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She’s From Dodworth

Lyrics: Chris Sammon / Scott Doonican


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’s had 20 halves of cider, she’s a total wreck 
She tumbles off her stool and nearly breaks her neck 

She also nicks consumer products from the Tarn 
An i-phone 6, 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



Big Coffee Brand

Lyrics: Björn Doonicansson / Scott Doonican / Amanda White


I went into Tarn with me missus 
All the shops she did drag me ararnd 
And after she’d spent nearly all of me cash 
She war feeling a little run darn 
She said to me “I need a cuppa 
Let's go to that shop across t’road” 
And when I did turn and did see that place 
I thought “Oh, bloody hell, here we go…” 

I tried to play stupid and silent 
But ‘ar lass was the one in command 
And it’s hard to keep your composure 
When you go in that Big Coffee Brand 

We ventured inside that establishment 
And I just could not believe me eyes 
It was rammed to the rafters with hipsters 
Great big beards upon every guy 
And then I perused the menu 
There was nowt there that looked like a beer 
I mean, what the chuff’s a Cortado? 
I thought Clarkson drove one on Top Gear 

More sneaky than Somali Pirates 
‘cos they’d rob you while you’re on dry land 
And it’s hard to keep your composure 
When you go in that Big Coffee Brand 

The spotty faced oik behind t’counter 
Was glaring at me so bemused 
‘cos for him it war easy to understand 
But I hadn’t got a chuffin’ clue 
The front of the queue, it loomed nearer 
With no paddle, I was up shit creek 
‘cos the prices were tekkin’ the biscuit 
And the biscuits were not chuffin’ cheap 

I tried not to resort to violence 
While I stood with me head in me hands 
‘cos it’s hard to keep your composure 
When you go in that Big Coffee Brand 


I attempted to order me hot drink 
But it all went so wrong so fast 
‘cos before I’d finished me sentence 
He’d robbed me of all of me cash 
And the coffee cost seven pound eighty 
I thought he was havin’ a laugh 
Then he asked me “Do you want a loyalty card?” 
I said “Dun't bother, pal, I’m not comin’ back!” 

I could have incited a riot 
I’d had as much as I could stand 
It’s so hard to keep your composure 
When you go in that Big Coffee Brand 

So having completed my order 
I decided to write down this tune 
So you’ll know now why they call it Costa 
‘cos it’ll cost you a chuffin’ fortune! 

‘cos I needed more cash than Neil Diamond 
‘cos the prices were just out of hand 
If there’s owt that you've learned,

Or you're feeling concerned 
Don’t go near that Big Coffee Brand!



Double Oven

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White


‘Ar lass had nothing but bad luck 
Anytime that she attempted to bake 
The smoke alarm would often tell me 
She may have made a ‘little’ mistake 
She’d bring her goods to the table 
Her buns cremated and black 
And look at me with expectant eyes 
While I wished she’d take the buggers back 

She wants a double oven, the Bake-Off’s on her mind 
Wants one with lots of buttons, fan-operated 
“Get me a double oven, the Mary Berry kind 
And nice new oven gloves

So you can rest your worried mind” 

She tried the technical challenge 
But she couldn’t work the microwave 
They came out salty and savoury 
But that isn’t how meringues should behave 
I ate the portion she offered me 
It was all mangled and mauled 
She looked all startled and horrified 
As I spat it up against the wall 

She wants a double oven, has baking on her mind 
Going mad with chocolate buttons, she’s fond of fondue 
She cracks eggs by the dozen, until it’s all combined 
Beware her soggy bottom

Be sure to take it out on time 

The double oven arrived on Friday 
The model she had been longing for 
The missus gave me a furtive wink 
And my temperature started to soar 


She promised me something saucy 
I’d hoped it would be obscene 
She said “It’s all in the wrist action” 
But then she walked in with nouvelle cuisine 

She’s got a double oven, the Bake-Off’s on her mind 
Got one with lots of buttons, fan-operated 
She’s got a double oven, the Mary Berry kind 
And nice new oven gloves so she’s chuffed to pieces 


She’s got buns in the oven, éclairs and florentines 
Baps and tarts by the dozen, check out that muffin 
She could stop but she doesn’t, she’s working overtime 
There’s no more kitchen nightmares

