Swollen Lyrics

THE WINKING CAVEMAN (misprint)

Down in the jungle, ten million years B.C.
Was a big sweaty caveman in a coconut tree
He had two sticks and he said “It’s my conviction
I can make fire if I use a little friction”
He rubbed and he rubbed
Then he started on his pud
He said “Great gosh almighty
Don’t that feel good”
‘Cause he was w*nkin’
‘Cause he was w*nkin’
He was w*nkin’, people, with a muscular grip
You put your hand on your hip and let your backbone slip

Goliath was a Philistine, biggest ever seen
David was a short-a*se who came from Golders Green
Goliath went walkin’, tripped over his c*ck
David went WALLOP with a bloody great lump of rock
And then he went and played his harp
And wrote a load of Psalms
But that ain’t the reason why
He’s got such big strong arms
‘Cause he was w*nking
‘Cause he was w*nking
He was w*nking, people like they say in the song
You put your hand on your dong and it won’t take long

The five-knuckle shuffle is a wonderful creation
It’s a knob knob… knob knob… knob manipulation
You can do it in the morning or the middle of the night
And it can’t be wrong if it feels so right
When you’re w*nkin’
When you’re w*nkin’
W*nkin’, people like you bloody well should
Put your hand on your pud and it feels so good

Napoleon’s sweetheart Empress Josey-phene
Had something she let him stick his Bony part between
But when he took up w*nking he’d just turn out the light
And say “Sorry Josey-phene, tonight is not the night”
He’d grab hold of his pl*nker and he’d commence to wack it
And that’s why he stood like that
With his hand stuffed in his jacket
‘Cause he was w*nkin’
‘Cause he was w*nkin’
He was w*nkin’, people with a muscular grip
You put your hand on your hip and let your backbone slip

‘Cause he was w*nkin’
W*nkin’

Performed by Ivor Biggun with The Vulgar Band
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

DOROTHY PLEASE TRIM YOUR HINGE (misprint)

The naughty bits of pretty girls
Have tufty corners kinks and curls
But the p*bes of my girl Dorothee
Stretch from her belly-button to her knee
The general effect of her p*bic area
Resembles Bigfoot’s b*m, but hairier
And any attempt to find her sn*tch
Is a scramble in a bramble patch
 
So… Dorothy, please trim your m*nge
Won’t you clip your f*nny fringe
Your p*bic hair makes me despair
So kindly cut dat t’ing down dere
 
And though I love my Dorothee
She’s got hairs on her belly like the branches on a tree
Three first-aiders stand and wait
In case m*ff-divers suffocate
The last time that I went in there
I found some rabbits and a grizzly bear
Lord Lucan and best by far
Elvis riding on Shergar
 
So… Dorothy, please trim your m*nge
Won’t you clip your f*nny fringe
Your P*bic hair makes me despair
So kindly cut dat t’ing down dere
 
Some people have no objection
But really it causes me pain
To see the object of my affection
Catching her p*bes in her bicycle chain
 
They say one hair from her v*gina
Would stretch from Chingford down to China
And I just won’t explore alone
Without a compass and a mobile phone
I went in there with volunteers
Lumberjacks and a pair of shears
Tree Surgeons and some boy scouts
Six went in and one came out
 
So… Dorothy, please trim your m*nge
Won’t you clip your f*nny fringe
Your p*bic hair makes me despair
So kindly cut dat t’ing down dere

Oh Dorothy..
Hold it woman you’re strangling me

Performed by Lord Crabs and The Clam-Divers
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

THE PREMATURE EJ*CULATION WALTZ

The girl they call Jeannie
Looks like Mussolini
She’s rat-a*sed and out on the pull
And there on the dancefloor by the light of the jukebox
She waltzes with Waylon from Hull
And she unzips her blouse as
He lubricates his trousers
And now she’s undoing his tie
And if he stays sober
He’ll get his leg over
Which is better than a poke in the eye…(but not much)
And he gets her name wrong & spews in her handbag
But she don’t care, she’s blind to his faults
They’re dancing till dawn & the jukebox keeps playing
The premature ejac…………ulation waltz.
 
It starts to resemble a
Furtive knee-trembler
Dancing with passion and feeling
She kicks off her knickers and gives ’em a flick as
They fly up and stick to the ceiling
And he’s too polite now
To mention outright how
He’s half her considerable size
And she hopes he’s so pissed
He might not have noticed
She’s chafing his ears with her thighs…..up sideways
He sings Karaoke, he came out of chokey
Last week, but she’s blind to his faults
They’re dancing till dawn & the jukebox keeps playing
The premature ejac…………ulation waltz.
 
