLEY!

 

 

I Predict A Riot

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

Watching the policemen go lairy

It’s not very pretty I tell thee

Walking through t‘Tarn is quite scary

It's not very sensible either

And now chavs are looting the pound shops

At the market they’ve stole all the pork chops

And Kipper’s chucking buns at the cop-shop…

He’s not very sensible

 

I predict a riot, I predict a riot, I predict a riot, I predict a riot

 

There were birds feighting with their stilettos

Over things they had robbed from Netto

You would have thought

That they’d have gone darn to’ t’Tescos

Yes, it looked like a scene from the ghetto

Their looting had been pretty thorough

There were no 10 pence beans in the borough

And there’ll be panic buying tomorrow…

It’s really quite typical

 

I predict a riot, I predict a riot, I predict a riot, I predict a riot

 

And if there’s any stuff left in t’Tarn,

Yer gonna hafta nail it darn, I predict a riot

 

Watching the looters go lairy,

They’re not pretty clever I tell thee

And in Greggs they’ve nicked all of the pasties…

It’s really quite criminal

 

 

Sat’day Neet’s Alreight For Feighting

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Bernie Taupin

 

I’m looking flash ‘cos we’re art on the lash

Mother tell me when the lads get here
It’s quarter past seven and I’m off to get leathered
Gonna get a belly full o’ beer

We’re gonna get drunker than a barrel full of monkeys
And the Tarn’s gonna know we’re theer
All the lasses look like brutes in their furry Ugg boots
And their legs going up to their ears

 

Dun’t give us none of your aggravation
We’ve had it with your discipline
Sat’day neet’s alreight for feighting, so gerra a little action in

I’m getting abart as oiled as a diesel train
So get thissen another snake bite

‘cos Sat’day neet’s the neet I like
Yeah Sat’day neet’s alreight, alreight, alreight

 

Well it’s looking pretty packed in t’Tarn toneet
I'm looking for a lass who’ll see me reight
I may use a little muscle to get what I need
I may sink a pint or two and shart art “She’s with me!”

A couple of the things that I really like
Are little bit o’ totty and a nice smooth pint
I’m a Bar-Steward hero of the drinking class
And me best mate’s getting’ darn another lager glass

 

Dun't give us none of your aggravation
We’ve had it with your discipline
Sat’day neet’s alreight for feighting, so gerra a little action in

I’m getting abart as oiled as a diesel train
So get thissen another snake bite

‘cos Sat’day neet’s the neet I like
Yeah Sat’day neet’s alreight, alreight, alreight

 

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday neet’s alreight
 

 

Avon Calling

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

Avon calling to the houses in t’Tarn

I’ll post you a catalogue and then come back ararnd

Avon calling to all of you girls

We’ve got lippy and blusher and stuff for hair curls

Avon calling, now lads dun’t mek a fuss…

‘cos they even sell a rub-on-cream to firm-up her bust

Avon calling, turn your passion full-swing

‘cos we’ve even got lingerie to hide bingo-wings

 

Our new range is coming - get your order straight in

‘cos we really can do what it says on the tin

Your neck may be sagging but our stuff it’s not dear

‘cos Avon is calling and I… always deliver

 

Avon calling so come have a look

‘tween the grand gorgeous pages of the glossy good book

Avon calling with make-up galore

And essential oils that you’ll never need

To target your pores

Avon calling, well I dun’t wanna shart,

But they’ve got chicken-fillets for when you’re goin’ art

Avon calling, we’ve got great tweezers there,

That’ll pluck out your eyebrows or your rogue pubic hair

 

Our new range is coming - get your order straight in

‘cos we really can do what it says on the tin

Free bags with each purchase.

You’ll be glad you shopped here

‘cos Avon is calling so you...

Won’t look like a dog’s dinner

 

Avon calling, we’ve got new lotions just in

That’ll fight off dark hairs growing art of your chin

Avon calling with cosmetics so cheap

But you must be an onion if beauty’s skin deep

 

Our new range is coming, get your order straight in

‘cos we really can do what it says on the tin

Fighting wrinkles, stretch-marks and old saggy skin

Avon is calling so you… never look like Joan Rivers

 

 

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.

 

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!

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

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

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