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The Bar​-​Steward Sons of Val Doonican / 2008​-​2018

by The Bar-Steward Sons of Val Doonican

/
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1.
Bag For Life 03:00
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
2.
Tarnlife Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White   Competence is summat That ain’t really goin’ on in what is known as (Tarnlife!) And a Barnsley Chop can be avoided If tha teks t’long route rarnd what is known as (Tarnlife!) Fred’s gorra ferret darn ‘is keks It’s not intimidated by t’smell o’ black puddin’ It loves a bit o’ it! (Tarnlife) Who’s that skinny bugger o’er there? Tha could do wi’ some snap young ‘un, Git thissen t’ t’chip oil!   All the people - so many people They all go cap in hand Cap in hand through their Tarnlife   Does tha know worra mean?   I gerrup when I fancy, ‘cept on Thursday when I go to collect me Giro I put me flat cap on, have a pint o’ smooth, And then think abart goin’ rarnd t’Tarn I feed me whippets; I sometimes feed me ferrets too It meks me feel full t’ t’brim wi’ Barnsley pride Then I feel champion fo’ t’ rest on the day Knowin’ you can tek the lad art o’ t’Tarn But yer can’t tek t’Tarn art on t’lad   All the people - so many people They all go cap in hand Cap in hand through their Tarnlife   It’s got nowt to do wi’ yer Yorkshire Pud And Roast Beef physique thannus And it not abart all you chavs That drive rarnd and rarnd and rarnd   All the people - so many people They all go cap in hand Cap in hand through their Tarnlife
3.
She’s From Dodworth Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Dr. Chris Sammon   She's from Dodworth, thinks she’s looking good  Her Sanskrit tattoos are misunderstood  Wears an Oompa Loompa fake tan when she’s on the lash  While a carefully-placed vagazzle hides her shaving rash  Wears a onesie to her local pub at half past 8  And anyone who looks at her she wants to feight  She has an electronic tag so must be home by 8 And she sups like Ollie Reed until she wants to feight She also nicks consumer products from the Tarn  An i-phone and an e-cig and a dressing gown  Judge Rinder stopped her claim against the Aldi there  ‘cos the cucumber she took back  looked quite worse for wear
4.
Arse On Fire 04:32
Arse On Fire   Lyrics: Scott Doonican   It’s 1 o’clock in the morning And you’ve been rarnd the Tarn And you’ve now got the munchies… you’re hungry Like bees around honey, like a moth to a flame You stagger off for a curry… no worries Your legs work like a Sat Nav and tek you to the K2 You stumble in lookin’ plastered, “I’ll have pork vindaloo” They don’t hold back on the chillies, They don’t hold back on the spice And you wolf it darn quickly… so quickly   Bugger! Your mouth is on fire! Woah! Can’t help but perspire!     Now it’s early next morning, You could drink a tap dry Your mouth’s like Ghandi’s flip-flops, But you cannot think why And your head it is pounding and you can’t stop the pain You’re feelin’ so dehydrated… so wasted But your gut’s feeling jippy, you know it ain’t right And then you remember... what you ate last night And you push back the bedsheets, and you race to the bog And you only just make it... you made it   Bugger! Your arse is on fire! Woah! Now the temperature’s higher   Yes, your bum’s like a cherry, it’s red and it’s raw You daren’t move from the toilet… It feels incredibly sore ‘cos it seems that it’s hotter on the way out Than going in in the first place, You have good reason to shout The toilet-roll’s on the fridge shelf, Yes, you need some relief But your Ring of Fire… it beggars belief As your Khyber Pass suffers from Ghandi’s Revenge It smelt so bad I could taste it… taste it   Bugger! Your arse is on fire! Woah! With the flames burning higher!
5.
Walking In Man-Piss Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican Hit Tarn in me new suede shoes, blue with Cuban heels Supped pints until nature called The time had come to brek the seal   W.C. was handy, but when I walked in it beggared belief  There must’ve been a blockage The urinal had overflowed and leaked So I was walking in man piss Wished I was walking ten feet off of the floor Walking in man piss, and it was too bad to ignore Had a neet art in Sheffield - I went to see Motley Crue Took my place near the front of the stage To get a real good view The security laughed suddenly  So I turned my back on the show  But a suspect yellow pint, had suddenly took flight And drenched me from head to toe Yes I was covered in man piss  It was dripping down me face and onto me shoes  Soaked through with man piss - and there was nothing I could do… I was stood there chuffing fuming                                         And my rage it filled the air                                                         ‘cos my blue suede shoes, that were brand new                 They