And he bums fifty pence for
The c*ndom dispenser
She carries him out to the car
And she puts the lights off and he rips her tights off
They’re at it three beats to the bar
And just like Jacques Cousteau
He dives in with gusto
And she suggests somethink obscene
And hopes with persuasion
He’ll rise to the occasion
And he prays that his Y-fronts are clean…
                              …..and she’s had nine
Pints of Dogbolter, so she thinks he’s John Travolta
And she don’t care, she’s blind to his faults
They’re dancing till dawn & the jukebox keeps playing
The premature ejac…………ulation waltz.
They’re dancing till dawn & the jukebox keeps playing
The premature ejac…………ulation waltz.

The Premature Ejac… “ooh I’m sorry
That’s never happened before”… ulation Waltz

Performed by Big Jesse and The Cowpokes
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

DOWN BY THE RIVERSIDE

I had a large explosive sh*t
Down by the riverside
It spread both far and wide
It filled my heart with pride
I sh*t ’til my a*se’ole split
Down by the riverside
The fish and the tadpoles died

And I ain’t a-gonna swim in there no more
Ain’t a-gonna swim in there no more
‘Cause it don’t smell the way it did before
It smells like a badger’s b*m
It smells just like Birmingham
Or maybe an Egyptian sh*t-house door

I wiped my a*se with leaves and grass
Down by the riverside
Up ‘n’ down and side to side
All along the great divide
The effluent set like cement
And though I tried and tried
My r*ctum could not be rectified

And I ain’t a-gonna swim in there no more
Naked women there no more
And it don’t smell the way it smelt before
It smells like a badger’s b*m
It smells just like Rotherham
Or maybe an Egyptian sh*t-house door

I fed my t*rds to aquatic birds
Down by the riverside
They could not quite decide
If they were cyanide
The ducks went quack and flung ’em back
And ‘though I tried to hide
I ended up t*rdified

I ain’t a-gonna swim in there no more
It’s up to the brim in there I’m sure
And it don’t smell the way it smelt before
It smells like a badger’s b*m
It smells just like Wimbledon
Or maybe an Egyptian shit-house door

My massive dump made one big clump
Down by the riverside
It drifted with the tide
“Ahoy!” a sailor cried
“Would that be sh*te or the Isle Of Wight
I see on my port side?”
Down by the riverside

And we ain’t a-gonna swim in there no more
By that sh*tty shingle shore
‘Cause it don’t smell the way it did before
It smells like a badger’s b*m
It smells just like Birmingham
Or maybe an Egyptian sh*t-house door
And so does the reservoir… phwoooar!

Performed by The Loose Stool Stompers
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

THE YODELLING WINKER (misprint)

In far Switzerland
Lives a goatherd who’s hand
Has a palm that is calloused and worn
From his idle vice
Despite mum’s advice
Not to play with his old alpine horn

When he stuck his c*ck
In a large cuckoo clock
His helmet went right through the cranker
He went “Yodel-o yodel-o yodel-o arghh!”
And they call him the yodelling w*nker

In the mountains up there
Young women are rare
And that’s why the goatsherd depends
On holes found in trees
And emmental cheese
And the a*ses of four-legged friends

But one nanny goat
Aimed a kick at his scrote
And caught him one heck of a flanker
He went “Yodel-o yodel-o yodel-o arghh!”
And they call him the yodelling w*nker

Oh Yodel-o-yodel-o-yodel-o-do
He’s singing so melodious
His voice seems to go to a yodel-o-do
Whenever he tightens his truss

* While digging for sheep
In a snowdrift so deep
The corpse of a tourist he found
She was stiff as a board
But when she was thawed
He ‘ad ‘er from all sides around

At the thirty-third stroke
The maiden awoke
And bit off his old hanky-panker
He went “Yodel-o yodel-o yodel-o arghh!”
And they call him the yodelling w*nker

(Adieu)
The valleys all echo
His yodel falsetto
“My darling please say where you are!”
From the mountaintop high
He hears this reply
“Baa… Baa… Baa… And your old lady too!”

*Ivor’s alternative couplet…
While having a sh*te
In a snowdrift so white

Performed by The Five-Knuckle Shufflers
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

ALL THESE THINGS ARE SOUL

My sister is called Mabel
She washes once a year
She wears a braclet on her wrist
And an earring on her ear
‘g on her ear, ‘g on her ear, ‘g on her ear, ‘g on her ear
‘g on her ear, ‘g on her ear, ‘g on her ear
She wears a braclet on her wrist
And an earring on her ear

Oh Mabel she sings gospel
The blues and rock ‘n’ roll
The sound of Stax and Motown
All of these things are soul
Are soul, are soul, are soul, are soul
Are soul, are soul, are soul
The sound of Stax and Motown
All of these things are soul

Oh Mabel sailed around the world
From Liverpool to Sri Lanka
But she prefers her own home port
‘Cause that’s the place you anchor
You anchor, you anchor, you anchor
You anchor, you anchor, you anchor
She prefers her own home port
‘Cause that’s the place you anchor