A master baker in her prime



Friday I’m In t’Pub

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White


I can’t wait till Monday’s through 
Tuesday’s shite and Wednesday’s too 
Thursday: 9 till 5 can screw! 
It’s Friday, I’m in t’pub 

Monday mornings crush my soul 
Tuesday, Wednesday no rock n roll 
Thursdays: time to take control 
‘cos it’s Friday: time for t’pub 

Saturday’s great, but on Sunday you can’t stop out late 
On Friday nights, I’m with me mates 

The weekend’s ovver, Monday’s back 
Tuesday, Wednesday same old cack 
Thursday’s soul like coal is black 
But by Friday I'm in t’pub 

Monday messes with me head 
Tuesdays, Wednesdays I see red 
On Thursday I know what’s ahead 
It’s Friday and I’m in t’pub 

Saturday’s great, but Sundays I would underrate 
One of five nights I love to hate 


A word to the wise, it’s no great surprise 
To find that perfection is pint sized 
Going out rarnd Tarn without a care or a frown 
Line ‘em up and then neck ‘em down 


And yer future looks bright, it could never be shite 
To wash out the week, with a well earned pint 
You can never sup enough, enough of this stuff 
It’s Friday! I'm in t’pub 

I don’t care for Monday morn 
Tuesday, Wednesday feel forlorn 
I’m taking Thursday by the horns 
On Friday, darn to t’pub 

Monday you can bugger off 
Tuesdays, Wednesdays, write ‘em off 
Thursday’s just not good enough 
‘cos on Friday I'm in t’pub



Move Yer Knackered

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White / Andy Doonican


You just sit on your arse, morning, noon, night 
Straining your heart with each big bite 
Taking pizza away won’t make it OK 
Considering how much you weigh 
Got the remote control - Mam’s your waiter 
You claim you’re big boned to the haters 
And you say “I’m a kid”, but your tekkin’ the piss 
‘cos you won’t run for shit 

Milkshake in one hand playing X-Box 
At eight years old it’s criminal that 
If you move you’re knackered 
You go to move you’re knackered 
You only look across the room

Towards the door and you’re shattered 

Scoffing trays of jam-filled donuts 
Eat crisps from the folds in your gut 
You can’t move, you’re knackered 
And if you moved you’d stagger 
And you’re just laid there watching Star Wars

But you look like Jabba 

Go to school in the car, forget walking 
To the end of the street, must be joking 
Because you have a date with your breakfast at eight 
You’ve got enough on your plate 

So dieting’s tough; Atkins feels like 
There’s just not enough, salad tastes shite 
Dr Gillian McKeith, says you beggar belief 
Even your arsehole’s got teeth 
So get on your feet… 


Your PE teachers know your scam 
Every week you bring a note from yer mam 
‘cos when you move you’re knackered 
Don’t give me looks like daggers 
Forget the pie and peas, swap it for low-fat cheese ‘n’ crackers 

Fitness classes won’t enroll you 
You’re the poster boy for Gregg’s sausage rolls 
That stomach won’t get flatter 
‘cos when you move you’re knackered 
And you just dream of Crispy Creams and Mars Bars fried in batter 

Enough’s enough, I’ll go the extra mile 
Gonna take control, change my whole lifestyle 
And it’s no big secret, that I’m trying to beat it

Run, rest, repeat it 
So just like Rocky, I’m gonna fly 
Cutting out the Twix’s, cutting out the Sprite 
Lifting kettle-bells, well it hurt’s like hell

But I feel compelled, ‘cos now I roll like this… 

Cutting out the snacks and sweeties 
Avoiding Type 2 diabetes 
I’d gone from flab to flabber, but now I move like Jagger 
And now I’m working up a sweat as I move up the ladder 
You may think drinking eggs is silly 
But nowadays I can see my willy 
I don’t feel half as shattered 
My BMI’s been battered 
Given a choice of sweets or salad now I’d choose the latter



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



Frisky In The Jar

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White


Me and me missus went to

The Jessop Wing in Sheffield 
Signed-up for a course of IVF,

But we found it was a minefield 
They first produced a fountain pen

And we signed a pile of paper 
But I hadn’t got a chuffing clue

What they had in store for me there
They took us to a tiny room

And said they needed samples 
Two vials of blood from her right arm,

But from ME they took an armful 
Three nurses had to hold me down,

And they ruffled up me tanktop 
And they left me with an empty arm,

A cuppa and a Hob Nob! 

