Place Of Spades Lyrics: Scott Doonican   I really like to grow me own I'm darn at the allotment You sow some, grow some - it's just the thing for me It's a way to pass the day While breaking up the loamy clay I won't be tending to raised beds - no, you'll find me in me shed It's the place of spades - the place of spades ​ Here I spend the summer months Hiding from the missus Growing runner beans, While she claims I've gone to seed I've got a massive pair of melons They're tasty and they're cantaloupe 'Ar lass can't rant or moan, ‘Cos what I'm bringing home Is her five a day, her five a day ​ I'll tell you how me garden grows Got a pair of dirty hoes And now me marrow's nice and weighty Even with this British weather... I'm quite the Alan Titchmarsh ​ Pruning buds I've planted Don't take me plot for granted Sow 'em and reap, lev-ell-ing the land again With me plums to fertilise They're getting big, they're twice the size I even mek me own compost, In this outhouse where I'm boss The place of spades, it's the place of spades

I Don't Feel Like Camping Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White ​ Me mate went mad in Millets And I said 'What have you done?' He used to have a life, but now he's found another one Last week he did the 3 Peaks This week he's in The Lakes There's not a place on earth he'd go, without Kendal mint cake ​ Well, I'm no Ray Mears or the next Lord Baden Powell There's nowt that's getting me to go outdoors Dun't need nettle-rash when I'm oppening' me bowels Cos  on the (w)hole I find that's rather sore But  I don't feel like campin' In the British wind and rain Me  heart is wheer me home is, And me home can't blow away And even  if me tent stays put, It's still a chuff to put away So I don't feel like campin', No sir, no campin' today ​ Don't feel like campin', campin' With Dock leaves instead o' bog-roll Don't feel like campin', campin' Cos like Bear Grylls it's a pain in the hole Don't feel like campin', campin' Living off the land ain't so grand No it's out of hand and it's reight cold Hobbies come and hobbies go But camping dun't appeal The Great Outdoors is not so great, In fact it's an ordeal Rubbing sticks together, Like the scouts, would leave me tired But a pint or two or paraffin Would sort out that camp-fire ​ So please understand That I'm pretty far from grand There's not a chance on earth I would relent No, I can't pretend that I'm Mother Nature's friend When there's swarms of wasps Just buzzing round me tent ​ But I don't feel like campin', Creepy crawlies aren't for me I don't need to wait hour To mek a luke warm cup o' tea And if you really think canoeing's fun Just get back in sea Because I don't feel like campin', No sir, no campin' for me ​ Don't feel like campin', campin' Me get up and go, just got up and went Don't feel like campin', campin' Haven't a clue when erecting a tent Don't feel like campin', campin' How on God's green earth Are all these tent pegs bent!?   I don't need the open air Or being eaten by a bear Just leave me be ‘Cos the Great Indoors is where I’m climatized ​ There's no chuffin' way I'm campin', I don't care, I will not try There's absolutely no appeal To sleep under the sky, There's creatures with more teeth and legs than me To keep me terrified I know I'd sooner make the choice To stick pins in me eyes ​ Don't feel like campin', campin' I dun't want flies crawling ovver me food Don't feel like campin', campin' Stick yer Spork cos I'm not in the mood? Don't feel like campin', campin' Rather be home with a roof And a proper working loo

Mobile Phone Lyrics: Scott Doonican ​ You just sit and tinker With the world at your fingers While you're lit up by a ghostly glow An entire generation Are lacking animation Where's yer chuffin get up and go? It's like some weird hypnosis But you wouldn't even notice Cos you're somewhere in the twilight zone Putting multitudes of filters On your Instagram pictures While you're faffing on your mobile phone (Mobile phone) Fifty times you've changed your Facebook cover Stop swiping right on Tinder for me mother! You could lose entire days While you're faffing on your mobile phone You're so devastated when you've used up all your data Cos it messes with your whole routine While every gig you go to, the poor sods behind you Have to watch it through your 4 inch screen You can't wait to unlock it when it vibrates in yer pocket When the WiFi's down you mope and groan You're borderline unstable With no power source or cable When your battery's dead on your iPhone (Mobile phone) Omnipresent on Facebook Live or Twitter Why d'ya need an app for ordering your dinner!? Don't you know the world is passing by While you're faffing on your mobile phone Technology's advancing but yer phone isn't enhancing Social skills that you're lacking in life It replaces your camera, alarm clock 'n calender Like a modern Swiss Army Knife But for all those enhancements, and all those advancements STOP BORING ME WITH YOUR RINGTONE! Your fingers move like lightning Which the girls would find exciting If they weren't upon your mobile phone (Mobile phone) Yet another thing that I am condemning ) You're just blindly walking like a lemming Wand'ring into the bus lane Are you STILL playing Pokemon Go!?! (Mobile phone) I don't care if it's iOS or it's Android If I had me way they'd all be destroyed Can't we just turn back the clock What ever happened to the old pay phone?