She went to the Royal Gardens
Like all the tourists do
She took the train for Turnham Green
Then took the ‘bus for Kew
For Kew, for Kew, for Kew, for Kew
For Kew, for Kew, for Kew
She took the train for Turnham Green
Then took the bus for Kew

Oh Mabel baths in axle-grease
From her feet up to her chin
She swears it cures her chillblains
And it’s awfully good for skin
For skin, for skin, for skin, for skin
For skin, for skin, for skin
She swears it cures her chillblains
And it’s awfully good for skin

Oh Mabel pulled the bell-rope
Which was fifty-two feet long
The bell did ring with one big ding
And then a great big dong
Big dong, big dong, big dong, big dong
Big dong, big dong, big dong
The bell did ring with one big ding
And then a great big dong

dong… dong… dong…

– Unused verse (the bloody song was too long already)
A handsome hairy Viking
Icelandic born and bred
He had Icelandic features
And a fine Icelandic head
‘Dic head, ‘dic head, ‘dic head, ‘dic head
‘Dic head, ‘dic head, ‘dic head
He had Icelandic features
And a fine Icelandic head

Performed by Gripper O’Toole and The Furtive Five
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

UKULELE LADY

I saw the splendour of the moonlight
On Honolulu bay
There’s something tender in the moonlight
On Honolulu bay

And all the beaches
Are full of peaches
Who bring their ukes along
And in the glimmer of the moonlight
They love to sing-a this song

If you like a ukulele lady
Ukelele lady like-a you
If you like to linger where it’s shady
Ukulele lady linger too

If you kiss a ukulele lady
While you promise ever to be true
And she see another ukulele lady
Fooling ’round with you

Maybe she’ll sigh
Maybe she’ll cry
Maybe she’ll find somebody else
Bye and bye
To sing to when it’s cool and shady
Where the tricky whicky whackies woo
If you like a ukulele lady
Ukulele lady like-a you

Itokeawhackybaccy
Andmakeahippyhappy

She used to sing to me by moonlight
On Honolulu bay
My memories cling to me by moonlight
Although I’m far away

Someday I’m going
Where eyes are glowing
And lips are made to kiss
To see somebody in the moonlight
And hear the song I miss

If you like a ukulele lady
Ukulele lady like-a you
If you like to linger where it’s shady
Ukulele lady linger too

If you kiss a ukulele lady
While you promise ever to be true
And she sees another ukulele lady
Fooling ’round with you

Maybe she’ll sigh (an awful lot)
Maybe she’ll cry (or maybe not)
Maybe she’ll find somebody else
Bye and bye
To sing to when it’s cool and shady
Where the tricky whicky whacky woo
If you like a ukulele lady
Ukulele lady like-a you

If you like a ukulele lady
Ukulele lady like
I like you
And you like me
And we like a ukulele

Performed by The Blistered Palm Serenaders
Written by Gus Kahn and Richard A. Whiting
Published by Francis Day & Hunter / EMI Music Ltd.
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

TWO THIRDS OF FOUR FIFTHS

A mathematician from Scunthorpe
Discovered the weight of his ball
Plus his scr*tum times three
Was approximately
Two thirds of four fifths of f*ck all

A nineteen year old nymphomaniac
Wore a bog-paper dress to a ball
But it started tearing
She ended up wearing
Two thirds of four fifths of f*ck all

With premature ej*culation
It seems my endurance is small
From the time of inserting
To the moment of squirting
Two thirds of four fifths of f*ck all

I was seized with a stiff constipation
I crouched in a lavatory stall
I thundered and pumped
But finally dumped
Two thirds of four fifths of f*ck all

It’s a big c*ck, a big c*ck
A big c*ck and bull story
Here comes the interesting bit
The parts that are true
Near enough add up to
Just about half the square root of jack sh*t

My p*nis is small like an acorn
Sometimes I can’t find it at all
It’s infinitesimal
Or expressed in decimal
Point five of point three of f*ck all

An ancient Egyptian urinal
Has the meaning of life on the wall
In plain simple words
It’s written in t*rds
Two thirds of four fifths of f*ck all

Now that is the end of my chanson
And if for an encore you call
Well b*llocks you tw*t
The chances of that are
Two thirds of four fifths of f*ck all

“‘Ere Mr. Recording Engineer, what’s the chances of this song becoming a number one hit?”
“About two thirds of four fifths of practically nothing”

Unused verse, deservedly cut from the released version
There’s a harlot with p*x, clap and h*rpes
You can smell her from here to Bengal
She’s got syph and colitis
And that’s why her price is
Two thirds of four fifths of f*ck all

Performed by The Boys From The Bog
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

THE SON OF JOHN THOMAS ALLCOCK

“Can you ‘ear me mother?’
“Some bloke come up to me and ‘e said
‘I’m a w…ank”
“When I’m cleanin’ windows”
“He winked his ass’ole in and out
He made his balls inflate
‘Til they resembled the giant globes
That stand at the garden gate”
“‘Ere, what ‘ave you got in your ‘and?”
“Ooh, you are awful, but I like you…”

