Bank Holiday, on the first of May Is the best one of the year Where I planned to spend good company And most of me wage on beer To Barnsley Folk Club I did go To have fun with my peers I'd heard their singaround was good Their ale and atmosphere The very first rule of Folk Club Is not to talk of it Or of the world of beige contained inside In Arran or double knit But I turned up open-minded Cos I'm an open-minded bloke But if the future of folk depends on it We've got not bloody hope Cos I waited for my turn to come I'd tuned up in advance But before I got my time to shine I lost my chuffing chance Cos who jumps up but Margaret Gove And everyone did yawn She's the Queen of epic Broadside songs Of seventy verses long Old Maggie's been on the folk scene Since Moses was a lad She loves boring song after boring song But only if they're Trad No Fairport or Bob Dylan They're too modern for Maggie Gove Every song she sings begins in May Cos that's when wild rovers rove Songs of maidens young and fair Going down by the greenwood side With knackered moral compasses And their legs spread open wide Or sea shanties about whaling fleets Or ballads of wars long gone Nowt breaks the stride of ol' Maggie Gove No she just rambles on Now I've learnt the rules of folk songs They're about sex, death and poltics Or burning folk in a Wickerman Under a solar eclipse But certain folk songs trouble me What's the fuss about Maidenhead? And why do all the happy couples Always end up dead? And why do comely maidens Have fun rolling in the hay Before the bombshell's quaintly dropped That the merry ploughboy's gay! But back now to my tale of woe Although I did digress It took the length of the last seven verses For things to progress After a ten minute introduction Of where she collected it I knew right then that Maggie's song Would be a steaming pile of shit Then Maggie Gove composed herself She coughed and cleared her throat Then unacompanied she sang Like she'd kick-started a goat With a finger placed tight in her ear She meandered through her tune But apparently both fingers in mine Makes me extremely rude The rest of the bearded folkie folk Had heard her drone before But little did I know at verse sixteen There was another fifty four My beer glass soon ran empty But folk etiquette dicates You don't leave your seat til the singer's done No matter how long it takes Her boring ballad blundered on As dread consumed that place If Cecil Sharpe came back right now I'd shoot him in the face Survival instinct consumed me I'd not be press ganged yet I'll took my chance while I still could And thought bollocks to etiquette Long before she reached her final verse I lost my mind and cracked I put my guitar back in its case And vowed to ne'r go back! I left that most archaic place Brow-beaten, mentally scarred I’d consider other music clubs But jazz is much too hard

I’ve had a problem for a while when rising from a chair There’s now a weird old grunting sound that I emit And though I know that there’s no benefit... I now do make it Will you please pardon my loud outbursts of obscenities I guess you think that what I’ve got could be Tourettes But when my spine it clicks like castanets It drives me insane It’s not just middle age Rheumatic pain shoots from my arse down to my thighs And when it comes to call I’m traumatised Can’t feel my toes right now It’s probably a sign that I’m not getting younger now Because my back is going out more now than me I need more batteries for me TENS machine It’s a mean machine I ascertain to exert force would be unwise Forget aerobic exercise Apply that Deep Heat pack My lower back feels like it’s been kicked by a buffalo While hippy mates suggest I join pilates class You know just where to shove your yoga mat I’ve seen a chiropractor, physio and osteopath Been a pin-cushion for the acupuncturist If it’s a ruptured herniated disc I’ll need an exorcist... But there’s a waiting list Can’t entertain my lumbar pain L1 to 5 It numbs my buttocks, legs and thighs Can’t sit it hurts my back Auf Wiedersehn to all my pain please set it loose There beneath kind hands and my masseuse She’s called Penny Laine

Broke down in the street Passing through Heckmondwyke Late at night and chuffing raining Me guts doing flips, summat clearly not right Me colon feeling quite explosive I regret that egg sarnie, a day out of date Stomach’s churning, really squirming Wished I'd had that unripe banana instead I need a toilet now! I had to squat in the park The nearest place out of public view By the swings in the dark Before sheltering under the bandstand's roof Just then a police car pulled up by the gates Blue lights on and siren blasting A suspicious policemen got out and asked me How I'd first got into flashing It appears an old lady had dialled treble one From her house overlooking my exposed, bare bum I'd been caught by the Fuzz after I'd been caught short So I spent a night in the cells I'd had to squat in the park And my innocent act was misconstrued Now my future looks stark And the police cell had no working loo! A miscarriage of justice, I plan to appeal And I now know just how Paula Radcliffe must feel If only I'd brought me dog I'd have blamed him instead And I'd not be in this mess I had to squat in the park The closest place I could stagger to I left the worst calling card But a man must do what a man must do

