The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun

THE WINKER’S SONG (misprint)

Ivor’s single-handed chartbuster, deservedly banned by every radio station in the civilised world (and even some in Australia). What Tom Robinson did for the Gay community, Ivor Biggun did for winkers (misprint). A hit in 1978 and still used for emptying Ibiza clubs at closing time.

My mother said that I never should
Play with the naughty, rude girls in the wood
Their giggling talk I could never understand
And that’s why I fell in love with my right hand

And that’s why…
I’m a w*nker, I’m a w*nker
And it does me good like it bl**dy well should
I’m a w*nker, I’m a w*nker
And I’m always pulling my pud’

I was twenty-five years old before I was kissed
And then I found that I preferred a swift one off the wrist
It’s cheap and convenient, you can’t catch VD
It’s available at any time and it’s absolutely free

And that’s why…
Chorus

Oh Mrs. Palm and your five lovely daughters
Thank you for having me and being oh so kind
I’ve got pains in my arms and my dong is growing shorter
My knees have turned to water and I think I’m going blind

I’ve w*nked over Italy, I’ve w*nked over Spain
I’ve w*nked in an omnibus, I’ve even had a w*nk in a train
I’ve used a badger and a melon and a cat
An inflatable Linda Lovelace and a Davy Crockett hat

And that’s why…
Chorus

Oh, Mrs Palm and your five lovely daughters
Thank you for having me and being oh so kind
I’ve got pains in my arms and my dong is getting shorter
My knees have turned to water and I think I’m going blind

He’s a w*nker, he’s a w*nker
And it does him good like it bloody well should
He’s a w*nker, he’s a w*nker
And he’s always pulling his pud’

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The Red-Nosed Burglars
Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Original version released on a 7″ vinyl Single (mono) and The Winker’s Album (stereo)
Mono version available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
Stereo version available on the CD album More Fruity Bits – The Rest of Ivor Biggun

BRAS ON 45

A song about a lady with bloomin’ great, huge, enormous, immense, colossal, massive breasts. For some reason or other, it’s quite popular in America, where the legendary Dr. Demento features it on his radio show. Here are the words of BOTH versions of “Bras on 45”
This is as they appear on DEAD BADGER RECORDS – BOP 6T. There was a “DIRTY GERTIE VERSION” which was 7 minutes of disco filth on a 12” 45rpm single. On the B side was the 7” single version of “BRAS ON 45” subtitled the “FAMILY VERSION” which was exactly the same, but FADED 3 MINUTES EARLIER.
Writers… Biggun/ Dury/ Jankel/ Numan/ Tudorpole/ G.McPherson/ C.J.Foreman/ L.Simmons/ R.Wilson/ C. Wilson/ R. Wilson/ R. Taylor
(Dury is Ian Dury, Jankel is Chas Jankel, Numan is Gary Numan, Tudorpole is Edward Tudorpole of “Tenpole Tudor”, I think that McPherson & Foreman are members of “Madness” and I haven’t a clue who the Wilsons are, apart from the fact that they probably aren’t Beach Boys. R Taylor isn’t, as far as I know, the bloke out of “Queen”, and is another mystery to me.)

Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty Five
Well I went out for a Boogie
A week ago last Tuesday
I was doing the Wigan Hustle and the Palais Glide
I met a girl in pink suspenders
And her buz-whams were stupendous
Like two bald-headed men sitting side by side
She wore a BRA SIZE 45 and she could jump and Jive
And when she stopped dancing, bits of her kept wobbling about
She said “You Drive Me Crazy
Burn Some Rubber On Me Baby”
She grabbed my little whistle and she began to shout

(Parody of “Hit me with your Rhythm stick”)
Hit me with your rhythm stick! Hit me! Hit Me!
Je t’adore. Ich leibe dich. Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!
Hit me with your rhythm stick!
I’m six feet tall and five feet thick
Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!

Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty Five
I couldn’t do nothing but stand and stare
She gave me a hug like a grizzly bear
I couldn’t see much I thought I was dead
I had boobs upside my head

(Short quote from Ooops Upside My head)
Boobs upside my head
Boobs upside my head

(Parody of “Baggy Trousers” by Madness)
Oh what a front she had
Enough for me, my brother and dad
A chest of drawers no doubt
One with the top drawer half-pulled-out
Oh what a front she’d got
Believe me son she’d got the lot
Right before my eyes
And she was bra size forty five

Er…excuse me, what do I do now?
“Man be cool..gotta get down and have a rap.”
I beg yer pardon? I think I’ll do a talking bit instead!

