The Winker’s Album

IVOR BIGGUN IS MY NAME
Ivor Biggun is my name
Wanking is my claim to fame
And if the people don’t complain
I’ll keep on wanking just the same

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on The Winker’s CD

THE WINKER’S SONG (misprint)
My mother said that I never should
Play with the naughty, rude girls in the wood
Their giggling talk I could never understand
And that’s why I fell in love with my right hand

And that’s why…
I’m a wanker, I’m a wanker
And it does me good like it bloody well should
I’m a wanker, I’m a wanker
And I’m always pulling my pud’

I was twenty-five years old before I was kissed
And then I found that I preferred a swift one off the wrist
It’s cheap and convenient, you can’t catch VD
It’s available at any time and it’s absolutely free

And that’s why…
I’m a wanker, I’m a wanker
And it does me good like it bloody well should
I’m a wanker, I’m a wanker
And I’m always pulling my pud’

Oh Mrs. Palm and your five lovely daughters
Thank you for having me and being oh so kind
I’ve got pains in my arms and my dong is growing shorter
My knees have turned to water and I think I’m going blind

I’ve wanked over Italy, I’ve wanked over Spain
I’ve wanked in an omnibus, I’ve even had a wank in a train
I’ve used a badger and a melon and a cat
An inflatable Linda Lovelace and a Davy Crockett hat

And that’s why…
I’m a wanker, I’m a wanker
And it does me good like it bloody well should
I’m a wanker, I’m a wanker
And I’m always pulling my pud’

Oh, Mrs Palm and your five lovely daughters
Thank you for having me and being oh so kind
I’ve got pains in my arms and my dong is getting shorter
My knees have turned to water and I think I’m going blind

He’s a wanker, he’s a wanker
And it does him good like it bloody well should
He’s a wanker, he’s a wanker
And he’s always pulling his pud’

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Red-Nose Burglars
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on a 7″ vinyl Single (mono) and The Winker’s Album (stereo)


SING A MUCKY SONG
Ivor’s early theme song and signature tune. This features a ukelele solo which is a plucking (misprint) masterpiece.
Some people sing sad songs
About mother and home
Some sing about winking
Women, I’d leave them alone
Some sing about Blue Suede Shoes and
A romance that went wrong
But I pick up my ukulele and
Sing a mucky song

I pluck-pluck-pluck my ukulele and
Serenade the folks so gaily
All around the place you see
The smiles smiles smiles
I pluck for m’ dinner
And pluck for m’ supper
I’m such a happy little plucker
Singing songs about tits and bums
And piles piles piles

My ukulele well it won’t bring me wealth
If I play it with the band
Or play with m’self
It’s a very nice size
And I can’t keep my hand off it for long
So I pick up my ukulele and
Sing a mucky song

I pluck-pluck-pluck my ukulele and
Serenade the folks so gaily
Singing something vulgar
To my chums chums chums
I pluck for m’ dinner
And pluck for m’ supper
‘Eee I’m such a happy little plucker
Singing songs about nudist camps and
Honeymoon couples and bums

A greengrocer’s daughter took a
Fancy to me
She let me hold her aubergines
Sat on the settee
She said I could do anything
She wouldn’t think it wrong
So I pulled out my ukulele and
Sang a mucky song

So if you got a gum-boil or
A pain in yer bum
And your wife’s run off
With the dustbin man now
Doncha feel glum
Don’t go around like a misery guts
With a face that’s three feet long
Grab yourself a ukulele and
Sing a mucky song

And pluck-pluck-pluck your ukulele
And serenade the folks so gaily
Singing something vulgar to
Your chums chums chums
If you sit there
And play with yourself
You’ll either go blind
Or ruin your health
But you’ll be the happiest plucker that strums
Singing songs about nudist camps and
Honeymoon couples and bums

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


NO! NO! NO!
An appealing (misprint) song which contains few vulgar words, but is much too disgusting to describe. Everyone denies having anything to do with it, even Ivor, but we do know that the backing is by Gentian Violet, a vocal quartet, two thirds of whom are female.

At the appliance shop I bought a filthy book
Locked in the lav I had a bloody good look
There was a naked nude lady and a man dressed the same
Doing something very rude with a funny foreign name
I think it was called ‘Ferrétillio’
Which is Spanish for “blowing the bugle”

I went ’round to my girlfriend’s house but she said “Ooh
That’s not very nice and I don’t want to know”
So I tactfully said “Forget that it’s a cock
Pretend your at the seaside, and it’s a stick of rock”

She said “No! No! No!, no that’s flat
I could never never do a filthy thing like that”
She said “No! No! No!, no that’s flat
I could never never do a filthy thing like that”
She said it was called ‘Ferreterloranio’
And was named after an Italian racing driver