hadn't got a prayer                                                     Now they were soaked with man piss                                  I went to see the doctor - as my feet had both turned blue I'd been scrubbing at them for weeks and weeks And didn’t know what to do He said “Son, it’s a chemical reaction  Must be the dye leaked from your shoes But that would need ammonia - can you give me any clues?” Yes I’ve been walking in man piss I know it sounds like a pretty weird thing to do But I’ve been walking in man piss And it has knackered me blue suede shoes? They were ruined by man piss They used to be a deep blue but now they're pale grey Faded by man piss Now I can’t even shift them on ebay Had to bin my new suede shoes the very next day Walked round lookin’ sad and blue in the middle of the pouring rain Walked round lookin’ sad and blue in the middle of the pouring rain
6.
Since You’ve Been Ron Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican / Amanda White   I get the same old dream, same time every night  Of you in that dress and make up  I still remember when you turned to me in bed and said  Your life needed a shake up  Six months of work in West Berlin  But now my her has changed to a him  Oh since you’ve been Ron, since you’ve been Ron  I’m struggling with the whole ‘man’ thing  It just seems so wrong, ‘cos since you’ve been Ron  Now you can wee while standing  I just can’t understand, why you want to be a man  Your curves were in the right places  Your chest is all hairy, But still the weirdest thing for me is  Beards on both of our faces  I used to love to watch you dance  But now I’m scared of what’s in your pants  Oh since you’ve been Ron, your voice has gone  All gravelly like Joe Cocker’s  I’m far from impressed, you swapped your bra for a vest  I preferred you when you had knockers  I’ll make a bob or two All your Jimmy Choo shoes are going on ebay…  Oh since you’ve been Ron, since you’ve been Ron  You’ve learnt how to leave pans soaking  Oh since you’ve been Ron, something’s gone wrong  I used to do all the poking    Ever since you’ve been Ron
7.
If I Could Punch A Face…   Lyrics: Scott Doonican ​ There’s a fever sweeping ‘cross the country now It’s even worse than all the fans of Glee He’s on every bloody cover, of every magazine Irritating normal folk like me   If I could punch a face… it’d be Justin Bieber’s There’s not a trace of doubt in my mind He’s a chuff - can’t stand Justin Bieber, I hope he gets fever or even hives   He’s only twelve and he wrote his own biography (in crayon) His face adorns the shelves of every shop (it’s sickening) All the girls go crazy; he’s the prince of pop But what will happen when his bollocks drop?   If I could punch a face… it’d be Justin Bieber’s There’s not a trace of doubt in my mind He’s an arse… I hate Justin Bieber singing “Baby-Oh”, Like, a billion times   He’s got a stupid haircut, and his music’s crap You couldn’t tire from giving him a slap If I could punch a face… it’d be Justin Bieber’s There’s not a trace of doubt in my mind Switch his music off… Destroy ‘Bieber Fever’ and poke Justin Bieber in the eye   If I could punch a face… it’d be Justin Bieber’s Seek medical advice if you’ve got Bieber Fever ‘cos it’s worse than clap!
8.
The Zipper 03:42
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
9.
All The Dinner Ladies Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White ​ All the dinner ladies  (All the dinner ladies) All the dinner ladies  (All the dinner ladies) All the dinner ladies  (All the dinner ladies) All the dinner ladies  -  Now put your hands up   They’re giving us grub, just served up Sausage, mash-spuds and peas The bigger kids, are getting first dibs There’s bugger all left for me Dun’t mek ‘em cross, ‘cos they’re the boss And you’ll only end up in detention They’ve been there for years, it’ll end in tears They’re meaner than Mohammed Ali   They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it You mightn’t like it, cos it’s gonna have a skin on it They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it   Oh, no, no - No, no, no, no, no, no - No, no, no Oh, no, no - No, no, no, no, no, no - No, no, no They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it You mightn’t like it, cos it’s gonna have a skin on it They’ve got gravy but it’s allus got a skin on it   Serving rock hard chips, can’t get to grips With cauliflower cheese or stir-fry But dun’t act up, they’ll mess you up After giving you the evil eye Stop chatting, just eat! Stay in your seat! You better be paying attention! It’ll only get worse, if you aven’t ‘ad yer firsts You can kiss yer afters goodbye   Bringing custard but it’s allus got a skin on it Bringing custard but it’s allus got a skin on it You may like it, but it’s gonna have a skin on it Bringing custard but it’s allus got a skin on it   Oh, no, no - No, no, no, no, no, no - No, no, no Oh, no, no - No, no, no, no, no, no - No, no, no Take your trays and go and scrape ‘em in the bin, poppet Take your trays and go and scrape ‘em in the bin, poppet And if you spill, they’ll keep you in until they can mop it Take your trays and go and scrape ‘em in the bin, poppet Out you go Go, go, go, go, go, go Go, go, go Out you go Go, go, go, go, go, go Go, go, go Out you go Go, go, go, go, go, go Go, go, go Out you go Go, go, go, go, go, go Go, go, go They’ll blow the whistle and it allus got a string on it They’ll blow the whistle and it allus got a string on it When the bell goes it’s allus got a ring on it They’ll blow the whistle and it allus got a string on it   If it’s spitting then they’re gonna get you in for it If it’s spitting then they’re gonna get you in for it If you act silly in the classroom then you’re in for it If it’s spitting then they’re gonna get you in for it   Oh no no
10.
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
11.
Nando's 02:52
Nandos Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White / Elliot Smaje   It was dimly lit by candle When I took you out for a romantic night of bliss The waiter poured the Vino Blanco Should have poured it darn the sink Because it tasted just… too tart I looked down at the menu, And what I saw there, struck terror in my heart   It could’ve been in Esperanto For all the sense it made, it was all Greek to me No food should look so mangled You know just where to shove your Piri-Piri recipe? I closed my eyes and hoped and prayed That what they brought was fish n chips with peas   There was summat on me plate last night The food was shite at Nando’s I dunno what it was they brought to eat It smelt like feet at Nando’s Although it seemed that there was tonnes of choice I had regrets If I had to do the same today I’d say “No way” to Nando’s   I acted smooth like Marlon Brando In ‘The Wild One’ back in 1953 But my plate looked like John Rambo Had attacked the lot with an unsharpened machete And if the chicken was free-range I’m pretty sure that it was not happy.   There was very little I could do It tasted poo at Nando’s It smelt just like a septic tank The food was rank at Nando’s And when they brought the bill My wallet broke into a sweat And even if I could forget the smell I’d say to hell with Nando's   Even Abba wouldn’t take a chance The food was pants at Nando’s Dun’t know what it was that took us there I found a hair at Nando’s And though I try to block that image out I can’t forget I wouldn’t recommend the pitta wrap It tasted poor at Nando's
12.
Festival Heroes Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican   From May until September, across our lovely land There’s loads of folk who hit the road, with tents or campervans The festival’s a Mecca for the likes of you and me But there are folk, it’s not a joke, who take things to extremes…   You know, the weirdos; you know the festival weirdos Give them all a wide birth It doesn’t take that, to spot a real twat Starting with the lad dressed as a Smurf So many weirdos Like the hippies in kaftans wanting to free Tibet Or the posh-bird called Grace, who wants to embrace All the folk in the dance-tent on ket… dance-tent on ket   Then there’s those who buy their tickets, but dun't go to see a band Who spend their weekend sat in chairs Outside a clapped-out transit van That seventh can of Stella isn’t helping her Tourettes  They’re Neighbours from hell, who share a brain cell The sort you can't forget... This lot aren’t weirdos, they’re just festival bell-ends  And their time is mis-spent They use all of the night, to talk absolute shite When they should be asleep in a tent They're chuffing morons  They spend most of the evening talking bollocks but then He goes to his car, gets an acoustic guitar And plays Wonderwall badly again... again and again  The hipsters taking selfies, fashion-conscious, self-obsessed Wait for the band’s hit single, but then talk through all the rest The pillocks on their camping chairs, in the moshpit what a farce Dun’t stand-in-front-of-me-with-your-flag, Or that pole goes up yer arse   Give me torpedoes; give me a sawn-off machine-gun And I’d sort them I know I’d start with the lad filming on his i-pad Is it so hard to just watch the show? Or all the zeroes, who can never be happy, They were just born to moan ‘Bout the state of the ground, the line-up, the sound The weather or charging their phone Why not stop at home?   To all those folk I sing this song, as I count to ten and breathe You think you’re so original, shouting Alan! Alan! Steve! Just remember often this thing’s run by volunteers And they all work bloody hard, so raise yer glasses and say CHEERS! Cos they're the heroes, they're the festival heroes And you know that I'm right They're doing their best, to make a success So we all have a chuffin’ good time Yeah they're the heroes, they're the festival heroes Making things run okay Planning months in advance, just so we all get chance To come here for beautiful days For such beautiful days