She was the big economy size, her buz-whams were gigantic
Like two fat little boys wrestling under a blanket
The flickering strobes lit up the globes that thrust from her pullover
I think her name was June ‘cause she was Bustin’ Out All Over.
She said “Can You Feel The Force? D’y’wanna take One Step Beyond?”
I said “Goodness Gracious Great Balls of Fire, there’s a Whole Lot Of Shaking Going On!
She said “Knock On Wood, I’ll Blame It On The Boogie now what do you think about that?”
I said “Oooh heck! It Must Be Jelly ‘cause Jam Don’t Shake Like That”
Not so much of the Night Fever, more like a belt with a tyre lever
She was not at all pendulous, in fact she was tremendulous!
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty-five
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty-five
She wore a bra size forty five
And when they played “I Will Survive”
She went crackers, and her animal desires became much keener
She said “John I’m Only Dancing, but I’d rather be romancing”
She had me Inside Out And Upside Down in the back of my Cortina*
Hit Me With Your Rhythm Stick

(Parody of “CARS” by Gary Numan)
And there in my car, the windows all steamed up
I thought I would drown, she let it all hang out in Bras
Size Forty Five
And there in my car, I thought “This Is It!”
An Instant Replay, My foot out the window in Bras
Size Forty Five

(Direct quote from “Swords Of A Thousand Men” by Tenpole Tudor)
Hoorah hoorah hoorah hey over the hills and now I’m on My way!
(I got out my tentpole and chewed ‘er)
Hoorah hoorah hoorah hey over the hills and now I’m on My way!
(Come on, let’s do the Bristol Stomp)

She wore a Bra Size Forty Five
I thought I never would revive
When I tackled that young lady with the bounciest of blouses
But she left me for a geezer
Who had much more chance to please ‘er
With his own Master Blaster and a pair of Baggy Trousers.
Oh what fun they had!
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty-five
Bra Size Forty Five
Bra Size Forty-five

(NOTE! This is where the “FAMILY VERSION” fades out. Extended “DIRTY GERTIE VERSION” continues as follows:-)

And that’s why, And that’s why, And that’s why, and that’s why
(“The Winker’s Song”)
I’m a W*nker, I’m a W*nker
And it does me good like it bl**dy well should
I’m a W*nker, I’m a W*nker
And I’m always pulling my pud
I’m a W*nker, I’m a W*nker
And it does me good like it bl**dy well should
I’m a W*nker, I’m a W*nker
And I’m always pulling my pud’

Thanks for the mammary, I think I’ve got it sussed
You’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em both. I’m gonna go for bust.
Don’t they make a lovely pair? They look like a couple of Himalayas.
Double top, boogie on down, Bristol is my favourite town
Everybody understands, arthritis in both hands
She’s a disco bumper, she’s got a lumpy jumper
Cross your heart and hope to die, please don’t poke me in the eye
I know a girl from Potter’s Bar got eaten by her living bra

I said “Baby, oh baby. Surround me. Drown me.
Engulf me! Chew me up and spit me out.
Let me shipwreck against those white cliffs of Dover.
Get Back Leroy! Get Back Leroy! I wanna be Mr In-Between. Oooh wah! She was a Bra Size Forty Five. Have you ever seen anything like that? Come on let’s do The Bristol Stomp. Ooh! Hrbbbllerrllrl!
Y’know when you see things like that, you just wanna walk up to’em,
and stick your head between ‘em and go hbrbrbrbbrbrlrlblblblb.
Whoo! Bra Size Forty Five! What a stupendous lady!
You don’t get many of those to the pound!
Oooh! Kick ‘em over your shoulders!
Double top, boogie on down, Bristol is my favourite town!
Great Balls Of Fire! There’s a Whole Lot Of Shaking Going On!
It Must Be Jelly ‘Cos Jam Don’t Shake Like That! Ooh!
Look! There’s a lady police officer! Can You Feel The Force? (Fade)

*note for American Biggun Fans. A Cortina was a particularly down-market large British car
Stiff Weapon says ” Yeah, but that was the first car I ever owned!”

Performed by Ivor Biggun and The D-Cups
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
‘Family Version’ available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
‘Dirty Gertie Version’ available on the CD album More Fruity Bits – The Rest of Ivor Biggun
Original version released on a vinyl Single

HIDE THE SAUSAGE (Rap Version)

The new ultra-fab Dance Craze! – (Let’s All) Hide the Sausage – Brand new version!
With Ivors Jivers & The Pizzicato Artists. Ivors Jivers recorded at Triplex, Acton. Everything else recorded by Neil Harrison at Aosis, Chalk Farm. (Very flash!) Here’s Ivor’s sausage, with a large new bit inserted into the middle, especially for your enjoyment. Deservedly unreleased until this album.

