T'SOUTH 0 - TARN 4

LYRICS

Crappy Flowers

Lyrics: Chris Sammon / Scott Doonican

 

I bought crappy flowers again

I know you won't be happy, said I'd be back at 10

But they're crappy, wilted with brown leaves

But what did I expect from a garage at half past three?

 

A drunken mishap, crawling through the cat-flap

Can't get in 'cos me door key's lost

If you wake I lose, ‘cos I reek of booze  

Stomp down stairs… boy, do you look cross

 

Not a good place to be - best believe it

I've never heard such language

But it's always chuffin’ happ’nin’ to me

Best believe it oh no

Still I bought you crappy flowers again - oh no, oh no-no-no

 

Had another neet art with me mates

Even though the last time, you started throwing plates

And they tell me, that I should be a man

But it's harder than it looks, now you’ve moved on to frying pans

 

So I sneak in through the kitchen, and I lie down on the sofa

Need the loo - I've had too much to sup

Then in one eureka moment comes a flash of inspiration

Nip to t’Tesco before you wek up

 

Not a good place to be - best believe it

You’re ranting and you’re raving

But it's always bloomin’ happening to me

Best believe it oh no

Still I bought you crappy flowers again - oh no, oh no-no-no

 

Not a good place to be - best believe it

Now I’m sleeping in the box-room

And it's always bloomin’ happening to me

Best believe it oh no

Shouldn’ta bothered with the flowers again

Best believe it, best believe it

Crappy flowers again

 

 

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

 

 

Mixed-Up Bins

Lyrics: Bjorn Doonicansson / Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

Each Wednesday neet at half past eight

I get me’sen in a reight state

And there’s no room for mistakes

I’ve sorted paper, card and glass

The plastic, household waste and grass

I hate these colourful routines…

Mixed up, mixed up, mixed up…

Mixed up bins   -   Mixed up bins
 

I can’t believe it, but its true - I put out brown instead of blue

Can’t stand the brutal bin regime - and its overflowing too…

 

Mixed up bins…  I have to look right darn our road

To see who’s managed to decode 

The council’s calendar bestowed

I saw Old Alfred’s two doors down

He’s feeling confident with brown

And he’s never let me down
‘Til now, ‘til now, with his…

Mixed up bins  - Mixed up bins

 

A few too many jars last night - wok up just not feeling right
They all end up in the same place - Tek it please, its full of shite!

IT’S A BIN! TEK ME BIN!

 

Will the missus forgive me?      

I cocked it up, yeah I blew it

But this isn’t the third week      

It’s the fourth… I’m in deep shit

She’ll say that she told me        

And that I never listen
So I blame it on old Alfred

And she’ll never know

‘cos she was fast asleep in bed

 

So now I feel like such a clown

The laughing stock of Barnsley Town

‘Ar lass won’t let me live it down

Our brown bin’s left by the roadside

With all its contents still inside

Recycling’s over-glorified

Sod off, sod off, sod off

With yer bins - all those bins


A rubbish fate, I can’t rewind - it’s hardly chuffing Mastermind

If truth be told I feel resigned to acting like I’m colourblind

I can’t win, with these bins

All these mixed up bins

Mixed up bins

 

 

It’s Only Man-Flu

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

The Lemsip’s out, the kettle’s on t’boil
I feel like I’m shuffling off this mortal coil
You think I’m a wuss - but I’m pretty worried about it
My temperature’s hot, the sweating won’t stop
I feel stuffy, I can’t clear this catarrh

You can say what you like - it’s got chuff-all to do with me gender


“It’s only man-flu” - that’s what you said when I called for you

“It’s just a touch of cold… man-up and get your own tissues!”

 

Cleared all the Kleenex, in an epic sneezing session

You couldn’t care less, I can see your expression

And I know it will get worse - this snot-filled volcano’s erupting

 

I’ve got aches in my bones, and I’m covered in Vick
I can’t recall a time that I felt quite so sick

You know it’s coming out both ends

But you claim that’s not worse than childbirth


“It's only man flu” is how I just get fobbed-off by you
You claim there’s nothing wrong, but men can get cystitis too

You’re far from tactful, and now you’re turning a blind eye

Have my next of kin been notified?