Well I filled her up with Whisky and I filled her up with gin
But she still wouldn’t do it ’cause she said it was a sin
I even had a bath but the answer was the same
She wouldn’t do the thing with the funny foreign name
It was called something like ‘Ferreterlerulio’
I said it would protect her from tonsillitis
But she wouldn’t swallow that

She said “No! No! No!, no that’s flat
I could never never do a filthy thing like that”
She said “No! No! No!, no that’s flat
I could never never do a filthy thing like that”

Next day a man in a hat came knocking at the door
He said “You’ve won the pools, half a million or more”
With the cheque in m’ pocket to my girlfriend’s house I ran
To see if she was still a vegetarian
I said did she remember what a silly girl she’d been
About the sword-swallowing in that funny magazine
I said would she refuse me and treat me with disdain
Regarding the activity with the funny foreign name

She said “No! No! No!, no that’s flat
I could never refuse to do a thing like that
She said “No! No! No!, no that’s flat
I could never refuse to do a thing like that…

Mr. Fellatio, the ice-cream man
Hear him jingle jangle in t’ ice-cream van
Mr. Fellatio, all the children say hello
To Mr. Fellatio, the ice-cream man

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


HELLO MY BABY

Hello
Hello my baby, hello my honey
Hello my ragtime gal
Send me a kiss by wire
Baby my heart’s on fire
If you refuse me
Honey, you’ll lose me
Then you’ll be left alone
Oh baby, telephone
And tell me I’m your own

You call me on the telephone
You tell me that you’re all alone
I know that you are lying through your teeth
You dirty rascal
How could you expect me
To believe the lies you hand me
You’ve been out with that girl again
Now do you understand me
You broke my heart and made me cry
With every phoney alibi
When I could see the lipstick on your shirt
You dirty polecat
Telephone and tell me I’m your own

Hello my baby, hello my honey
Hello my ragtime gal
Send me a kiss by wire
Baby my heart’s on fire
If you refuse me
Honey, you’ll lose me
Then you’ll be left alone
Oh baby, telephone
And tell me I’m your own

I’m sorry that I made you blue
It was a beastly thing to do
I shouldn’t have upset you like I did
With Lil’ the barmaid
If you take me back again
I’ll never, ever wander
‘Cause when I did I found that absence
Made the heart grow fonder
So cross my heart and hope to die
I’ll never tell another lie
I’ll mend your broken heart
As good as new
My little cough-drop
Telephone and tell me I’m your own

Hello my baby, hello my honey
Hello my ragtime gal
Send me a kiss by wire
Baby my heart’s on fire
If you refuse me
Honey, you’ll lose me
Then you’ll be left alone
Oh baby, telephone
And tell me I’m your own
Hello, hello, hello
Hello, hello, hello
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Goodbye…


I WISH I WAS
The Gazunder Jug and Bottle Band accompanied Ivor throughout this spirited skiffle number. Two police officers then accompanied Ivor from the building.

I wish I was a cat
Sitting on a rug
Pretty girls would come and pick me up
And give me a great big hug
They’d tickle my ears and stroke me
And pat me on the head
And all those wonderful things I’d see
Sleeping at the bottom of the bed

Well I wish I was
Well I wish I could be
Well I wish I was anyone
Somebody else, not me
Ya la la la la la da

I wish I was a mirror
On that mormon lady’s wall
All those mucky things I’ve only read about in mucky books
I would see them all
She’d walk around in a negligée
And a flimsy little nightie
And when she took that nightie off
Oh gosh, good lord almighty

Well I wish I was
Well I wish I could be
Well I wish I was anyone
Somebody else, not me
Ya la la la la la da

I wish I was a brassiere
I’d spend my lifetime thrust
Right up a ladies’ jumper
Wrapped ’round a ladies’ bust
I would be a hold-up man
Just like Butch Cassidy
An over the shoulder, boulder holder
Brassiere’s life for me

Well I wish I was
Well I wish I could be
Well I wish I was anyone
Somebody else, not me
Ya la la la la la da

I wish I was the seat upon
A big fat ladies’ bike…

“Hold it, this is the engineer. I’m not going to record anymore of this stuff – It’s filthy!!”

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


I’M SHY
Ivor is a shy, retiring individual (he was breast fed until the age of twenty four). In this sensitive song, he and The Red-Nose Burglars (aided by The Burglarettes) will tug at your heartstrings.