Well there’s a brand new dance
Everybody’s trying to do
It’s better than the pogo
The shimmy or the boogaloo
You can do it by yourself
But it’s much more fun with two
So come on everybody
Let’s go nuts and screw
And this is just what you do

You’ve got to…

Hide the sausage
Come on and hide the sausage
It’s time to hide the sausage tonight
You’ve got to sink the winkle
It’s really very simple
To straighten out your wrinkle tonight
Come on let’s play mums and dads
The moon is shining bright
Come on everybody and hide the sausage tonight
Get it right out of sight

It’s a dance you can do on the sofa
It’s a dance you can do in the park
You can do it round the back of Sainsbury’s
If you’re quick and you do it when it’s dark
You can do it backwards, frontwards and sideways
Provided that you’re over sixteen (I am… next birthday)
You can even do it standing up, I’ve seen it in a magazine
But you’ve got to be keen

When you…
Chorus

Hide that Sausage. Get it out of sight.
Hide it to the left and hide it to the right.
Hide it in the corner that mother nature planned,
And if you cannot hide it, then hold it in your hand.
Hide it somewhere safe and warm where it cannot be found,
Or stick it out the winder and wave it all around.
And don’t funk till you’ve had enough sausage…
…would you like to see my pimple headed trouser mole?

Show the one eyed zipper rat just where to hide his nose.
Tell the pink policeman where his purple helmet goes.
You can do it in a disco, you can do it in a small-room
If you wear baggy trousers you’ve already got the ball-room.
Into the old dark continent send Doctor Livingstone.
Warp the S.S. Enterprise into the Twilight Zone.
Oooh look! Here comes a guided muscle to blast you into maternity…

Belly to Belly, Toes to toes
Plant that cucumber, my goodness how it grows
The todger, the nodger, the old pork walking stick
The Honourable member who stands for Hampton Wick
The sausage, the banger, the roly-poly pud
Lubricate the loofah it will make you feel so good
Hide that sausage, Hide it, You won’t be disappointed
If you can hide it by yourself you must be double jointed
Submerge the old salami, sink the submarine
Hot Dog Sandwich with a wiener in between
Plunge that dipstick and get the engine crankin’
It’s much more fun than football and nearly as good as wankin’
Show the bald head ferret where the bunny rabbit’s gone
But make sure he keeps his overcoat on!

Well a little chippolata
That points down to your toes
Is as good as a big Frankfurter
That reaches up to your nose
And if it’s a Wiener Schnitzel (Mein Gott)
Or a hot dog stuffed in a bun
Or a big black pudding
Come and do it everyone
You can join in the fun

Don’t be a w*nker just…
Chorus

Everybody
Hide the sausage, come on and hide the sausage
Hide the sausage, come on and hide the sausage

Let’s all conceal the saveloy
Let’s go barmy with the salami
Let’s put the toad in the hole
Would you like to play a tune on my pork clarinet?
Get it right out of sight

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
Previously unreleased extended rap version
Original version released on a 7″ vinyl Single

I HAVE A DOG HIS NAME IS ROVER

This used to be a short traditional song, but Ivor has… er… extended it, so it’s now something long and rude that Rugger-Buggers can entertain one another with in the showers.

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

Traditional arranged by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
Originally released on the album More Filth! Dirt Cheap…

HALFWAY UP VIRGINIA

Ivor Biggun presents… Wellington Ramsbottom IV and the Cowherds of the County. A Bigguntone backing-track featuring Fiddlin’ Robin Williams. Everything else recorded at Parkwood Studio, Chalfont St. Giles by a very bewildered engineer called Vernon Austin. (Sounds like two towns in Texas… dunnit?) Hear Ivor put the “tree” into Country music. It could’ve been worse, I suppose.

