The Broadside Ballad of Maggie Gove

(Lyrics: S.Doonican/B.Doonicansson/A.Doonican/A.White)

 

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

​

 

Penny Laine

(Lyrics: S.Doonican/A.White)

 

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

​

 

Squat In The Park

(Lyrics: A.Doonican/S.Doonican/A.White)

 

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

 

 

Middle Of The Aisles

(Lyrics: S.Doonican/A.White)

​

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

​

 

Dead Right Hand

(Lyrics: S.Doonican/A.White)

 

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?

 

​

Binful Of Bottles

(Lyrics: S.Doonican/A.White)

 

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 (x 15)

I'd sup formaldehyde

​

 

Plate The Pie & Peas

(Lyrics: S.Doonican/A.White)

 

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

 

 

Where The Streets Have No Stains

(Lyrics: A.Doonican/S.Doonican/A.White)

 

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”

​

 

Goat Yoga

(Lyrics: S.Doonican/A.White/A.Doonican)

 

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!)

 

​

Can’t Face The Peeling

(Lyrics: A.Doonican/S.Doonican/A.White)

​

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.

 

 

The Funeral

(Traditional - collected in Vaughan Williams Memorial Library ROUD V2209)

 

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!

​

The Majstång Medley  - Instrumental

(Trad. Arr. B.Doonicasson)
The Stoat That Ate Me Sandals  / Kerrigan's Fancy / Bear Dance / The Grand Parade

​

 

The Road

(Lyrics: F.Turner/S.Doonican)

 

Scott & Frank Turner:

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

 

CHORUS

 

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

 

CHORUS

 

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

 

CHORUS

 

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

 

Hidden Tracks:

​

Morris Dance (The Bledington Crotch Remix)

(Lyrics: A.Doonican/S.Doonican/A.White)

 

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…

 

​

Meet On The Ledge 

(Lyrics: R.Thompson)

 

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