I’m shy, I’m shy,
I can’t even look you in the eye
I go all red and I hide my head
‘Cause I’m shy, I’m shy

I wish I was mustard with ladies
Like all of my chums
But I just stare at the bus shelter walls
And twiddle my thumbs
And when I open my big stupid gob
The right word never comes
And I hope you don’t mind
That I took such a time
Just to get it in rhyme

He’s shy, He’s shy,
He can’t even look you in the eye
He goes all red and he hides his head
‘Cause he’s shy, he’s shy

If I had the nerve
I’d approach girls in public houses
And find out what’s hidden in their hearts
And concealed in their blouses
Wish I could get out what’s stuck in my throat
And my brain and my trousers
And I hope you don’t mind
That it took such a time
Just to get it in rhyme

He’s shy, He’s shy,
He can’t even look you in the eye
He goes all red and he hides his head
‘Cause he’s shy, he’s shy

And so if you think I don’t like you
You see that you’re wrong
It’s just that what’s so hard in words
Is so easy in a song
And I’ve been looking for someone like you
For my whole life long
And I hope you don’t mind
That it took such a time
Just to get it to rhyme

He’s shy, He’s shy,
He can’t even look you in the eye
He goes all red and he hides his head
‘Cause he’s shy, he’s shy

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


GRAFFITI NIGHT FEVER
Ivor’s early poetical works may be seen in mural exhibitions in locations throughout North Nottinghamshire, although they are rapidly disappearing due to vandalism and lavatory attendants’ scrubbing brushes. This song celebrates the exponents of a delicate and subtle art.

Ho ho, you can’t catch me
Writing on the whitewash in the lavatory
Whipping out m’ pencil when the twilight falls
I’m the man who scrawls “balls” on the walls

When it’s dark I take a stroll
With m’ little bit of chalk and m’ aerosol
Down in the subway, hiding from the light
Scribbling away in the middle of the night
“Queens Park Rangers”, “Elvis is alive”
“Dread in-a Babylon”, “Gerald loves Clive”

Ho ho, you can’t catch me
Writing in the whitewash in the lavatory
‘Round the bus shelters and the entrance halls
I’m the man who scrawls “balls” on the walls

I’m an escalator desecrater rattling down the tubes
On the underwear adverts pencilling pubes
Underneath the arches with m’ crayon in m’ hand
Drawing something I don’t understand
I’ve just written something obscene
In paint in the gents on a french letter machine

Ho ho, you can’t catch me
Writing on the whitewash in the lavatory
Whipping out m’ pencil when the twilight falls
I’m the man who scrawls “balls” on the walls

But I’ve never seen a real live lady in the nude
Never played ‘hide the sausage’, never done something rude
But I can imagine it just as well
And it doesn’t really matter if I can’t spell
I’ll just write about it all over the lav
And people who read it might think that I have
(Done it with a real lady, that is)

Ho ho, you can’t catch me
Writing on the whitewash in the lavatory
Whipping out m’ pencil when the twilight falls
I’m the man who scrawls “balls” on the walls

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


I’VE PARTED (misprint)
Well… now there’s something new in the wind. With “I’ve Parted (misprint)” Ivor is letting rip his latest blaster which may be in bad odour with the censors but is bound to be a big noise in the charts once people get wind of it. This breezy little melody, featuring wind instruments, is bubbling under the bottom of the Hit Parade at the moment and the wind of change looks like bringing a very nasty blow to his rivals, who are understandably kicking up a stink about it. Recorded shortly after Ivor’s record breaking chicken vindaloo curry eating marathon, Ivor plays all the instruments – he had to – nobody would go into the studio with him; and although some may accuse him of getting behind in his arrangements and his bum notes are clearly heard, once again Ivor is planning to drop one on the unsuspecting public. Ivor pumped up the volume on this, his second single. Later, he was almost arrested on a trumped up charge.

My mother had the vicar and the vicar’s wife to tea
They cleared the room, they blamed it on the dog
But it was me…

I’ve farted, I’ve farted
I’ve made a trouser cough
I’ve whistled in me Y-fronts
I’ve just peeled one off
I’ve blown my bowel bugle
I’ve been eating peas
I’ve broken wind
I’ve dropped my guts
Open the window please

I’ve been eating cabbages, prunes and pears and beans
Drinking Dandelion & Burdock and you know what that means
Polluting the environment, my friends leave me alone
The front of me sings tenor and the rest sings baritone

I’ve farted, I’ve farted
I’ve made a trouser cough
I’ve whistled in me Y-fronts
I’ve just peeled one off
I’ve blown my bowel bugle
I’ve been eating peas
I’ve broken wind
I’ve dropped my guts
Open the window please

Bubbles in the bath!
Real rip snorters!
Up on one cheek and hope it don’t make a noise
Window rattlers!
Cushion creepers!
Don’t shake your leg and keep it in your corduroys

A gentleman tells before it smells, he waves his jacket ’til it’s gone
But I’m the kind of sneaky bugger who lets off and doesn’t let on
I let them go in lifts, in queues, in phone-boxes and trains
And when they stink the people blink and blame it on the drains

I’ve farted, I’ve farted
I’ve made a trouser cough
I’ve whistled in me Y-fronts
I’ve just peeled one off
I’ve blown my bowel bugle
I’ve been eating peas
I’ve broken wind
I’ve dropped my guts
Open the window please

“I say, have you farted?”
“Of course I have – d’you think I always smell like this?”