John Thomas Allcock
He had gigantic g*nitalia
He lived next door to mother
Then he buggered off to Australia
And nine months later I was born
And the midwife upped and said
“Shall I tie a knot in his belly-button cord
Or else in this instead?”
I never, ever looked like father
I scarcely even looked like Ma
And I was an outcast in my home
Everybody say “aaaah” (aaaah)

London – New York – Paris – Wigan
Everybody’s talking about Ivor Biggun

I wandered lonely as a clod
Where folks could never find me
With several yards of pork clarinet
Trailing on the ground behind me
But then in a gent’s ur*nal
In nineteen seventy-nine
I caught a glimpse of a d*nger
With a birthmark just like mine
“Allcock’s the name”, it’s owner said
“But you can call me John
Remember me to mother”
I said “F*ck me, I’m the son of…”

The man with the biggest pl*nker in the world
He keeps it in his trousers tightly curled
It’s a yard-and-a-half if it’s an inch
And it’s more if it’s unfurled, oh woah,
He’s the man with the biggest pl*nker in the world

John Thomas Allcock
He had a five foot seven incher
And I’d inherited five foot six
And balls like a doberman pinscher
Now I don’t look like daddy
Or the milkman or the lodger
But I can match John Thomas in
Dimensions of the nodger
And like my Pop before me
When dirty deeds are done
The girls line up each morning
For the rising of the son of…

The man with the biggest pl*nker in the world
He keeps it in his trousers tightly curled
It’s a yard-and-a-half if it’s an inch
And it’s more if it’s unfurled, oh woah,
He’s the man with the biggest pl*nker in the world

Just like John Thomas Allcock
I really am the ladies’ treat
Though I only have two hands
I usually swing several feet
I’m following father’s footsteps
Down the path that he once trod
I have outstanding trousers
And a job with Dyno-rod
Impressions of an elephant?
Watch me pick up that bun
They call me Ivor Biggun
But really I’m the son of…

Chorus

John Thomas Allcock he died, he did
And it seems to me
That all what I inherited
Is slappin’ down below my knee
But still I see him in my dreams
With trousers chock-o-block
Pole-vaulting around the bedroom
And tripping over his c*ck
In his last Willie and T*sticle
He said “My race is run
But girls beware of that twat there
Who reckons he’s the son of…”

The man with the biggest pl*nker in the world
He keeps it in his trousers tightly curled
It’s a yard-and-a-half if it’s an inch
And it’s more when it’s unfurled, oh woah,
He’s the man with the biggest pl*nker in the world
He’s the man with the biggest pl*nker
What an enormous stonker
He’s the man with the biggest pl*nker in the world

Performed by Ivan Yujedic and The Pitshanger Posse
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

MY BABY LOVES MY YORKSHIRE PUDDING

My baby loves my Yorkshire pudding
And that’s all right with me
She knows my puddin’ is a good ‘un
‘Cause it stretches down to my knee
When it starts steaming
You can hear her shout
“Ooh I love it with the gravy running out”
My baby loves my Yorkshire pudding
And it’s a loving recipe

My baby loves my big black pudding
And she can have a piece for free
It ain’t no vegetable spud ‘un
It’s meat most definitely
I keep it bubbling
I serve it hot
“Ooh that portion really hits the spot”
My baby loves my big black pudding
And it’s a loving recipe

Well my baby loves my christmas pudding
It’s so big and fruity you see
She knows my puddin’ ain’t a dud ‘un
And she lights up like a christmas tree
Now hold on baby
I think you’d better stop
“It looks so pretty with holly on the top”
My baby loves my christmas pudding
And it’s a special recipe

Well my baby loves my chocolate pudding
It’s just about two foot three
She found out all of a sudden
It’s strange as any pudding can be
Though she eats with vim and vigour
“The more I eat the more it gets bigger”
My baby loves my chocolate pudding
And it’s a special recipe

I said “Baby I’ve got so much pudding
I think there’s enough for three”
Well she said she would and then she wouldn’t
But she finally did agree
She shared her dumplings
With one of my chums
“He’s got more treacle and much bigger plums”
I guess I was misunderstood’n
But now she goes there for dinner and tea
Oh yeah, and she don’t get no breakfast from me
Oh no, that P-U-D-D-I-N-G

Performed by The C*ck Of The North Band
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

BONKOLA

“Ladies and gentlemen… thank you…
we proudly present, live form the Kharzie-Au-Go-Go, Wapping,
the incomparable Judge Dread and the incompetent Ivor Biggun
Take it away lads…”

“Good evening Mr. Biggun”
“Good evening Mr. Dread
It’s nice to see you sober”
“I thought that you were dead”