13.
The Ornithologist Waltz Lyrics: Alan Doonican I met her on Facebook in April Because I'm incredibly shy I saw her photos, and her videos She’s up for it and so am I We met down the pub, it was Quiz Night She whipped out her clipboard and pen She said “I love birds”, I was lost for words I couldn't believe what she said then… You've got a handsome Cock Robin (Nice Cock!) I've got a pair of Great Tits (Great Tits!) Her down the road, she's got nothing but Thrush But her Twitter gets plenty of hits (lots of hits) Cos we like to twitch in the garden (the garden) Seeing what birds we can bag (we can bag) Some folk go pale, when they see a Wagtail  But I'm on the hunt for a Shag She said if I go round one morning She'd happily show me her Chuff  A new one to me, but I just had to see I went often... once wasn't enough I promised to show her my Red Shank  If she would help me tempt it out So we waited a while, then he came out in style When she saw it she let out a shout! You've got a handsome Cock Robin (Nice Cock!) I've got a pair of Great Tits (Great Tits!) Her down the road, she's got nothing but Thrush But her Twitter gets plenty of hits (lots of hits) Cos we like to twitch in the garden (the garden) Seeing what birds we can bag (we can bag) Some folk go pale, when they see a Wagtail  But I'm on the hunt for a Shag Now romance it started to blossom As winter turned slowly to spring We found lots to do, waiting for the Cuckoo And the Lark on the morning to sing I told her I’d seen a Brown Booby Though we still didn’t spot that Cuckoo But my Dickcissel pic, would take something to lick But then she got a Great Cockatoo (She said) You've got a handsome Cock Robin (Nice Cock!) I've got a pair of Great Tits (Great Tits!) Her down the road she's got nothing but Thrush But her Twitter gets plenty of hits (lots of hits) Cos we like to Twitch in the garden (the garden) Seeing what birds we can bag (we can bag) Now Spring has sprung, the Summer has come And I finally got my first Shag!
14.
How Deep Is Your Glove? Lyrics:  Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican / Amanda White ​ Went to Phuket for some winter sun And on the way back, as I got off the plane Me feet had barely touched ground When I was dragged out of the customs lane Officers quizzed me, and with a frown With me tank top off and me trousers down I screamed, “I need to know ​ How deep is your glove!? How deep? How deep is your glove? How far do you need to go? Cos when I said I had a crack in me arse. You misunderstood I'm not a mule, you've took my dignity With your hands colder than the North Sea ​ There is nothing nice About finding out that lightning can strike twice. When I went along to my GP Because me choc’late locker din’t feel right. I said “It takes an age when I try to pee" She said "lay on your side, while I try to see" All the clinic heard me shout ​ How deep is your glove!? How deep? How deep is your glove? That’s no hand it’s like a boiler shovel I was suffering with me Jeremy Kyles But she was all smiles As the tears came to my eyes I think she loved to see grown men cry ​ I could hit those notes like the Bee Gees Are you past me ears? Christ, I dare not sneeze! I’m not a human puppet show! How deep is your glove? ​ How deep? How deep is your glove? I’m really quite concerned Don’t even think about a second opinion Or I will break down That is one thing I can guarantee Thought you were ramming up a Christmas tree! ​ How deep? How deep is your glove? You never bought me flowers or dinner You didn’t even give me time to prepare, Before you were there Knuckles deep inside my derriere Cos BUPA doesn’t cover wear and tear ​ How deep? How deep is your glove? I’m not ashamed to say it But I may have bit a hole in your bench As I battened down As your digit entered into me Feels like you’re up there with a JCB
15.
Paint 'em Back Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White ​ I saw you from behind but was ta-ken aback When you turned round I nearly had a heart attack I see girls pass me by, but I’m far from aroused What makes you do the things you do with your eyebrows?   Why pluck your eyebrows out and then just draw them back? Especially if it’s clear you haven’t got the knack They look like they were drawn on by a three year old Who’s used a magic marker, wearing a blindfold   And there’s the metro guys who try to stay ‘on fleek’ You need to get art more, you narcissistic freaks Why can’t they face the facts like Burt on Sesame Street Instead of sculpting their monobrow with a metric tonne of Veet   Some lasses shave them off and draw them back too high I’d tell them to their face, but they’d still look surprised Armed with huge tweezers that they got from Marks & Sparks Why take ‘em off and draw ‘em back like Groucho Marx?   That pained expression that you drew for all to see You’d still look narked off, if you won the lottery I see folks shake their heads and quickly run and hide They’re like angry caterpillars in formaldehyde   Don’t wanna to see ‘em painted, painted, painted, painted back Black and wide You dun’t need ‘em stencilled on - looking cross or surprised Don’t want to see ‘em painted, painted, painted, painted back