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


CUCUMBER NUMBER
A north country calypso featuring guitar, ukulele, banjo, bass, packing case, tin cans, jam jars and a tin of lentils.


Stop muckin’ about and gather around
I’ll sing about the fruit makes world go ’round
And in the garden of Eden, Eve started the fall
But the fruit that she fancied weren’t an apple at all

It was Adam’s cucumber (sing the song)
‘Ee a great cucumber (two feet long)
A massive cucumber (big and strong)
Fig-leaf cucumber (come and do the cucumber number)

In a cucumber frame one cucumber grows
And it stretches from m’ knees up to my nose
It’ll fill up your belly make you feel alright
You can gobble the fruit each and every night
Delicious cucumber (in the garden)
‘Ee a monstrous cucumber (beg your pardon)
Nice firm cucumber (such a hard ‘un)
Enormous cucumber (come and do the cucumber number)

Now down by the Humber
The wife of a plumber
She did the rhumba
On my cucumber
She went and got her neighbours
And a sister or two
And the district nurse and they all said
“Ooh! look at that cucumber” (what a size)
What a fat cucumber (satisfies)
Romantic cucumber (should win a prize)
Gigantic cucumber (come and do the cucumber number)

My fruity friend amused them so
So I got m’ cap and jacket getting ready to go
I said “Did you like my big cucumber?”
They all said “Ooh, make your cucumber do one more number”
Trusty cucumber (show them how)
Lusty cucumber (I did and how)
‘Ee lovely cucumber (goodbye now)
Good gracious cucumber (goodbye now)
Champion cucumber (goodbye now)
Natty dread cucumber (goodbye now)
Cucumber in-a Babylon (goodbye now)
Oh what a lovely cucumber (goodbye now)
What a beautiful cucumber (goodbye now)
What a smashing cucumber (goodbye now)

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


GREAT GRANDAD JOHN
A nice little song, free from vulgarity, telling a more-or-less true story about the alterations made to a statue by our feathered friends. It’s one in the eye for Nelson! Accompaniment is provided by The Guano-Tones.

“Daddy – who’s that funny man over there
With all those musical instruments?”
“Why! That’s Ivor Biggun the famous one man band”
“What’s a one man band, daddy?”
“He’s one man and he’s banned by television and radio…”
“Young whipper-snapper!”

Well it seems that ever since I was born
Somebody said to me
My Great Grandad John
Was just the kind of man that I ought to be
He built a great big factory
And when he passed away
They put his statue in the park
And its still there today

And the birds make a terrible mess of my Great Grandad John
The doggies leave their calling cards
On the stone he stands upon
The kids throw sticks & bricks at him
They try to pull him down
My Great Grandad John the hero of the town

My Great Grandad John made fifty thousand pounds
But now the money has all gone
And his house has fallen down
No one cares about the rich man
Made of brass and stone
And in the park
Out in the dark
Great Grandad stands alone

And the birds go (twttttttt) on my Great Grandad John
The doggies leave their calling cards
On the stone he stands upon
The kids throw sticks & bricks at him
They try to pull him down
My Great Grandad John the hero of the town

Twttttttt
“Argh! Well at least it wasn’t a Golden Eagle!”

Sometimes I think I hear his voice
It sounds so sad and old…
“Up on this pedestal’s no fun
It’s lonely and it’s bloody cold
So just you do what you want to son
Lead the life you choose
And don’t make fifty thousand pounds
And end up in my shoes”

“Or the birds will (Twttttttt) on you my great grandson
The doggies leave their calling cards
On the stone you stand upon
The kids throw sticks & bricks at you
They’ll try to pull you down
Like Great Grandad John the hero of the town”

“I say you down there – how much do you earn per street?”
“Er… Er… About 50 pence a street guv’ner…”
“Well here’s three quid…
Why don’’t you go and play six streets away”
“It’s tough being a superstar…”

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


UNDERGROUND MUSIC
By Ivor Biggun and Vile Eric Shredsby. Ivor has found his “station” in life and is just the “ticket” on this “track”. It should send you into “transports” of delight, with its terrible puns on railway station names. The pseudonym of Ivor’s co-writer on this number conceals the identity of an amateur gynaecologist from Acton.