Before your eyes we’ll exercise
That rumpy-pumpy beat
A brand new workout
Physical jerkout
This’ll get you off your feet

Bonkola, bonkola
exercise for the knob (knob knob)
Bonkola, bonkola
Good to be on the job (knob job)

Now I’m a w*nking wonder
With a muscular right arm
Thudding on the pudding
Pumping percy in the palm

I prefer bonkola
You hardly have to budge
Just be upstanding, stuff your gland in
Hang on girls, here comes the judge

chorus

It’s awfully good for the figure
It’s frightfully good for the health
I do it with vim and with vigour
And i just do it myself

C’mon Judge, let’s get bonking…
In – out, in – out, in – out, in – out

chorus

So if you’re good at press-ups
This is really up your street
Try them on the carpet
With a lady underneath
And if you grunt and groan a lot
But still can’t get it right
Don’t complain, what a shame
You’ll have to practice every night

chorus

“Here Ivor, you know what, you really are a w*nker”
“Oh shut up, Donkey Dick”

Performed by The Wandsworth Light and Purity League
Starring the mighty Judge Dread
Written by Peter Davies and Mike Berry
Published by One Note Music / Asterisk Music / Copyright Control
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

YOU CAN”T HAVE A SH*G WITH A SNOWMAN

Well you can’t have a sh*g with a snowman
‘Cause his knob is made of snow
And you’ll get no poke
From a frozen bloke
And he’ll say “no” to an eskimo

You can’t have a gobble or a blow, man
Or a nice f-*-c-k
He might be rigid
But he’s much too frigid
And his knob could melt away

Well you can’t have a sh*g with a snowman
With an icicle for a tool
He’s frozen through, he’s got snowballs too
And so he just can’t lose his cool
Well he might be a sweet whisper low man
But he’ll only make you blush
‘Cause if he tries more
Then his knob will thaw
And he’ll have a premature slush

No no no!
If you sit on his nose and bounce you’ll get a lift
Snow snow snow
You’ll get your assets frozen
Just supposin’ you get my drift

Oh the next time you make a snowman
Make a nice snowlady too
With freezing tits for squeezing bits
For the snowman to love true
And Santa Claus, the ho-ho-ho man
Will take them on his sleigh
And they can f*ck
Where the penguins cluck
At the North Pole far away*

* yes, Johnny Smart-Ass, we know.., but actually the penguins were on an Internationally sponsored Antarctic fact finding trip up North, so there.

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Vulgar Band
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

YOU CAN’T HAVE A SNOG WITH A SNOWMAN (A Clean Version)

Well you can’t have a snog with a snowman
‘Cos his heart is made of snow
And it’s just snow joke
From a frozen bloke
And he’ll say “no” to an Eskimo
If you go where the wild blizzards blow, man
Well he just won’t want to play
For the simple reason
That if he stops freezin’
Then he just might melt away.
 
Well you can’t have a snog with a snowman
It’s a plain and simple rule
‘Cos if you cuddle
He’ll turn to a puddle
And so he just can’t lose his cool
Oh he might be a sweet whisper low man.
At minus ten degrees
Though he might be willin’
He’s much too chillin’
And you’ll need some antifreeze.
 
No No No! If you sit on his knee, could be
You’ll get him miffed.
Snow Snow Snow! You’ll get your assets frozen,
Just supposin’ you get my drift.
 
So the next time that you make a snowman
Make a nice snow-lady too
Uh Oh so nice
From snow and Ice
For the snowman to love true.
And Santa Claus the Ho Ho Ho man
Will take them on his sleigh
To hug and squeeze
Where the penguins freeze
At the North Pole far away
At the North Pole far away

“Written in the vein hope of airplay. Never properly recorded”

Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Not available on nuffin’

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS (IS A GREAT BIG DONG)

The reason I’m not athletic
Isn’t just my muscles or feet
Or lack of co-ordination
Or reluctance to compete
I must confess it’s more the way
The blokes in the showers all cackle
And point at me when I display
My undersize wedding tackle
It’s a compact, economy version
It’s the best that I can do
But Santa, if you’re listening
Here is my request to you

All I want for christmas is a… great big dong
Not too ostentatious, just fifteen inches long
I’d strap it to my ankle as I gaily strode along
Oh-oh, all I want for christmas is a great big dong

All I want for christmas is a… great big cock
They’d gasp and say “Good gracious”
And they wouldn’t laugh or mock
I’d hold my own with the best of them
And stuff it down my sock
Oh-oh, all I want for christmas is a great big cock

Oh Santa I’d be happy if somewhere in your sack
You could provide me plonkerwise with inches that I lack
I may be a cock-eyed optimist but I’m asking you St. Nicholas
For a great big donger, like a donkey, so folks don’t call me dickless

All I want for christmas is a knob of enormous size
Something quite outrageous that slaps against my thighs
That stands up in the morning light and pokes me in my eyes
All I want for christmas is a knob of enormous size