16.
Silent Farter Lyrics: Alan Doonican    Methane eminato, Trouser fumigator, Secret botty burper, Nasal persecutor I'm a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter You're a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter I'm a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter He who smelt it dealt it, Fragrance of a cesspit Surreptitious tooter. Atmosphere polluter I'm a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter You're a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter   Naturally furtive, Stink bomb detonator Socially explosive,Noxious fume emitter  I'm a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter You're a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter I'm a silent farter, Sneaky silent farter ​
17.
The Lady In Greggs Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White   I’ve nivver seen your baps Look as lovely as they did tonight They looked tasty, wholemeal and white I’ve nivver known a lass Who really knew the way to a man’s heart A gorgeous muffin and a good lookin’ tart And I have never seen quite a dressing As the stuff you’re packing into that baguette You’ve got me in a sweat   The Lady in Greggs, she meks pasties for me through the week And when she meks sausage rolls I forget how to speak She’s really got technique And I can’t resist her steak bakes on the side I’ll nivver forget the super snap that she supplied   Nivver had a BLT taste as gorgeous as it did tonight Tonsils tingling with savo’ry delight, and smokey bacon I’ve nivver seen a chocolate éclair With such a creamy inside And then I turn to you and smile ‘cos it teks me breath away And I’ve nivver had such a feeling The feeling that I’m well and truly stuffed, But I’m satisfied   The Lady in Greggs, she meks pasties for me through the week And with muffins so moist, my knees just go weak They really are unique And I am so sure, her goods they won’t turn stale I’ll nivver forget the gorgeous grub she’d got on sale
18.
B.I.S.T.O. 02:47
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!
19.
The Cockwombling Song Lyrics: Scott Doonican ​ When life isn't fine, or you've had a bad day Or you're feeling quite dejected, or you're filled with dismay Once you hear these words of wisdom, you'll be feeling okay... Remember, remember, remember, remember Remember, remember, remember (member-member)   Kanye West is a Cockwomble (Kanye West is a Cockwomble) Kanye West is a Cockwomble (Kanye West is a Cockwomble) Kanye West is a Cockwomble (Kanye West is a Cockwomble) Kanye West is a Cockwomble (Kanye West is a Cockwomble) Just remember-member-member what an absolute Cockwomble he is   When things have got you down, and you are far from okay And you need an instant pick me up, then all I can say Is at least you’re not a racist with an awful toupee Remember, remember, remember, remember Remember, remember, remember (member-member)   Donald Trump is a Cockwomble (Trump is a Cockwomble) Donald Trump is a Cockwomble (Trump is a Cockwomble) Donald Trump is a Cockwomble (Trump is a Cockwomble) Donald Trump is a Cockwomble (Trump is a Cockwomble) Just remember-member-member what an absolute Cockwomble he is   When you listen to the radio, and it all sounds the same There’s a hundred million wannabes, all hunting for fame But there really is just one bloke that’s truly to blame Remember, remember, remember, remember Remember, remember, remember (member-member)   Simon Cowell is a Cockwomble (Cowell is a Cockwomble) Simon Cowell is a Cockwomble (Cowell is a Cockwomble) Simon Cowell is a Cockwomble (Cowell is a Cockwomble) Simon Cowell is a Cockwomble (Cowell is a Cockwomble) Just remember-member-member what an absolute Cockwomble he is   Gordon Ramsey’s a Cockwomble (Ramsey’s a Cockwomble!) Michael Gove is a Cockwomble (Gove is a Cockwomble!) Geldof’s a Cockwomble (Geldof’s a Cockwomble!) Jeremy Kyle is a Cockwomble (Kyle is a Cockwomble) Just remember-member-member there’s a hundred more Cockwombles… Jeremy Clarkson’s a Cockwomble (Clarkson’s a Cockwomble!) Katie Price is a Cockwomble (Jordan’s a Cockwomble) Piers Morgan’s a Cockwomble (Morgan’s a Cockwomble) And Katie Hopkins is an arsehole (Hopkins is an arsehole) Just remember-member-member there’s 1000 more Cockwombles out there
20.
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
21.
Jump Ararnd 03:53
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.