On London Transport I used to do my shopping
Stock-well up down at the Bank and finish up on Wapping station
Tooting my horn, ‘n’ kids I Turn-ham Green
If they played on the edge where they’d been seen

I was working on the railway
Not as a sleeper as some folk say
I was working on the railway
Mind the doors, you’ll be okay

I met a girl call Stepney Green, she really was quite sweet
She used to give me New Cross buns, oh what a Bakers-treet
I got down on my Neas-den said could she give me a kiss
She said go and ask if Barbi-can, I can’t Stan-more of this

I was working on the railway (subtle stuff)
Not as a sleeper as some folk say (‘ear listen)
I was working on the railway
Mind the doors, you’ll be okay

I met a girl called Valerie the Angel of my heart
I tried to get her Plaistow but the Ald-wych was too smart
I said O-Val I’m not a Rich-mond, Golders Green for all I know
She left me by the Waterloo what a loovely way to go

I was working on the railway (flipping ‘eck)
Not as a sleeper as some folk say
I was working on the railway
Mind the doors, you’ll be okay

My girl from Ealing Common she ran off with High Street Ken
But now she’s seen that Kens-al Green she’s back with me again
I knew I’d Picc-a-dilly if I worked upon the rail
I’m going to wed Victoria her mother’s Maida Vale

I was working on the railway (‘ear listen)
Not as a sleeper as some folk say (it’s good isn’t it)
I was working on the railway
Mind the doors, you’ll be okay
Mind the doors, you’ll be okay

Written by Ivor Biggun and Vile Eric Shredsby
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


MY BROTHER’S GOT FILES (misprint)
A song of suffering, bravely borne, dedicated to Ivor’s brother Willy… whose life is made drearier because of his posterior. Willy lives in Woolwich and has a pain in the Arsenal.

“That’s my brother over there standing up, stuffing ice cubes down the back of his trousers and do you want to know why? Well actually, between you and me…”

My brother’s got piles
He never ever smiles
You’d be glum
If you had his bum
My brother’s got piles

We warned him, we told him
We said don’t sit on stone walls
Avoid wet grass, but now his arse
Looks like it’s grown another pair of…

Well I mean he’s moaning he’s groaning
He’s doubled up with pain
But the girls say aaah
They think he’s a star
Because he walks just like John Wayne

(‘Ere listen)

My brother’s got piles
He never ever smiles (He’s quite disconsolate)
You’d be glum
If you had his bum
My brother’s got piles

He bought some suppositories but no bloody good they’d done
A waste of time spent swallowing them
He might as well have stuffed them up his bum

My brother’s got piles
He never ever smiles
You’d be glum
If you had his bum
My brother’s got piles
All the lotions and the potions
Upon the grapes of wrath
Some joker said a poker with a red-hot end might burn them off

His botty feels grotty
And standing up you’ll find him
He can’t sit down but he shouldn’t frown
Because his troubles are all behind him

(Eee by gum)

My brother’s got piles
He never ever smiles
You’d be glum
If you had his bum
My brother’s got piles

(Tie a yellow ribbon to the old suppository)

My brother has got haemorrhoids, we laugh, it is unkind
The kids all call him cho-cho train ’cause he has a tender behind

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


THE WINKER’S PARADISE (misprint)
Country and northern music with a lilting solo on the harmonica (“mouth organ” sounds so vulgar, doesn’t it, my dears?). It is suggestive of the South Sea islands and Ivor’s lovely bunch of coconuts.

I dreamed I was on an island
In the South Pacific sea
With ten thousand seagulls, ten million coconuts
Twelve nymphomaniacs and me
I’ve got eight gramophone records
I’ve fixed myself up nice
A million miles from a Monday morning
In a wanker’s paradise

A knotted hanky on my head
I sat and took my ease
With a sausage roll and a one-handed magazine
Under the jam-butty trees
When a lifeboat full of schoolgirls
Came serenely floating by
They said with a grin “May we join you in
Your wanker’s paradise?”

I led them dancing from the sea
By the waters we sat down
With a brass-band softly on the breeze
By a lake of Newcastle Brown

It was the clattering clock that woke me
And from my dream I rose
But in my hand was a coconut
And sand was between my toes
Oh, the next time I dream of Shangri-La
You won’t have to ask me twice
Next time I go I’m stopping
In a wanker’s paradise

I’m going to hang around like a fart in a Volkswagen
In a wanker’s paradise
I’m gonna hang on in like Gunga Din
In a wanker’s paradise

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


THE CHARABANC TRIP
Ivor, putting on Ayers, recites a touching poem of innocense lost, which will bring a lump yo your throat. If you are careful it won’t end up on the carpet. Pianist Robin Langridge remembers “I’m not easily moved, but during this performance, I very nearly went.”

“‘The Charabanc Trip’ by Ivor Biggun accompanied by Robin Langridge, aged 14, at the piano forte.
Music maestro please!”