Muttering “Ooh you’ve buggered me arm” 
We only came for embryos 
Not for pain and a tale of woe 
I’ve no strength to lift me fire hose 

They gave me a small plastic jar,

And then they took the biscuit 
And sent me to another room,

With very little in it 
A drawer with sticky magazines

And the TV muted silent 
And a DVD in black & white,

Titled ‘Shaving Ryan’s Privates’. 

No way would I be sitting,

In the wipe-clean leather armchair 
Lord only knows, how many blokes,

Had shot their pistols sat there
So there I stood, with task in hand,

Struggling with me software 
Tried shooting straight into the tiny jar,

But it was a chuffing nightmare 

Juggling a lad-mag and me jar 
I’m whackin’ on me-laddio 
It’s hard to act like Romeo 
Getting frisky in a jar-o 

I had bragged about a bucketful

But I struggled with a thimble 
Now I’m not ambidextrous

And it’s clear that I’m not nimble 
And where were all the nurses,

Their help would have been super 
But here I am on the NHS,

Christ I should’ve gone with BUPA 

Struggling just to fill up me jar 
Not the best scenario 
I’ve got cramp but no ‘get up and go’ 
Getting frisky in the jar-o 

Now it hurts when I play me guitar 
Like a limp lothario 
I can’t come or get me cock to crow 
Not so frisky in the jar



You’re So Vain

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Björn Doonicansson


You walked into the party like everyone’s worst nightmare 
Like a fart inside a spacesuit, you were clearly unwelcome there 
You were showing off your extension rod 
And its telescopic end 
And all the girls thought that you were a muppet 
Wondering where they could shove it, cos... 

You’re so vain, you had to bring your chuffing selfie stick with you
You’re a pain - I wouldn’t tire from using it just to clout you,

Clout you, clout you 

There have been times when I’ve told myself

That maybe you’re just naive 
But with your i-phone 6 and yer selfie stick,

Sending pictures I don’t want to receive 
The times I drove myself to drink, to block out what I saw 
You sat on the lav, showing off your new phone-case 
Pulling a duckface 

You’re so vain and your toilet selfie doesn’t become you 
You’re a pain - No-one wants to see your intimate tattoo,

Just think it through 

…Throwback Thursday arrives and you’re far from embarrassed 
Of your snap with Rolf Harris, and… 

You’re so vain, you had to bring a bloody selfie stick with you 
My disdain is something I saved specially for you,

And your phone too 

When I heard your auntie Ethel died, I was saddened to the core 
Our hearts were with your family, she was a lady who was adored
Stood solemnly at the funeral, but clearly you couldn’t wait 
There with the corpse and a friend of the vicar 
Clicking your clicker 

You’re insane - Even with a hashtag it’s far from touching 
You’re deranged - You’ve a face I’d never tire from punching,

Punching, punching 
You’re so vain, you had to bring your chuffing selfie stick with you 
You’re a pain - I wouldn’t tire from using it just to clout you,

Clout you, clout you



Since You’ve Been Ron

Lyrics: Alan Doonican #2 / 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



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



Bono Bloody Bono

Lyrics: Alan Doonican #2 / Scott Doonican


I can’t believe the news I’ve seen 
You're woman of the year in Glamour Magazine 
You’re one of Ireland’s favourite sons 
But you would rather pay tax to the Netherlands 
How long, how long must you sing your songs? 
How long, how long? 

Cause tonight, why can’t you just get stagefright? 

D’you still want to run on unnamed streets? 
When booking plane tickets, your hat gets its own seat! 
And for the record you're no fly 
I wouldn't tire from punching you under a blood red sky

Bono, Bloody Bono 

Have you found what you’re looking for? 
If not then dun’t wear sunglasses when you’re indoors 
For Africa you made such fuss 
Well tonight thank God that it was them instead of us 

Bono, Bloody Bono 

How long, how long must this song go on? 
How long, how long? 