about

This is the album we will submit for the next Voyager to be launched into space. We may place it upon Katie Hopkins’ doorstep in a Bag For Life, light it on fire, ring the doorbell and run off. Should we ever attempt to become big in Japan, we now have a demo tape.

This is the album that is quite literally 10 years in the making. It is strange to think that when the first song on this album was written,
Björn had just turned 11 years old the week before! Most of these songs can be found on our first eight studio albums, but we’ve re-recorded them, to bring you these lovely new and improved versions from our strongest line-up since the band formed in June 2006. Feel free to compare them!

Thanks to everyone who made this album possible. There are many of you. You all know who you are. And that includes YOU reading this now.

CHEERS... see y’all at the bar!

Recorded & Produced by Björn Doonicansson & Scott Doonican Mixed & Mastered by Joel Howe
(except Track 20: Mixed by Maartin Allcock)

A huge shout-out to Joel for his incredible patience and constant quest for perfection on this album. Relax matey, it’s 10 years ‘til Vol. 2018-2028!

Album artwork designed by Scott Doonican
Photography by Graham Whitmore and Amanda White

credits

released May 27, 2018

SCOTT DOONICAN:
vocals, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, ukulele, melodica, bass, accordion, keyboards, omnichord, stylophone

BJÖRN DOONICANSSON:
tenor banjo, mandolin, fiddle, bouzouki, acoustic guitar, electric guitar, sitar, keyboards, bass, drums, vocals

ALAN DOONICAN #2:
vocals, accordion, piano, Hammond organ, keyboards, synths, #EyeCandyTuesdays

WE GOT BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM OUR FRIENDS...

MAARTIN ALLCOCK:
bass, baritone & electric guitar, synths (Track 20), bass (Track 21)

ELIZA CARTHY: fiddle & vocals (Track 20), fiddle (Track 21)

MIKE HARDING: the voice of The Devil (Track 20), tenor banjo & harmonica (Track 21)

JOEL HOWE: electric guitar (Track 7), drums (Track 11)

ESTHER LITTLEWOOD: cello (Track 17)

APRIL LODGE: 1st violin, 2nd violin, viola (Track 17)

GRAHAM OLIVER: electric guitar (Tracks 20 & 21)

MATT TOWNSEND: drums (Track 20)

HUGH WHITAKER: drums & percussion (Tracks 2 & 21)

MICHAEL WHITE: spoken-word vocals (Track 2)


This album is dedicated to:
Michael White 19th Jul 1938 - 11th Feb 2018
and Maartin Allcock 5th Jan 1957 - 16th Sept 2018
You are both greatly missed

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The Bar-Steward Sons of Val Doonican UK

Hailing from Barnsley, The Bar-Steward Sons of Val Doonican are Britain's hardest working comedy band. Having played over 1,100 anarchic live shows to date, they are instantly recognisable for their immaculate hair and their stylish dress-sense. The have been critically acclaimed to be the UK festival scene's undisputed Kings of Parody. ... more

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