I’m shaking like a shitting dog - but you’re bolder than brass

And all that I say, just falls on deaf ears again
And while I’m aggrieved - you just dun’t believe

You say “It’s man-flu,

And there is every chance that you’ll pull through
It's not bubonic plague

No, there’s bugger-all that’s wrong with you”

It’s quite substantial - but you say it’s not a crisis

I can’t be rational - when I’m dying of norovirus

 

 

Crazy Crazy Golf

Lyrics: Alan Doonican #2 / Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

The pros all act, as if I’ve got the plague

But balls to them, won’t give them time of day

No need for a driver, it’s not pitch and putt
Just give me loose change to the man in the hut
No need for a caddy, I do it me sen
Its okay fo’ t’lasses to play with the men

Cos its crazy, crazy, crazy crazy golf
Yes  its crazy, crazy, crazy crazy golf

I’m never going to end up in the rough
Dun’t need daft kecks or a gret big bag of clubs
I'm out of that tunnel and onto the green

Ricocheting abart like a pinball machine

I’m dodging that windmill, producing the goods

Me ball’s been in more holes, than Tiger Woods


Cos it’s crazy, crazy, crazy crazy golf
Yes it’s crazy, crazy, crazy crazy golf

Snobby pros try and tell me, that I don't belong

But they're only jealous, their games take so long!
I’m already finished and within the pub’s walls

While they're still getting rained on and dropping their balls

Cos its crazy, crazy, crazy crazy golf
Yes  its crazy, crazy, crazy crazy golf
Cos its crazy, crazy, crazy crazy golf
Yes  its crazy, crazy, crazy crazy golf

 

 

Get ‘em Art Of The Pub

Lyrics: Scott Doonican

 

I went art to the pub last night
And I looked around and thought,

You know there’s summat not right

There was a time when you could come here and sup

But now I just get wound-up - It can’t be me, no enough is enough…

 

They race up and down round the bar

I can’t be diplomatic ‘cos they’ve took it too far
Your mam n dad may think that you’re number one

But kids should not be in pubs - get yer kids reight art of here

 

That’s all I really want, in the pub

When me working day is done

I dun’t need kids all ovver the pub

No kids, get ‘em art of the pub

 

Kids… don’t want ‘em – get ‘em art of the pub…

Don’t want ‘em – get ‘em art of here

 

It could be winter, wind-chill minus four

But they’re running in and out and op’nin’ the door

Me foods gone frozen, and I’m gonna kick-off

Feral kids have no place in pubs

 

Get yer kids reight art of here

That’s all we really want – in the pub

 

When the working day is done

We dun’t need kids all ovver the pub

No kids, get ‘em art of the pub

 

Kids… don’t want ‘em – get art of the pub…

Don’t want ‘em – get ‘em art of here

 

They scream and tantrum, their volume’s not sparse

They dun’t want an iPad, just a boot up the arse

Bars dun’t need ball-pools - just good booze and grub

No kids, have no place in pubs - get yer kids reight art of here

 

That’s all we really want – to get drunk

When uz working day is done
We dun’t need kids all ovver the pub

No kids, get ‘em art of the pub

 

Kids… don’t want ‘em – get art of the pub…

Don’t want ‘em – get ‘em art of here

 

…That Wacky Warehouse just needs blowing-up

No kids, have no place in pubs

No kids, have no place in pubs

 

 

Walking In Man-Piss

Lyrics: Alan Doonican #2 / 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

 

 

Signing 12 ‘Til 5

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

Stumble out of bed, for tonight’s transmission
I’m the late-night star on yer television
I flex my wrist to try to come to life 
Forget Babestation and all that humpin’

Watch my nimble fingers start talking

While folks watch me on their screens from 12 til 5 
 

Signing 12 til 5, working for the Hard of Hearing

I work Signzone live, in the corner I’m appearing 

And you’ll see me there, getting into all the action

But you’ll be so damn tired, you won’t get no satisfaction

 