God Only Knows Lyrics: Scott Doonican I know I'll always love you You're up there with the stars above you But something indeed is quite clear That you're not a centipede, dear So God only knows why you need all those shoes ​ I only own a single pair of Nike Air Max And some Hush Puppies that match my stage slacks But your wardrobe makes me quite cross You've got more pairs of high heels than Imelda Marcos God only knows why you need all those shoes ​ God only knows why you need all those shoes ​ Jimmy Choo, Prada, Gucchi You've gora chuffin 'nuff of 'em to fill a marquee And as well as footwear and gladrags You've a metric tonne of matching handbags God only knows why you need all those shoes 

How Deep Is Your Glove? Lyrics:  Alan Doonican #2 / 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

Doonicans' Rider Lyrics: Scott Doonican  ​ Doonicans rider, rider, rider... Dear Sir or Madam, Now our band's been booked We've some big demands, You'd better tek a look There's a stack of stipulations And you must adhere So do be a star And put the lot upon the Doonicans' rider, Doonicans' rider. We want our rock n roll excesses to become folklore Did you get the droids that we were looking for? A swimming pool for Alan, filled with asses milk And a tonne of fleecy towels Stick 'em all upon the Doonicans' rider, Doonicans' rider. ​ Doonicans rider, rider, rider... ​ Fresh Spring Water sent from Katmandu We'll have a hundred bottles, give or take a few. And Björn wants meatballs shipped in from Ikea And a llama called Dalai would be perfect On the Doonicans' rider, Doonicans' rider A corby trouser press and full length mirror Hot Yorkshire tea, oysters in a chiller Some pickled eggs and pies for our entourage The severed head of Katie Hopkins And a crate of beer, some lager and cider, On the Doonicans' rider Doonicans rider, rider, rider. Doonicans' rider, Doonicans' rider Doonicans' rider, Doonicans' rider Doonicans' rider, Doonicans' rider Doonicans' rider, Doonicans' rider

The Gasman Cometh Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White ​ Well not that long ago I can still remember Feeling cold, cross and hostile And if I'd been a wiser man I’d have opted for their 4-star plan And maybe I'd be cozy for a while But Christmas Eve it made me shiver Each room was icy like a blizzard Rang the British Gas Man Who turned up in his Gas Van It cost 100 quid for him to peer inside To merely shake his head, and turn and sigh There was nowt he could do, I was mortified The day me boiler died Yes, I cried cos me boiler had died It was colder in me bungalow than it was outside And the gas man couldn’t fix it, only offer advice “I'd condemn that knackered boiler outright” Before he disappeared off into the night... Sat indoors in hat and gloves While contemplating where to shove The expansion vessel manifold I’d lost my faith in British Gas He could shove me boiler up his ass My turkey had goose pimples, it was THAT cold ​ Well, at the time, it seemed too posh But I wish I’d bought that Worcester Bosch They had the best reviews And now me house was like an igloo It was safe to say I had come unstuck My boiler would have to be chucked Into a skip, cos it was… brok The day me boiler died ​ I were freezin' I cried cos me boiler had died It was colder in me bungalow than it was outside And I was searching for the answers that they couldn’t provide And I would have to let me tank-tops drip-dry Have to let me tank-tops drip-dry ​ Now, on Christmas Day I was on the phone To British Gas to rant and moan Their engineer din’t call at noon It felt like winter in Aberdeen I shivered while venting me spleen To the automated voice and Coldplay tunes Well I sat in throughout Boxing Day And still no gas man came my way They seemed quite unconcerned And my calls were not returned And as our house went back to the Stone Age I paced up and down, in fits of rage Like a Yorkshire Gordon Ramsey in a cage The day me boiler died And I was fuming I cried cos me boiler had died It was colder in me bungalow than it was outside Said they had ordered parts, but then they never arrived And I was pigged-off, cold and dissatisfied Pigged-off, cold and dissatisfied ​ Me defeated heater didn’t fear the reaper The house was cold, just like my demeanor Eight degrees and falling fast My mood was foul, I had not bathed Or washed my hair for several days But the gas man didn’t come… he cun’t be assed So I had to wash, cold, in the sink Me hands were blue, me crinklies, pink Me feet they stunk like hell As did other parts as well And without that vital pilot light There was not a chance it would ignite My arse it froze for three more nights After me boiler died ​ It was Baltic I cried when me boiler had died It was colder in me bungalow than it was outside I was scared about the leaking of car-bon monoxide So I opened all me windows up wide And only then did the Gas man arrive... ​ The boiler man came on New Year's Day And he took that sodding thing away And I was left with head in hands I went down to the plumbing store And underneath my breath I swore And the man there said “This one... it costs four grand” And in my head, my wallet screamed I’d lost my shit, or so it seemed But not a word was spoken Cos the old one was still broken Since Christmas Day I’d watched the clock And had to boil a kettle to wash But I finally got that Worcester Bosch After, me old boiler died ​ I were chuffin’ livid I cried when me boiler had died It was colder in me bungalow than it was outside I should have called a priest to have that thing exorcised But the holy water wasn’t supplied Holy water wasn’t supplied And I’d been shiverin’… I know why, me wretched boiler had died Unlike me new one, it can do one, cos the new one’s not shite Efficient like Ze Germans, who leave towels by poolsides But mine was British and was badly designed