Beware the middle of the aisles In the Lidl when you're there They've got an orbital sander And rubbish nylon ski wear I might pop in for some parsley Or summat quick for me tea But then I end up stood browsing Stupid shit I don't need I try to cross to the opposite side But it still drags me in, if I go in for booze I once went in for semi skimmed milk Leaving with power tools, that I never will use In the middle of the aisles They've got stuff you can't believe A barbecue and a kayak A tool for sucking up leaves A thirty watt nose hair strimmer A motion sensor bin They got a Black and Decker Workbench And a compact home gym I try to cross to the opposite side But I can't help the urge, I can never refuse I only wanted some flour and eggs But left a skateboard and ill fitting shoes It's round the very central aisles That ar lass prohibits me I'm not allowed to go near them now And in fairness I see That it's prob'ly an illness Cos no-one really needs that They dress it up as a bargain But it's an aisle full of tat I try to cross to the opposite side But temptation's greater than all of my fears It only takes me a second or two Before I'm there at the checkout With cheap scuba gear... In the middle of the night I couldnt get to sleep Cos I saw it in the centre spread Of the Lidl Weekly A cure for my problems Cos hoarding isn't a sin They got a flat pack shed this week For me to keep it all in On the very middle aisle

Me mates and me missus took the mick When I told them of me misery The doctor said that it's repetitive strain But they're still laughin... at me They loved to take the piss About my aching wrist But there was absolutely nothing that I could do And now I'm here to set the record straight, As I explain to you That I've never done nowt dodgy It's not hard to understand And there's very valid reasons For me dead right hand I remember when it started, in 1984 It began with 'Daly Thompson's Declathon' On the Commodore 64 A rapid blur, so quick, Bashing on me joystick But I was quite the expert with me javelin in hand And on the 15 hundred meters I'd always take the gold medal on the stand There's no need to cast aspersions No, you've got to understand The early 80s generation Have a dead right hand I just became a nightmare... at night I could not sleep The stiffness and the cramp, got worse if it was damp And it throbbed unmercililessly The doctor gave advice, He said "You're paying the price, For all those years of pleasure That your hand has given you" Take a rest... Relax. It might pull through I now play chess and rest But when me Bishop's in me hand There's a distant muscle mem'ry In me dead right hand And it hurts on 'Place Of Spades' When I'm rehearsing with the band Why does nobody believe me 'bout me dead right hand?

Boris Johnson: "From Thursday all pubs, bars and restaurants must operate a table service only, together with all hospitality venues they must close at 10pm. And to help the police to enforce this rule, I afraid that means alas closing and not just calling for last orders because simplicity is paramount" Scott: I did no drinking behind perspex screens I drank to new extremes, hardly healthy Whilst safe at home I kept the dream alive From the morning, past the evening And beyond 10 at night Me brown bin's full of bottles now I'm stuck inside Me brown bin's full of bottles now I'm stuck inside Me brown bin's full of bottles now I'm stuck inside Me brown bin's full of bottles now I'm stuck inside I'm drinking, even though I've had me vaccines The Harvey's Bristol Creme ran out In the lockdown's first week There's nothing much now that I wouldn't imbibe I forced down Tetleys and flat Carlsberg But I din't do Bud Light I'm working down the sherry cos its fortified I'm working down the sherry cos its fortified I'm working down the sherry cos its fortified I'm working down the sherry cos its fortified And everybody hides the whisky at the bottom Everyone hides the whisky Everybody hides the whisky at the bottom Everyone hides the whisky Boris Johnson: "And I know there is nothing more frustrating for the vast majority, than the sight of a few brazenly defying the rules" Scott: The absinthe, obliterated waiting for The clinical trials I didn't care abart no Government warnings, Cos I stayed safe at home and got drunk as a lord I'm running out of home brew and I'm mortified There's not a single drink that I have set aside There's cans of Special Brew that I can justify Supped real ale, Guinness, paint thinners and peroxide Everybody hides the whisky at the bottom Everyone hides the whisky Everybody hides the whisky at the bottom Everyone hides the whisky Everybody hides the whisky at the bottom Everyone hides the whisky Everybody hides the whisky at the bottom Everyone hides the whisky And I'm drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking And drinking I'd sup formaldehyde