Signing 12 til 5 - I compete with teleshopping 
Cos there’s nowt else on, there’s no need for channel hopping

Don’t want to turn me on, cos I look so animated

But it’s me on t’BBC, or summat that’s X-rated

 

As people dream, I’m feeling shattered  

But the deaf sit up to watch me, they’re knackered
They’re not vampires, or blinded by the light

It’s not fair, in fact it’s shitty

I’m signing CBeebies & Holby City

Gonna need Pro-Plus to make it through the night

 

Signing 12 til 5, these folk are deaf they’re not nocturnal
Feeling sleep deprived, while I stand translating verbal

I’m there on their screens, in the early hours of t’morning 

They all think I’m screaming, but really I’m just yawning

 

12 til 5, it’s the way I make my livin' 
I’m just gettin' by, I’m not talking, I’m just jigging 
Try to keep in time, but when my energy’s diminished

During Mastermind - I’ve started as they’ve finished

 

12 til 5, and without a word of warning

I could go off piste, much more fun that just conforming

Cos this job ain’t glam, and the hours are quite a hassle

But like a BSL Chris Packham, I’ll sneak in the word ‘vajazzle’
 

 

All Abart The Plates

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

You may think it’s just a First World Problem - but I’d say no, no, no

You’ve got no idea, but lend me an ear - and I’ll tell my tale of woe

I’ll recollect a time - and though I’m pretty far from fine

I recall a certain kitchen nightmare - that happened not so long ago…

 

Unsuspecting one weekend - I went for pub-grub with a friend

The waiter asked me for my order

I asked “What would you recommend?”

And as he brought the sirloin steak - I couldn’t help but double-take…

 

They brought me steak on a breadboard

And I said “What the chuff is that!?”
Were they smokin’ crack? - It’s just chuffing slack, a plate is where it’s at
I’d waited some time - but yet they somehow thought that’s fine
There’s no way I’m eating off a plank of wood - so I med him tek it back

 

What’s wrong with good old-fashioned plates?
Well you can do one with yer slates
You must think that I’ve gone funny

‘cos what you bought to t’table’s a piss-take

You may have thought that that would pass
But you can shove that slate back up on your rooftop

 

If you’re bringing me bread in a flat-cap, then I’ll say “whoa, whoa, whoa!”

If you mess your kecks at the thought of Pyrex

Then your food’s just got to go
I ha’n't got the time - for gormet chefs who think that’s fine
So go and get your finest China - or I’m guaranteed to go

 

The waiter said our food’s revered - I thought, pal, you’ve no idea
But I'm not one to lose me patience

Over simple things like food and beer

I thought a curry’s a no-brainer - til he brought it all out in a trainer

 

It’s time to send your chef to rehab - because no crockery’s just rude

I think he’s a fart, if he claims that that’s art

Jackson Pollock’s to your food           

Don’t you think it’s time - to finally stop this pantomime?

Let’s get rid of baskets, slates and breadboards
Because it’s time for them to go

 

It’s all abart the plates, not slates or breadboards

It’s all abart the plates, not slates or breadboards

It’s all abart the plates, not slates or breadboards

It’s all abart the plates, ‘bout the plates

 

 

Talk Reight You Idiot

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Alan Doonican #2 / Bjorn Doonicansson / Andy Doonican

 

All the chavvy youths of today

Can’t understand what they’re on about

They all speak quick, say they’re ‘sick’

What do they mean? I can’t figure out

It’s a bizarre slang... what's YOLO?

You say that you’re only living once

Try telling that to Sean Bean

He'll prove you wrong from the ambulance

You’re-a-chump – go and pull your pants up

(way up, way up, waaaay uuup)…    

And talk reight, you idiot

 

You’re acting like you’re from ‘Da Hood’

But you’re about as hard as balsa wood

You lol and lol, as you’re trolling

Cameron and Paul Hollywood

You add 'and ting' to everything

Do ‘ya think that you’re Jamaic-i-an?