We do it with the light off so my girlfriend cannot see
But last night a shaft of moonlight cast it’s cruel beam on me
She shouted out “Oh what is that, no bigger than my thumb?”
Then yelled out of the window “‘Ere Santa when you come…
And if you can get it down the chimney…”

Give him please for christmas a… great big dong
Nothing ostentatious but a proud pulsating prong
Something like a film-star, Godzilla or King Kong
Oh-oh, give him please for christmas a great big dong

Oh wow, it’s christmas morning and I lift up my head
There’s something shocking blocking up the stocking on my bed
It’s a great big christmas pudding, oh it’s the very thing
It’s twice as rude as Rudolph
Hark the herald angels sing

What he got for christmas was a great big dong
It was just what he wanted and he waited all year long
There’s a fairy on the christmas tree and he sings this little song
What he got for christmas was a great big dong
What he got for christmas was a great big dong
What he got for christmas was a great big dong

“Dear Santa Claus, thank you for the wonderful fifteen inch plonker what you brung me for christmas.
You’ve no idea what a difference that extra one-and-a-half inches will make.
It’s a ding-dong merrily on high and now I can wish everyone a happy new beer and a very merry one-off-the-wristmas.
‘Ere… hang on a minute… typical bloomin’ christmas, you forgot to give me the batteries with this! There’s no p*xy batteries! I’ve got a great big knob with no batteries. Where you going to get batteries this time on a christmas morning. Mother, have we got some in the Nintendo?”

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Vulgar Band
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

THE SAILORS IN THE GENTS

In a gentleman’s ur*nal, on the night before cup final
I saw two sailors standing bold as brass
And their conduct was disgusting ’cause one of them was thrusting
Three fingers up the other fellow’s a*se

I said “I’m not complaining but would you mind explaining
Why you’re performing this disgusting trick?”
And the first tar said “It’s easy, this sailor’s feeling queasy
I’m his mate, I’m trying to make him sick.”

I said “But this is heinous, three fingers up the an*s
Will never make him sick, you silly goat.”
But he looked rather sly and then gave this reply
He said “They will do when I stick ’em down his throat!”

Performed by Ivor Biggun and Pete The Professor
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

I FEEL LIKE WINKING (misprint)

“The man they call the Pharoah of Filth
The man they call the Maestro of M*sturbation
The man with the stickiest handshake in Croydon this evening…
Mr. Ivor Biggun”

“Croydon I love you. Good evening Croydon!
I’m in the mood tonight
I’m feeling horny tonight
I’m feeling so horny that
The crack of dawn had better watch it
That’s how horny I feel
Alright… here we go…”

Well I feel like w*nking
Feel like w*nking all the time
I said I feel like w*nking
I Feel like w*nking all the time… I do
Well I feel like w*nking
W*nking is a hobby of mine

I feel so good
I feel so fine
I’ve got nothing but w*nking
On my mind
Said I feel like w*nking
Feel like w*nking all the time… I do
Said I feel like w*nking
W*nking is a hobby of mine

Now cook my vegetables baby
Won’t you cook ’em good ‘n’ cook ’em hot
Now cook my vegetables baby
Won’t you cook ’em good and cook ’em hot
‘Cause when I stick in my meat
I overflow the pot
Tell me, tell me

Now do you feel like w*nking
Now do you feel like w*nking
Do you feel like w*nking
Do you feel like w*nking
Well I feel like w*nking
‘Cause w*nking is a hobby of mine

Now I’m a footballer baby and I’m wearing them football boots..
Now I’m a footballer baby and I’m wearing them football boots..
You know I stick me centre forward
And I dribble before I shoot..

chorus

I feel bad now
I’ll feel better in a minute
I’ll hold my hand right there
And stick my pl*nker in it
‘Cause I feel like w*nking
Feel like w*nking all the time
“I’m a bit of a tosser really”
You know I feel like w*nking
W*nking is a hobby of mine

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Vulgar Band
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

IVOR BIGGUN IS MY NAME (live)

W*nker! W*nker!

Ivor Biggun is my name
W*nking is my claim to fame
To hit the bathroom ceiling is my aim
A week ago last tuesday I got just above the window frame
If you look carefully you can see the stain
I’m going to wank until I paralyze my brain

“You don’t think I’m getting obsessed with all this m*sturbation bit do you?
You don’t think I’m a man obsessed, do you?… You don’t think there’s anything strange about me…”

I’m going to w*nk until my t*sticles burst into flames
Until I yelp and scream with pain
I’m going to get a big piece of wood
A big lavatory door
I’m going to cut a hole out of it
And I’m going to stick my knob
Through the big hole in the lavatory door
And read all the rude stuff that’s written on it and get myself excited
And I’m going to ooh-ahh-ooh-ahh-ooh-ahh-ohh-ahh-ooh
Even though I know it goes against the grain
Until I feel all…right!