I light a candle for my love Wait for the wine list to appear But in posh restaurants I discover The missus looks across at me in fear… This in’t gonna work 'Cos I could eat a scabby donkey with lurg I’ve ate two bread rolls and I’ve asked for another one The waiter looks shocked and stunned I’m quite concerned - I can’t read French What the hell’s an hors d'oeuvres? Bugger off I want a plate of Pie & Peas A plate of Pie & Peas I’m quite concerned - I can’t read French But I know this is merde “Voulez Vous, I want a plate of Pie & Peas A plate of Pie & Peas” This kind of place Always filled with snobby folks poker-faced All around my plate utensils are just festooned I’ve got four forks and a range of spoons (How am I gonna choose?) Don’t talk to me I’ve got no time for folks who pass round the brie You’ve got no chance, I want a plate of Pie & Peas A plate of Pie & Peas I took a gamble for my love The odds are stacked against me here Fine dining never was my forte But maybe I should try to persevere… You claim I don’t try But when it looks and tastes like something’s insides I’m forced to treat it, like he’s just brought a plate of sprouts I’d much rather go with out - all of this Cordon Blue I’m not going to fret 'Cos I was dragged up, I have no etiquette Forget that muck I want a plate of Pie & Peas A plate of pie & peas I dun’t want to grouse But should I have soup or remortgage me house Don’t wind me up because this joke Has gone much too far What the chuff’s caviar? Forget coq au vin I would sooner have some corned beef or spam But right now I want a plate of Pie & Peas A plate of pie & peas I lit a candle for my love But now my love has disappeared The waiter’s looking quite disgruntled Forget the wine list – go get me a beer

After a gig, I don’t want to drive I want to get to my digs and check in the moment I arrive At a hotel that's clean as it tries to proclaim But they're not all the same I just need a place to unpack my case To wash my lustrous locks with a hot power shower on my face Where Trip-Advisor Reviews show that no one's complained And where the sheets have no stains... oh no Where the sheets have no stains Where the sheets have no stains If it's not clean, I don't give a chuff! It's not good enough And if the telly remote is sticky like glue You know what I’ll do Don’t want thick hair in me bath Or crawly bedbugs galore Or things that go bump in the night Like that right noisy couple next door Don’t need the map to my room To be like Hampton Court Maze Or where me room stinks of drains... oh no Where me room stinks of drains Where me room stinks of drains Forget maid service - I don't give a chuff! It's not good enough Cos if I go to bed, and find old tissues Oh you know what I’ll do I want a place that I trust Don’t want to walk where your toe-nails were trimmed And you just missed the bin Oh I’ve seen it all... Why has nobody flushed? There’s nowt discrete if there are traces on view Of what was left in the loo Pass the questionnaire, for my point-of-view “This place is shit like U2”

Alan: It sounds New Age, but it’s all the rage And they’re all free range (GOAT YOGA!) Scott: With their weirdy beards and their cloven hooves All cute and hirsuite (GOAT YOGA!) Alan: If your inclined plane has become mundane, A goat can entertain (GOAT YOGA!) Scott: For twenty quid find your third eyelid And release your inner kid (GOAT YOGA!) Scott: I ain’t fraid of those goats Alan: I ain’t fraid of those goats Alan: If your shoulder's locked. Scott: Or your chakras blocked Alan: It really can't be topped (GOAT YOGA!) Alan: Wanna feel reborn? Scott: Face a capricorn Alan: Take life by the horns, with (GOAT YOGA!) Alan: If you’ve had enough Scott: And wanna to get buff Alan: Join the Billy Goats Gruff at (GOAT YOGA!) Alan: You won’t feel a prat, on your rubber mat Scott: With all the goats and that (GOAT YOGA!) Scott: I ain’t ‘fraid of those goats Alan: There’s one that’s on me back Scott: I ain’t ‘fraid of those goats Scott & Alan: Cos goats will make you feel good! Alan: Your downward dog won’t feel such a slog Scott: Clear your mind from fog (GOAT YOGA!) Alan: If one's on your back and its bowels are slack. Scott: Shit can happen at (GOAT YOGA!) Scott: If you've want a dose of them giddy goats, well… You better call (GOAT YOGA!) Alan: They’re hot to trot, so book yourself a slot Just call (GOAT YOGA!) Scott: Take the plunge - perfect your caprine lunge Alan: Get down! (GOAT YOGA!) Scott: Cat, Crow or Cow, upward plank or plough Alan: Bring the goats on now (GOAT YOGA!) Alan: All the girls and boys make a bleating noise (GOAT YOGA!)