The truth is that you come frum t’Tarn

You’re whiter than Michael Jackson

You’re-a-chump – go and pull your pants up

(way up, way up, waaaay uuup)…    

And talk reight, you idiot

 

You say you're going to the ‘Mall’

It's Morrisons, you're not Eminem

Get all your gear from Pri-mar-ni

To hang like Kim Kardashian

You Snap-Chat from the changing room

To yer bestie, chillin’ in her crib

Asking "Does my bum look big in this?"

She’s dissin’ you, ‘cos she said it did

All the stupid kids high on ket

What happened to smoking cigarettes?

And they exclaim “I’m bare vexed...

Don't ask me bruv or I'll shank you next!”

You’re-a-chump – go and pull your pants up

(way up, way up, waaaay uuup)…    

And talk reight, you idiot

 

 

Shave Tonight

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

Your vintage clothes look like curtains
Wearing sunglasses in candlelight
Checkered shirt and an oak-casked wine

You think it’s cool to smoke a pipe

 

On your bike with huge headphones

And your woolly hat when it’s summery

Tek your beard and your waxed moustache
And put us out of our misery

Shave tonight and fight the Hipster trend
You’re a numpty and that beard should be condemned

Shave tonight don’t look so nonchalant

In a cereal café eating artisan croissants


Listening to Arcade Fire
Carry a manbag cos it’s on LP

Got a record player from Urban Outfitters

And now you act all bourgeoisie

 

Big bowties and bespoke tweed

You consume gadgets and flaxseed

“Got the latest iphone don’t you know

Because 4G is far too slow”

 

Shave tonight, then ditch the skinny jeans

You love organic but what the hell’s a soya bean?

Shave tonight don’t instagram or blog
You’re so retro, that your ipad’s analogue


I hear a noise, from your CD Walkman

An obscure hit from Kazakhstan

You say “You’ve prob’ly haven’t heard of it”

Well I’m pretty glad ‘cos it sounds shit

 

Shave tonight before the break of day
Cos you look like, you’re Tom Hanks in Castaway

Shave tonight get sponsored by Gillette
One last listen, to Kid A on cassette

 

Shave tonight, it’s not the old wild west
You’re so unique that you look like all the rest
Shave tonight that beard is out of hand
Don’t be hipster, just go join an indie band

go join an indie band…

Shave tonight…

 

 

Festival Heroes

Lyrics: Alan Doonican #2 / 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

 

 

Don’t Watch This Shit At Home

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White

 

Forget ‘Made In Chelsea’, just switch off your TV

Then I’d say get thissen to t’pub dun’t sit at home 
And if you have the choice, don’t sit and watch ‘The Voice’
That’s not the kind of mindless cack I would condone


You’re sat there watching Gogglebox

While they’re sat there watching too

Forget the, TV license

Cos there’s so much more to do, anyway now

 

I don’t want to see ‘Extreme Fishing with Robson Green’

Why can’t he sail his ship to Ecuador

And I’m, I’m gonna swear, and I don’t even care
Because, what’s the chuffing point in ‘Geordie Shore’

 

Don’t watch that shit at home

The Apprentice and the X-Factor

Don’t watch that shit at home

Unless Cowell’s fired under a tractor

If you think, that that’s okay, it’s not okay

Don’t watch that shit at home

 

Why, why even bother, with Celebrity Big Brother

‘cos it’s full of Z-list folk that no-one knows

Is it Slash or Henry Rollins? No it’s always Gemma Collins

How can they pay that chuffing goon to sit and moan?


I’d sooner have Donald Trump’s comb-over

And be forced to watch Strictly

Instead of watching, Joey Essex

On every channel on TV…he’s a numpty!

 

Don’t watch that shit at home

TOWIE is wall-to-wall trollops

Don’t watch that shit at home

Feeding celebrities kangaroo bollocks

If you think, that that’s okay, it’s not okay
Don’t watch that shit at home

 

I’d sooner be like Deborah Meaden

I’m going to be out

 

 

Silent Farter

Lyrics: Alan Doonican #2

 

Methane eminator

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

‚Äč

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

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

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