On the map of North Notts you’ll find Worksop
Where I lived when I was a lad
In a house with me Mam, two sisters and Gran
One brother, a budgie, and Dad

At the end of our street was a boozer
black as stout, uninviting and glum
A den of depravity, it stank like a lavatory
Where me Dad went to hide from me Mum

At the end of the bar in a bottle
Every week half a dollar he’d slip
For the annual treat when the kids in the street
Went to coast on a charabanc trip

We’d set off in morning from Worksop
En route for Sutton-on-Sea
With the Holiday Club, them as paid up their sub
Half the street and my brother and me

There was old Mrs. Brough from the tripe shop
Big soft Doris, her two little lasses
And her sister Helen with a bust like two melons
And a face like an arse’ole with glasses

There was Perfumed Gordon the hairdresser
And nobody did make it clear
Why a rude boy called Taylor
Cried out “Hello Sailor”
And something about ginger beer

There was Desperate Derek, his brother Big Eric
And Basher and Masher and Butch
And Lil’ who was willing for only a shilling
Which was still about ten pence too much

There was Mavis who wouldn’t
‘Cause her mum said she shouldn’t
There was Neville who wished that he could
And then there was Heather who said that she’d never
But looked like she probably would!

Well my Dad took a crate of ale with him
Intending to travel in style
Charabanc did 25 miles to the gallon
My Dad did half pint to the mile

Rain were chucking it down leaving Worksop
Through North Notts it did not desist
There were cows with bronchitis and wet sheep to invite us
When Lincolnshire loomed up through t’ mist

Rain slacked off soon to a medium monsoon
And the day didn’t look such a black ‘un
When the driver called Reg pulled up by a hedge
And we all made a dash for the bracken

Dad rushed to a tree and said “excuse me”
And right there one penny he spent it
He said, “Ain’t it queer, one thing about beer
You don’t really buy it, you rent it”

Well this idyllic scene mid the nettles and steam
Was soon torn by my brother’s plaintive cries
The poor little nipper caught his dong in his zipper
He was dancing with tears in his eyes

Then back on t’ coach off to Sutton
We got there, ‘ee weather were grand
And we gazed on the sea, cold, the colour of tea
And smelt candyfloss, dodgems and sand

There were shops full of rock
There were hats with rude slogans
There was music and cries of hilarity
There were games on the sands, there were jellied-eel stands
And souvenir shops packed with vulgarity

My brother ran down to the ocean
His intention the water to reach
For his foot he just thrust in something disgusting
A donkey had left on the beach

The sea was as cold as a polar bear’s dick
We watched Punch kill the crocodile dead
And after throwing some sand at Salvation Army band
We went off to the funfair instead

There was a ride called The Comet made you scream, faint and vomit
Half deafening you hung upside down
And the last bit, a spinner, brought up rest of yer dinner
Not bad, you know, for just half a crown

There were post cards with fat women, nudists and Scotsmen
Honeymooners and dirty week-enders
And in a machine what the butler had seen
Dimly flickered about in suspenders

We ate cockles and whelks and big winkles
Soggy chips, toffee apples like glue
The hot dogs were funny ’uns like something rude wrapped in onions
But we ate them, and pease pudding too

Then we went on to dodgems and waltzer
And big dipper that rises and falls
It was on this machine that my brother turned green
And his eyes stood out like bulldog’s balls

The poor little chap he was sick in his cap
It was his best ‘un, he started to cry
So not wishing to spoil it we swilled it in toilet
And he wore it until it was dry

The driver found us and said “Back to the bus”
Through the dark we ran back the whole way
Candyfloss in our hair, but we didn’t care
Eee we’d had such a wonderful day

And with charabanc firing on several cylinders
We set off for Worksop and home
Rattling down the highway singing songs of Max Bygraves
Accompanied on paper and comb

In the dim orange glow of the coachlight, so low
Courting couples were billing and cooing
Hoping, perhaps, that the coats in their laps
Would conceal the rude things they were doing

We pulled up in our street about half past eleven
There was Mam, there was Granny & all
They gazed in admiration at the plaster alsatian
We’d won for ’em at coconut stall

I drank up my Cocoa, I ate up my sandwich
And soon up in bed I was curled
I was dreaming a dream I was leading the team
On first charabanc trip around world

Eee those things that I did when I was a kid
Although they were simple and small
Now I’ve grown up I find I look back in my mind
I’m sure they were best times of all

‘Cause I’ve been to Majorca, and by that’s a corker
I’ve been to Pompeii and Herico-alanium
The French Riviera, where the ladies are barer
I’ve even paddled in Meditter-anium
I’ve drunk various vinos in Torremolinos
But of all these I’ll tell you for free
There’s none can compete with that charabanc treat
With me brother to Sutton-on-Sea

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers


THE WINKER’S ROCK ‘N’ ROLL (misprint) (original version)
Recorded mostly at Ivor’s home studio in Sheep’s Bottom, Nottinghamshire. Featuring the voices of The Four Squirts (Ivan E. Normussun, Hugh Jampton, Dick Brandisher & John Thomas Allcock). With winkle pickers twitching and drainpipes draining, Ivor and the lads really beat it out in this gripping hand-jive number. Ivor lays down his astonishing red hot twiddley bits on a blue suede ukelele.
Because the red-nosed burglars (Ivor’s Vocal Group) weren’t renowned for their great ability to remember tunes, lyrics or even their own names, Ivor typed out a lyric sheet (for The Wanker’s Rock’n’ Roll) for them. Here it is printed out directly from Biggun’s ancient computer file – Ain’t technology bloody marvelous?

one two three four
Change hands!
five six seven eight
Change hands!
nine ten eleven twelve
Change hands!