When we were kids me mam she loved her chip pan So much she'd use it each and every night At night the lard was clear with jet black bits in But by morning it was cold and hard and white I can’t remember what it was that changed things Was it gradual or was it overnight? Do we blame McCains, Iceland or Auntie Bessies Or that chuffin’ Jamie Oliver for our chipped-potato blight? Now some of my chips are floppy And the rest are dark as night Where they once had fluffy centres In every gorgeous, golden bite But after working all day I can't deal with King Edwards tonight… No I can't face the peeling anymore I know I should but it seems such a chore Mam's fabled chip pan's joined the dinosaurs And passed into folklore, forever No I can't face the peeling anymore I watch me soggy chips cook through the oven door And later flaccid on my plate Looking quite the sorry state But I can't face the peeling anymore Fast forward thirty years and now I’m older Mam’s chip-pan had been condemned some years ago Last year I went and made the resolution That I wanted to lose seven pounds But now I’ve thirteen more to go And it’s not that I mind cookin’ But when it gets to Friday night Ar lass likes a jumbo sausage and I don’t mind a Pukka Pie So a trip to the chippy will be my big workout tonight Cos I don’t face the peeling anymore It’s a humdrum menial task that I abhor I don’t care what’s behind that pantry door Where that bag of Maris Pipers lay waiting No I can't face the peeling anymore And those curly fries from Aldi taste quite poor So pile the real deal on that tray Keep my hunger pangs at bay Cos I can’t face the peeling anymore.

Once I got an invitation to go to a funeral But to me disappointment, well the fellow didn't die. He apologised profusely For the trouble he was causing us And after the apologies we let the matter lie To make up for disappointment, He took us out and treated us, He called for pints of porter for a company of ten. And when somebody asked him, Whose money he was squandering That fella got his eyebrows Put in mourning there and then. Now the owner of the beer shop he saw us getting riotous He told us for to hop it, but to go we all refused So he called a gang of loafers who were hanging round the corner, And for ten or fifteen minutes we were terribly abused. They chased us from the beer shop and down the street we staggered, Where a bunch of raggamuffins started pelting us with mud. We told them for to chuck it and they said that they were doing so, And they battered us severely and they left us where we stood. Just then we came in contact with a party of Salvationers, They rifled all our pockets, til we swore that we were saved And little Mick McGinty got escorted to the station house For asking a policeman if his bottom hair was shaved. To pay McGinty's bail every man took off his undershirt And off to the pawnshop we dragged the chuffin’ lot. We told the man we only wanted ten-and-sixpence on ‘em “There’s enough on ‘em already!” was the answer that we got. So we got the ten and sixpence and set off to free McGinty, But the devil take the whisky shop we met along the way. We couldn't pass the door without taking some refreshment Til we squandered every penny of the fine we had to pay. Then the whisky being in us and the sense it being out of us, For a spot of rioting, every one of us did prepare We battered one another till we weren't worth three ha'pence, And you couldn’t see the carpet on the floor for skin and hair. Then we bought a concertina for to keep the great hilarity, Though none of us could play, though we tried our best and worst. We knocked a lot of noise from it, if that was any benefit, We handled it so gently that the bellows went and burst. So, we got some hot potatoes for to mend the concertina And then someone hit McCluskey with the carcass of a rat. He buckled up his eyebrows and went and read the Riot Act. And swore he'd put two heads on the bugger that did that. Then I hit McClusky and McClusky hit some other man, And everyone hit anyone to whom he had a spite. And Johnny MacNamara who was sitting saying nothing Got a kick that broke his jaw for not indulging in the fight. And we fought like Turks 'till the police they arrested us And they marched us off to jail with broken noses and black eyes. I got forty days hard labour and for me it was a warning, boys Oh, never go to funerals until the bugger dies!