‘cos you’re shite… you’re Ireland’s new potato blight 


Please just go away, just call it a day 
Burn out and fade away (Bono, Bloody Bono) 
D’ya know the way to San Jose? (Bono, Bloody Bono) 
That’s not far enough away (Bono, Bloody Bono) 
How about the Milky Way (Bono, Bloody Bono) 
Bono, Bloody Bono (Bono, Bloody Bono) 


Your sneaky iTunes giveaway 
Can’t take The Edge off it, or make you go away 
Removing it was such a farce 
Why can’t you just remove your head from up your arse 
You think that you’re the Lord of Rock 
While the world looks on and thinks that you’re a… fool 

Bono, Bloody Bono



Mr Soundman

Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White


Mr. Soundman, don’t have a fit 
You have the power to make us sound shit 
We’ll thank you when the show is over 
Or at least we will if we are sober 
Mr Soundman, please don’t get stressed 
Our sound-check isn’t an intelligence test 
Just show us that wonder stuff 
Mr. Soundman, don’t be a chuff 

Mr Soundman, let’s reconvene 
I need more monitor for my tambourine 
Ten DI’s and six miles of cable 
And less accordion when you are able 
Mr Soundman, don’t misbehave 
My vocals sound just like I am in a cave 
And please turn off that smoke machine 
Where’s me band gone, they can’t be seen 

Mr Soundman, don’t make us sound crap 
Although we’re comedy we’re not Spin̈al Tap 
And don’t get angry when Andy comes late 
That’s no excuse to take an early lunch break 
Mr Soundman, don’t make us sound shite 
Just work yer magic, it’ll turn art alright 
Make it sound great out the front 
Mr Soundman, don’t be a wazzock



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



Alan & The Robot

Lyrics: Alan Doonican #2


Back in 1990, on a real downer after my bruising break up with Shaz, I really needed cheering up. It just so happened that at that point, as an avid reader of ‘Accordion World’ (subscription only - delivered in a brown envelope) I won the opportunity to visit the Hohner factory in Trossingen, Baden-Württemberg. Their idea was to invite young up-and-coming accordion aficionados who’d then go into the world and promote their models. I caught a plane from Leeds-Bradford to Stuttgart and was picked up at the airport.


They had a museum that had one of every accordion they’ve ever made. We spent a good few hours in there. Then we broke for lunch, and were served sauerkraut paninis, washed down with fizzy lager (didn’t agree with me).  After that, things got serious.


We were escorted into a high security area and were made to sign a confidentiality agreement. Then we were taken to a laboratory where we were introduced to what I can only describe as a robot, which had learned how to the play the accordion. Its actual name was Wichsen Akkordeon Roboter (WAR for short).


This was a life-sized automaton that played the accordion, and the plan was to take it around the world to trade shows and exhibitions and use it to promote Hohner. It was rumoured to have cost millions of Deutsche-Marks and the Germans were clearly very proud. Each figure-like appendage had hinges where knuckles would be and the bellows were pumped fluidly by a hydraulic computer-controlled arm. 

The technicians demonstrated how a track could be played into it from one of those new-fangled CD’s and the robot would play it perfectly and instantly. It was impressive. We were asked to select a CD from a massive library, and insert it to see how well the WAR could play it. I spotted a Clifton Chenier CD lurking in a corner and selected ‘Bayou Blues’.


To the embarrassment of the technicians it sounded completely wrong. They seemed to panic. Next I got a Muddy Waters CD and inserted that. That sounded wrong, too.

This automaton couldn’t play the blues.


It had no soul.


We were quickly hustled out of the factory and reminded about the confidentiality agreement. Our German hosts warned us that on no account should we mention the WAR. Then we were whisked down the Autobahn to the airport and flown home.


However, with the incident playing on my mind, and feeling that accordion players of the world ought to know about this, I subsequently revealed the details of the trip in an interview with ‘Accordion World’.


Ze Germans were very unimpressed; well they were livid! So much so, that a lawsuit was in the offing. I had to seriously take stock of my life at that point: what with my break up with Shaz, nothing to stay in Barnsley for, and now the Germans after me, I took the opportunity to get a lift to Hull. And so began my colourful career on the cruise ships, specialising in Yodelling workshops whilst cruising northern Europe, and limbo dance workshops when in the Caribbean.


But obviously, that’s another story…

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

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