When I was a kid in 1956
My big brother showed m’ some disgusting tricks
Sitting in the bathroom on my own
W*nking to the rhythm of m’ gramophone

And I was going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the wanker’s rock ‘n’ roll

Well I tried to do the shimmy, I tried to do the twist
I tried to do the tango, I nearly broke me wrist
The women all point at me and scoff
Say “You won’t need me ’til your hand drops off”

And I’m going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the wanker’s rock ‘n’ roll

Give me a ‘W’
Give me an ‘A’
Give me an ‘N’
Give me a ‘K’
Give me an ‘E’
Give me a ‘R’
Stick it all together and what’s that spell?

I’ve got Great Balls Of Fire
I’ve got blisters on me palms
I’ve got the Willie And The Hand-Jivev And muscular arms
The Teds call me “Wanker”
When I’m walking down the street
‘Cause I walk the Jerky-Gurky
To the Boogie-Woogie beat

And I’m going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the wanker’s rock ‘n’ roll

When Long Tall Sally met Johnny B. Goode
He didn’t do nothing but pull his pud’
Just the wrist and the fist and you can’t go wrong
Doing the Hand-Jive all night long

And I’m going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the wanker’s rock ‘n’ roll

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Ivor Jivers
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on a 7″ Extended Play – (BOP 5)

HIDE THE SAUSAGE (Rap Version)
The new ultra-fab Dance Craze! – (Let’s All) Hide the Sausage – Brand new version! With Ivors Jivers & The Pizzicato Artists. Ivors Jivers recorded at Triplex, Acton. Everything else recorded by Neil Harrison at Aosis, Chalk Farm. (Very flash!) Here’s Ivor’s sausage, with a large new bit inserted into the middle, especially for your enjoyment. Deservedly unreleased until this album.

Well there’s a brand new dance
Everybody’s trying to do
It’s better than the pogo
The shimmy or the boogaloo
You can do it by yourself
But it’s much more fun with two
So come on everybody
Let’s go nuts and screw
And this is just what you do

You’ve got to…

Hide the sausage
Come on and hide the sausage
It’s time to hide the sausage tonight
You’ve got to sink the winkle
It’s really very simple
To straighten out your wrinkle tonight
Come on let’s play mums and dads
The moon is shining bright
Come on everybody and hide the sausage tonight
Get it right out of sight

It’s a dance you can do on the sofa
It’s a dance you can do in the park
You can do it round the back of Sainsbury’s
If you’re quick and you do it when it’s dark
You can do it backwards, frontwards and sideways
Provided that you’re over sixteen (I am… next birthday)
You can even do it standing up, I’ve seen it in a magazine
But you’ve got to be keen

When you…
Hide the sausage
Come on and hide the sausage
It’s time to hide the sausage tonight
You’ve got to sink the winkle
It’s really very simple
To straighten out your wrinkle tonight
Come on let’s play mums and dad
s The moon is shining bright
Come on everybody and hide the sausage tonight
Get it right out of sight

Hide that Sausage.  Get it out of sight.
Hide it to the left and hide it to the right.
Hide it in the corner that mother nature planned,
And if you cannot hide it, then hold it in your hand.
Hide it somewhere safe and warm where it cannot be found,
Or stick it out the winder and wave it all around.
And don’t funk till you’ve had enough sausage…
…would you like to see my pimple headed trouser mole?
 
Show the one eyed zipper rat just where to hide his nose.
Tell the pink policeman where his purple helmet goes.
You can do it in a disco, you can do it in a small-room
If you wear baggy trousers you’ve already got the ball-room.
Into the old dark continent send Doctor Livingstone.
Warp the  S.S. Enterprise into the Twilight Zone.
Oooh look! Here comes a guided muscle to blast you into maternity…

  Belly to Belly, Toes to toes
Plant that cucumber, my goodness how it grows
The todger, the nodger, the old pork walking stick
The Honourable member who stands for Hampton Wick
The sausage, the banger, the roly-poly pud
Lubricate the loofah it will make you feel so good
Hide that sausage, Hide it, You won’t be disappointed
If you can hide it by yourself you must be double jointed
Submerge the old salami, sink the submarine
Hot Dog Sandwich with a wiener in between
Plunge that dipstick and get the engine crankin’
It’s much more fun than football and nearly as good as wankin’
Show the bald head ferret where the bunny rabbit’s gone
But make sure he keeps his overcoat on!