Sing Lyrics: Scott Doonican  ​ There's a singer that I'm sure you'll remember He can't stand losing his hair With every breath he takes He used to be a teacher And he's even done his bit for the rainforests And he's into tantric sex 'Cos he likes to keep his clothes on on the job And his name is STING There's an emperor That I'm sure you'll remember He's mean and he's bald as an egg With a goatee beard He is the arch-nemesis Of the hero Flash Gordon And he wants to destroy The Earth cos he's bored And the clothes he wears are weird And his name is MING There's a crooner That I'm sure you'll remember He likes to smoke a pipe by the fire With his slippers on I'm sure that he's dreaming Of a lovely White Christmas And he was on The Road Along with Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour And his name is BING There's a little handy fellow That I'm sure you'll remember He was the pet in a box Living with the Addams Fam'ly mob He lived with Morticia-Gomez-Pugsley Wednesday-and Uncle Fester Who could power-up A dirty great 100watt bulb Just by sticking it in his gob And his name was THING Theres a singer Who all the world will remember He is ethical vegan  So he only eats his own hen's eggs He used to be a Beatle Along with John, George and Ringo And he's buying Heather Mills A plane for Christmas So she can shave her other leg And he was in WINGS Paul McCartney and WINGS WINGS WINGS

Too Good To Be Jus Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican ​ Why do they call it a "jus"? That runny stuff in me stew It's like the menu's in Dutch And that's how they can charge you so much. Don't tell me that it's a sauce Cos they come in bottles, of course I'm so chuffin' narked I could sue Those gret pillocks for calling it "jus"... ​ I implore you to pardon me please It may be sauce... if it's cheese But to call it a “jus” is just cheek Such pretentious words that chefs speak I like moisture in me meal And there's only one word that's real. So stop acting all Cordon Bleu Before you get yer'sen a reight talking to ​ We call it gravy the only name that's right We call it gravy none of that poncey shite  We call it gravy - hear us now when we say  We love our gravy over a Barnsley chop We love our gravy on chip's from the chip shop That's why we call it gravy cos its not “jus” ​ And when I watch Master Chef I can't help but eff and Jeff What is celeriac foam? And who the chuff has consomê at home? And when that say it's a glaze I start to see a red haze I'm not one for causing taboo Have some sense and please stop calling it “jus” ​ We call it gravy the only name that's right We call it gravy none of that poncey shite We call it gravy - we’re frum the North and we say  We love our gravy over our corned beef hash We love our gravy with Yorkshire puds and mash That's why wecall it gravy cos its not “jus”

Bingo Night Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White ​ Bingo night, Bingo night Bingo night - Here we go - dabbers at the ready Bingo night - Gonna beat Maureen, Maude and Betty ​ By 8 o’clock it’s Eyes Down Cos Bingo night is always the best in town ​ Got to keep on dabbing - keep on dabbing Got to keep on dabbing - keep on dabbing Bingo night House is full - can you feel the tension? Bingo night Robbing two fat ladies of their pensions ​ My wrist action is in its prime I can even handle seven cards at the same time Got to keep on dabbing - keep on dabbing Got to keep on dabbing - keep on dabbing Bingo night Always packed, average age is 90 Bingo night You can have a session five times nightly ​ Please pull me balls out tonight I need Legs Eleven and Droopy Drawers to get this line Got to keep on dabbing - keep on dabbing Got to keep on dabbing - keep on dabbing ​ A place where you’ll never feel down It’s bingo night – it’s always the best in town Got to keep on dabbing - keep on dabbing Got to keep on dabbing - keep on dabbing