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Vulgar Band
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

CATS ON THE ROOFTOPS

Cats on the rooftops
Cats on the tiles
Cats with s*philis
Cats with piles
Cats with their a*se’oles
Wreathed in smiles
As they revel in the joys of f*rnication

Now the donkey is a lonely moke
He very rarely has a poke
But when he does he lets it soak
And he revels in the joys of f*rnication

chorus

Now an elephant’s ball is big and round
One of them weighs a thousand pounds
Two of them together shake the bloody ground
As they revel in the joys of f*rnication

chorus

Now the vampire bat is out of luck
He very rarely has a f*ck
But you should see that little bugger suck
As he revels in the joys of f*rnication

chorus

Now the poor old tortoise in his shell
He can’t do it very well
But when he does, f*cking hell
As he revels in the joys of f*rnication

chorus

Now the poor old spinster is feeling kind of blue
She can’t screw like the other people do
She buys three bananas and eats the other two
As she revels in the joys of f*rnication

chorus

Now the twenty-seven verses, all in rhyme
To sing every one of them would surely be a crime
We’d be much better spending our time
Reveling in the joys of f*rnication

chorus

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Vulgar Band
Traditional – Lyrics by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

I’M LOOKING OVER A FOUR-LEAF CLOVER
(aka. DEAD DOG ROVER)

I’m looking over my dead dog Rover
That I hit with a power mower
One leg is missing the other is gone
One leg is scattered all over the lawn
No use complaining, the one leg remaining
Is spinning on the car-port floor
That’s why I’m looking over
My dead dog Rover
That I hit with a power mower

I’m squirting over my girl’s pullover
That she left on the bedroom floor
I got excited and when I withdrew
I hit the curtains and bedside lamp too
In my elation my ej*culation
Went and filled up the dressing table drawer
That’s why I’m squirting over my girl’s pullover
She left on the bedroom floor

Well I got run over by a white Landrover
That was driven by an officer of the law
She was a Sergeant from Paddington nick
She seemed quite friendly so I showed her my dick
Unable to function I used her truncheon
And soon she was yelling out for more
So I got my leg over in a white Landrover
That was driven by an officer of the law

Now she’s my baby…
Driven by an officer of the law
I don’t mean maybe…
Driven by an officer of the law

Then there is another un-recorded verse discovered in the Biggun archives that was popular during live performances at the time when it had a certain relevance and referred to a current children’s TV programme…

Gordon the gopher
he w*nked on the sofa
One mornin’ on kids channel 4
He f*cked Gaby Roslin
He F*cked Zig and Zag
And Nobby the sheep had a vigorous sh*g
He stuffed up the stoppers
Of several teeny boppers
He was up it with a puppet on the floor
Then he got his leg over
Martina Navratilova
Which no-one had managed before

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Vulgar Band
Written by Mort Dixon and Harry Woods / New lyrics by Ivor Biggun
Published by Francis, Day & Hunter – EMI Music
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

THE FILTHY LIMERICK MAMBO

Mary had a little lamb
She tied it to a pylon
Ten thousand volts
Shot up it’s a*se
And turned it’s wool to nylon

Little Jack Horner sat in the corner
Caressing his c*ck and his balls
Along came his mum
And shouted “By gum
You’d better wipe that off the walls”

Simple Simon met a pie-man
Going to the fair
Said simple Simon to the pie-man
“What have you got there?”
Said the pie-man to simple Simon
“Pies, c*nt!”

There was a young man from Nantucket
Took a pig in a thicket to f*ck it
Said the pig with a sneer
“Get away from my rear
Come around to the front and I’ll suck it”

The gong it was sounded for breakfast
By the butler so portly and stout
And Ma heaved in sight
With a pot full of sh*te
And dad with his knob hanging out
“You’re behaving quite nicely” said mother
Though seldom it’s my way to boast”
“Manners be b*ggered” said father
And he tossed himself off in the toast
And then Peter he p*ssed in the pepper
And Spencer he sp*nked in the spoon
And mother let start
Such a hell of a f*rt
That father could scarce keep the tune
And then Sean shook the sausage up Suzie
And laughed loud and long at the joke
And right after that
Grandad shat in his hat
So the baby could play with the smoke

There was a young fellow from Wales
Who lived on a diet of snails
And when he couldn’t get these
He lived on the cheese
That he scratched from his knob with his nails

There was an old whore from Silesia
Whose quim had grown sweatier and grea-zier
So now you must cum
Up her stinky old b*m
But be careful the tapeworm don’t seize-ya

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Vulgar Band
Written by Ivor Biggun
Copyright c 2005 Ivor Biggun
Published by Stiff Weapon
Lyrics reprinted by permission of Stiff Weapon
It is illegal to reprint the lyrics without the permission of the publisher
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

Additional verses that thankfully remain un-recorded. Most were not written by Ivor but were used during the infamous “Limerick Mambo” when performed live.