Well a little chippolata
That points down to your toes
Is as good as a big Frankfurter
That reaches up to your nose
And if it’s a Wiener Schnitzel (Mein Gott)
Or a hot dog stuffed in a bun
Or a big black pudding
Come and do it everyone
You can join in the fun

Don’t be a wanker just…
Hide the sausage
Come on and hide the sausage
It’s time to hide the sausage tonight
You’ve got to sink the winkle
It’s really very simple
To straighten out your wrinkle tonight
Come on let’s play mums and dads
The moon is shining bright
Come on everybody and hide the sausage tonight
Get it right out of sight

Everybody
Hide the sausage, come on and hide the sausage
Hide the sausage, come on and hide the sausage

Let’s all conceal the saveloy
Let’s go barmy with the salami
Let’s put the toad in the hole
Would you like to play a tune on my pork clarinet?
Get it right out of sight

“Here’s ‘Hide The Sausage’. The legend “T-Bone” is an instruction for guitarist Fearless Phil to play a bluesy lick at this spot. He did this with great aplomb. In fact, he generally does. First take, too. I did a gig with a pick-up band, The Channel Four, in Blackpool and sent them the albums to learn the set from. The lead guitarist (who was actually more used to backing people like Bobby Davro) sweated blood for hours and finally copied all Phil’s bluesy bits note-for-note.”
“The rap was writ for the original LP but never used. I never played it back. I finally edited it in for the ‘Fruity Bits’ album… that was the first time I ever heard it.”

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Previously unreleased extended rap version
Original version released on a 7″ vinyl Single

JEREMY IS INNOCENT

Ooh-la-la-la-la-la
Ooh-la-la-la-la-la
Ooh-la-la-la-la-lav Ooh

Jeremy, Jeremy

Produced by Ted MacDouall at Monterey Studios,
Written by Ivor Biggun and Ted MacDouall
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on a Single – (BOP 4)


JOHNNY G FAN CLUB SONG

Johnny is the singer in a one-man band
He’s got the drums on his feet
He’s got the guitar in his hand
Mondays to Saturdays and one-night stands
But he doesn’t do it for the glory
He’s kicking on the pedal
And keeping it tight
He’s going for the rhythm
‘Cause he knows that’s right
Playing for drinks and cash on the night
I guess it’s the same old story

J-J-J-J-J Johnny
Won’t you play your one-man band
J-J-J-J-J Johnny
Play me something that I can understand
J-J-J-J-J Johnny
Play me something that I can clap my hands

And he goes
B’wana, B’wana, B’wana, B’wana
B’wana, B’wana, B’wana, B’wana
B’wana, B’wana, B’wana, B’wana
They’re only rhymes to lines
And he goes
B’wana, B’wana, B’wana, B’wana
B’wana, B’wana, B’wana, B’wana
B’wana, B’wana, B’wana, B’wana
They’re only rhymes to lines

Smiley Lewis and Wee Willie Wayne
Antoine Domino and Mystery Train
Lawdy Miss Claudy and Love In Vain
He can play any song that you give him
He’s a rock steady teddy with a Berry on top
He’s a Blue Suede cruiser with a Diddley-Bop
He’s a Country Line Special he’s a top of the pop
He’s got a wonderful sense of rhythm

J-J-J-J-J Johnny
Won’t you play your one-man band
J-J-J-J-J Johnny
Play me something that I can understand
J-J-J-J-J Johnny
Play me something that I can clap my hands

And he goes
Tell your ma, tell your pa
This old boy’s gonna drive you so far
Everybody goes cruisin’ on a saturday night

“Hello, my name’s Johnny G and I’m going to be famous”

Johnny had a record but it just didn’t sell
It didn’t get promoted so it didn’t do well
The radio said it was as funky as hell
I guess it’s just a matter of timing
But Johnny’s gonna make it
It’s as plain as plain
And we can say we knew him
Before he made his name
Johnny’s got his ticket
Catching every train
To where the spotlight’s shining

J-J-J-J-J Johnny
Won’t you play your one-man band
J-J-J-J-J Johnny
Play me something that I can understand
J-J-J-J-J Johnny
Play me something that I can clap my hands

And he goes…
(excerpt from Theme from Sharp & Natural)

Written by Ivor Biggun
Theme from Sharp & Natural by John Gotting
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on Pure Beaujolais, a bonus disc with the Johnny G album Water Into Wine

IVOR AND NICK AUSTIN ON TV

My brother is a Nudist
He doesn’t give a hoot
You can hear him shout when the sun comes out
And he runs about in his birthday suit
Just the bare essentials
He don’t care what folks think
Showing his credentials
While the ladies stop and blink