Hey! Big Spider! Lyrics: Scott Doonican / Amanda White ​ The minute you walked in the joint I could see you had more teeth than The Osmonds A hairy bugger And quite jumpy when you’re confined You’ve got me in a sweat, I’m going out of my mind ​ So let me get right to the point It is safe to say you aren’t my cup of tea Gret big spider Stay the chuff away from me ​ Get me an elephant gun, gun, gun Or flame-thrower the bath, bath, bath I’m not having a good time No I’m a having a shit time The minute you walked in the joint I went and sent ar lass for a pint glass And 12-inch Record While I was frozen, terrified Well wouldn't you like to know Just where I was at that time? ​ I was hiding behind the settee As I sacrificed ar lass for the good of the team To that reight big spider Eight legged scuttler Gonna need a dry cleaner ‘cos I may have soiled me jeans

Stand By Your Van Lyrics: Scott Doonican ​ Sometimes it's hard to start in winter It's done a hundred thousand miles The accelerator and alternator Have both been dodgy for a while The engine packed up on the M1 Near Junction 30, southward bound I rang the AA, answered a survey And got these words of wisdom from the man: ​ "Stand by your van And leave your hazards blinking And wrap up warm because it's colder than a reindeer's goolies" I'm not a fan Of watching cars rush past me Wishing I had a back-up plan Instead of my crap van ​ The AA man Just left me chuffing ages I caused a massive traffic jam... With my shit van

Amaretto Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican ​ There's a habit forming A ritual I do each morning It might sound strange, to be fair But it's my thing and I just don't care! Mouthwash is far too minty When you get out of bed I like mine sweet and nutty With a boozy kick instead ​ Cos I've been drinking Amaretto Got it years ago from t'Netto Better than Listerine or Dentyl Because it tastes so almondy Me morning fix of Amaretto I gargle high and then just swallow It helps me reach a nice falsetto And lubricates me pipes for me ​ The alarm clock's ringing Me voice is shot - me breath is minging Sound like Tom Waits with asthma But I can cure it, there's nowt faster So do one laryngitis Cos you have met your match All I do is gargle And then it's down the hatch! ​ A cheeky swig of Amaretto They sell the good stuff now in Tesco No longer sound like Yoko Ono Cos it goes down so easily Chugging down the Amaretto I feel like I could dance Bolero But I'll prob'ly wind up in the ghetto Cos I'm not hooked on herbal tea

Lyrics: Scott Doonican Someone lately, just drives me crazy It's getting out of hand And all the while, I feel hostile It's safe to say I'm no fan In packed arenas, he sounds like Beaker In a scene from Muppet Labs Just give us Kylie, cos there's nothing smiley About the saddest singer in the land But oh how it drives me mad Each high pitched note in the Key of Sad And there every chuffing chance he will incense me When he sings softly and slowly Sam Smith's such a whiny chancer Is something stuck inside his airway? It's like he's sucking on lemon And someone's kicked his plums today And at his peak, he's still downbeat "Will it ever end?" I pray to God Bereft of cheer, I'd rather volunteer And opt for death by firing squad But here comes Sam, Pop Prince of Bland Into the auditorium He takes so long, with each sad, sad song His warbling words, go on and on (and on and on and on...) Have I missed a trick? What's the huge appeal With this high pitched whingy balladeer? It's like they went and autotuned a banshee Still whinging softly, slowly... Sam Smith's such a whiny chancer He could make you feel thankful for Coldplay His albums should have a health warning Just pass the razor blades this way Sam Smith's such a whiny chancer A bloke who makes Thom Yorke look jolly And while we're at it, that's no Bond Theme I'd sooner die another day

Too Good To Be Jus Lyrics: Alan Doonican / Scott Doonican ​ Why do they call it a "jus"? That runny stuff in me stew It's like the menu's in Dutch And that's how they can charge you so much. Don't tell me that it's a sauce Cos they come in bottles, of course I'm so chuffin' narked I could sue Those gret pillocks for calling it "jus"... ​ I implore you to pardon me please It may be sauce... if it's cheese But to call it a “jus” is just cheek Such pretentious words that chefs speak I like moisture in me meal And there's only one word that's real. So stop acting all Cordon Bleu Before you get yer'sen a reight talking to ​ We call it gravy the only name that's right We call it gravy none of that poncey tripe  We call it gravy - hear us now when we say  We love our gravy over a Barnsley chop We love our gravy on chip's from the chip shop That's why we call it gravy cos its not “jus” ​ And when I watch Master Chef I can't help but eff and Jeff What is celeriac foam? And who the chuff has consomê at home? And when that say it's a glaze I start to see a red haze I'm not one for causing taboo Have some sense and please stop calling it “jus” ​ We call it gravy the only name that's right We call it gravy none of that poncey tripe We call it gravy - we’re frum the North and we say  We love our gravy over our corned beef hash We love our gravy with Yorkshire puds and mash That's why wecall it gravy cos its not “jus”