There was a young man from Rangoon
Who resembled a blue-arsed baboon
He hadn’t the luck
To be born from a f*ck
He was shovelled in cold on a spoon
 
There are some rugby players from Caterham
And f*ck me you should see the state-er-’em.
They’re frequently Blotto,
And their Latin Motto
Is “B*llocks, Multo-Mastur-baterham”
 
There was a fair maid from Bulgaria
Whose f*nny grew hairier and hairier
Till a young fellow who
Came up for a screw
Had to hunt for her c*nt with a terrier.
 
There was a young fellow from Ealing
Whose sex-life was hardly appealing.
On his night-shirt in front,
He painted a c*nt.
And squirted both curtains and ceiling.
 
From a monastry known as St Giles
Came screams that echoed for miles.
Said the vicar “Good gracious
Has Father Ignatius
Forgotten the bishop has p*les?”
 
There was a young fellow from Reims
Who had most enormous wet dreams.
So with cunning and wit
He coated them in sh*t
And sold them as chocolate creams
 
There was a young man from Gibraltar
Who strangled his wife with a halter
He said “I won’t bury her
She’ll do for my terrier.
She’ll keep for a month if I salt her.”
 
Said the Duchess of Gloucester at tea
“Young man do you f*rt when you pee?”
I replied with swift wit
“Do you belch when you sh*t?”
Which I think left it one up to me.
 
The last time I dined with a king
He did the most damnable thing.
He sat on a stool
And pulled out his tool
And said “If I play, will you sing?”
 
There was a young fellow from Kew
Who lived upon Snot-balls and spew
When he couldn’t get that
He ate what he shat
And very good sh*t he shat too.
 
There was young lady from Kew
Who said as the Bishop withdrew.
The vicar is quicker
And thicker and slicker
And five inches longer than you.
 
There was young lady called Sweeney
Who was really a bit of a meany
For the hatch of her snatch
Had a catch that would latch
She could only be screwed by Houdini

I HAVE A DOG HIS NAME IS ROVER (live)

I have a dog his name is Rover
Oh my goodness!
I have a dog his name is Rover
Ee by gum!
I have a dog his name is Rover
When he sh*ts he sh*ts all over
Sh*t all ’round the room, me boys
Sh*t all ’round the room

I have a dog his name is Fritz
Oh my goodness!
I have a dog his name is Fritz
Ee by gum!
I have a dog his name is Fritz
He sh*ts and sh*ts and sh*ts and sh*ts
Sh*t all ’round the room, me boys
Sh*t all ’round the room

I have a dog he’s as big as that
Oh my goodness!
I have a dog he’s as big as that
Ee by gum!
I have a dog he’s as big as that
He got diarrhoea and he buried the cat
Sh*t all ’round the room, me boys
Sh*t all ’round the room

I have a dog with a triangular r*ctum
Oh my goodness!
I have a dog with a triangular r*ctum
Ee by gum!
I have a dog with a triangular r*ctum
Toblerone’s shoot out when you least expect ’em
Sh*t all ’round the room, me boys
Sh*t all ’round the room

I have a big, f*cking great big rottweiler his name is Jim
Oh my goodness!
I’ve got this f*cking great big enormous Cyril Smith rottweiler
he’s got balls on him like 150 watt lightbulbs he goes ’round sh*gging carthorses
His name is Jim
Ee by gum!
I’ve got this f*cking great big rottweiler his name is Jim
And where he sh*ts is entirely up to him
Sh*t all ’round the room, me boys
Sh*t all ’round the room

I have a little chihuahua his name is Cliff
Oh my goodness!
I’ve got this teeny-weeny little chihuahua his name is Cliff
Ee by gum!
I’ve got this teeny-weeny little chihuahua his name is Cliff
His t*rds are small but they don’t ‘arf niff
Sh*t all ’round the room, me boys
Sh*t all ’round the room

I have a dog his name is Solzhenitsyn
Oh my goodness!
I have a dog his name is Solzhenitsyn
Ee by gum!
I have a dog his name is Solzhenitsyn
And mine is the house Solzhenitsyn sh*ts in
Sh*t all ’round the room, me boys
Sh*t all ’round the room

I have a dog he’s a big Great Dane
Oh my goodness!
I have a dog he’s a big Great Dane
Ee by gum!
I have a dog he’s a big Great Dane
He wipes his a*se and he pulls the chain
Sh*t all ’round the room, me boys
Sh*t all ’round the room

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Vulgar Band
Traditional arranged by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishers Ltd./ Momentum 3
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

THE WINKER’S SONG (misprint) (Rotten Version)

Basically the same lyrics as the classic but wiv’ more attitude…

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Vulgar Band
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishers Ltd./ Momentum 3
Available on the CD album Handling Swollen Goods

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