Scott & Frank: To the east to the east The road beneath our feet To the west to the west Even Lancashire’s impressed From the north from the north We are always back and forth To the south, to the south Yeah we’re always chuffing out! Frank: Ever since my childhood, I've been scared, I've been afraid Of being trapped by circumstance and staying in one place So I always keep a small bag full of clothes carefully stored Somewhere secret, somewhere safe and somewhere close to the door Scott: Ever since we started out, I've always been aware Our show’s much more than tank tops and our mops of gorgeous hair I often sit and pinch myself, about how far we’ve come Our dad spawned many brothers but we all have diff’rent mums Scott & Frank: To the east to the east The road beneath our feet To the west to the west Even Lancashire’s impressed From the north from the north We are always back and forth To the south, to the south Yeah we’re always chuffing out! Frank: Well I've travelled many countries, I've washed my feet in many seas I've drunk with drifters in Vienna and with punks in old DC And I've driven across deserts driven by the irony That only being shackled to the the road could ever I be free Scott: Well we’ve travelled cross our country, simply trying to mek folk laugh We've drank from here to Glastonbury, and from Tarn to Matlock Bath And we've played a boat on Norfolk’s Broads and to ten folk in Glasgow We’ve played Buxton chuffing Opera House, even though those twats said no Scott & Frank: To the east to the east The road beneath our feet To the west to the west Even Lancashire’s impressed From the north from the north We are always back and forth To the south, to the south Yeah we’re always chuffing out! Scott: Festivals and theatres, pubs and clubs, village halls too Frank: We’ve often clocked up miles and miles to bring our show to you Scott & Frank: And the nights a thousand nights we've played And a thousand more to go Before I take my pint and raise it up To the next one thousand shows Scott & Frank: To the east to the east The road beneath our feet To the west to the west Even Lancashire’s impressed From the north from the north We are always back and forth To the south, to the south Yeah we’re always chuffing out! Roll up and take your ringside seats for another crazy night We hope you go home entertained, we’re here to keep it light So bring your hearty belly laughs Bring a thousand miles of smile And if you go home feeling glad you came It was worth all the while Like the Proclaimers, we’ll drive 500 miles Scott & Frank: To the east to the east The road beneath our feet To the west to the west Even Lancashire’s impressed From the north from the north We are always back and forth To the south, to the south Yeah we’re always chuffing out! To the south, to the south Yeah we’re always chuffing out! Frank: I face the horizon everywhere I go I face the horizon the horizon is my home Scott & Frank: We face the horizon everywhere that we go We face the horizon the horizon is our home

Alan: You can dance if you want to Stomp yer clogs - wave yer garland high You can Right-Hand Star your way to the bar And your tankard never will run dry At the Olde Cock & Pullett Join the Mummers as they start to mime And as your sticks ascend, just shake your bell ends Making sure you pull out on time - You can dance… Alan & Scott: Border dance if you want to It's tradition, it's not a trend It's a rare old place where a blacked-up face Is not there to offend Dance with swords if you want to Face a partner who is parallel And when you raise your shaft, you won't feel so daft Cos the lads are raising theirs as well Scott Morris Dance, c'mon Morris Dance... Morris Dance, oh yeah Morris dance ​ Scott & Alan: Pace-egg if you want to Or wear a hobby-horses head Horn-dance like a stag if that is your bag Or dance like a fool instead On May Day, if you want to, You can do it at the village fair The size of your pole's a sight to behold When erected for the people, erected for the people there Morris dance Morris dance - if you're feeling that way inclined Morris dance Morris dance - like it’s 1599 Morris dance Morris dance Morris Dance, oh yeah Morris dance Come on Morris Dance, Morris Dance...

We used to say That come the day We'd all be making songs Or finding better words These ideas never lasted long The way is up Along the road The air is growing thin Too many friends who tried Were blown off this mountain with the wind Meet on the ledge We're gonna meet on the ledge When my time is up I'm gonna see all my friends Meet on the ledge We're gonna meet on the ledge If you really mean it, it all comes round again Yet now I see I'm all alone But that's the only way to be You'll have your chance again Then you can do the work for me Meet on the ledge We're gonna meet on the ledge When my time is up I'm gonna see all my friends Meet on the ledge We're gonna meet on the ledge If you really mean it, it all comes round again