Now I’m just an old hillbilly boy, I ain’t no city slicker
My interests is incest, bestiality and liquour
I live on grits and catfish that muck around in the fountains
And I’m just a c*nt-c*nt-country boy and I f*ck around in the mountains

But I’ve been down in Georgia, I’ve been in Caroline
I’ve been in both their sisters and the hole in the lonesome pine
Been in and out of Charlotte and her husband’s after me….
But halfway up Virginia is where I wanna be

Now I’ve got fifty sweethearts, they think that I’m a star
One of them says, “Oh baby” and the rest of them say “Baa”
You can depend on a four-legged friend and when I go out bonkin’
I dress that sheep in a gigham gown and take her honky-tonkin’

Two to the left, two to the right, hooves together and do-si-do
I needn’t buy her a new fur coat ’cause she’s got one that’s curly
Just a jug or two of mountain dew and turnips for my girlie

I’ve stuffed my tool in a Georgia mule but I give them cows a miss
‘Cause you feel such a c*nt rushin’ round to the front
When you want to give ’em a kiss

But I’ve been in Alberta, I’ve been chasin’ beaver
Had a pokey in Muskogee with a three-legged golden retriever
I’ve been through Mississippi and her husband’s after me…
But halfway up Virginia is where I wanna be

Had a bunk-up with a skunk up
Where the blue grass blooms
Had a good f*ck from a woodchuck
And polecats and raccoons
A hound dog and a ground hog
A possum up a tree
And everything that bleats and barks
And can’t run faster than me. Yahoo!

Now down in the creek lives Lou-Lou-Belle
She’s a virgin and I believe her
But if she ain’t good enough for her own kinfolk
She ain’t good enough for me neither

I’ve had all critters great and small
In the hills of Tenessee
And every last one is female
‘Cause there ain’t nothing strange about me

And I’ve yodelled down the canyon
On both sides of Caroline
And I’ll go thar’ again some day
If her brother doesn’t mind

I’ve messed around in Buffalo
From sea to shining sea
But halfway up Virginia is where wanna be
Yeah, halfway up Virginia is where wanna be…

THE P*SSY SONG

With Claude Furniture & The Litter Kickers – dedicated to Boogie, the cat who wouldn’t sing. A Bigguntone backing-track. Everything else recorded at PBS, West Drayton by Chris Skornia. As well as Mr. Bigguns uncannily accurate cat impersonations (including some disgusting contortions when he cleans himself) two real cats appear on this recording – Miss Watkins Copycat & Miss Strat O’Caster.

Here p*ssy, p*ssy…
Miaow miaow miaow miaow

My girl has got a p*ssy
She keeps it hid from view
And everywhere that she goes
That p*ssy goes there to
It don’t drink milk or wash it’s face
And it don’t even purr
But it’s got lovely whiskers
And a lot of ginger fur

A week ago last Tuesday
I come home from the pub
I said “Where’s that little p*ssy
That I love to stroke and rub”
But p*ssy wasn’t willing
And it was plain to see
Someone had already stroked her and
That someone wasn’t me

And… somebody else is stroking
The p*ssy that I thought was mine
Someone’s petting and poking and
It really is a crime
And now my heart is broken
I’ll kill that filthy swine
‘Cause somebody else is stroking
The p*ssy that I thought was mine

Miaow… p*ssy, p*ssy, p*ssy, p*ssy, p*ssy, p*ssy

I miss that little p*ssy
It filled me with delight
But now I never see p*ssy all day
And it stays out late at night
Some Siamese or Persian
Has shattered all my dreams
He tickles her nose like I once did
And he fills her up with cream

Somebody else is stroking
The p*ssy that I thought was mine
Someone’s petting and poking and
It really is a crime
And now my heart is broken
I’ll kill that filthy swine
‘Cause somebody else is stroking
The p*ssy that I thought was mine

Miaow… p*ssy, p*ssy, p*ssy, p*ssy, p*ssy, p*ssy

(NOBODY DOES IT LIKE) THE UKELELE MAN

With The Red-Nosed Burglars and the entire Friday night crowd at the “Swan”, Fulham Broadway including the Twickenham Grasshoppers rugby team! A Bigguntone backing track… Engineered by Jilly B. Everything else recorded by Ian Shaw at Grannies, Fulham. “Where’s George?” recorded on Jilly’s walkman. Sorry folks, this is a clean one.

Guess what it is I’m holding
Down here in my hand
It’s given pleasure to millions
Both up and down the land
It’s my little ukelele
My treasure and my joy
I’ve plonked and plucked it daily
Ever since I was a boy
I practice and I practice
That right hand rhythm routine
And now I’ve got an action like
A massage parlour queen

But nobody does it like the Ukelele Man
No-one can hit that spot
If he can’t make you smile
Then no-one can
He’s the original
From way back yonder
When it all began
Nobody does it like the Ukelele Man

I’ve such co-ordination
In my fingers and my thumb
An action learned from years of sitting
Down to have a strum
My right hand goes like billy-o
Up top my left one fiddles
Performing arch-e-pelligos and flans
And paradiddles
I stroll into the spotlight
I give the strings a clout
But when I start to warble
The people start to shout
“Where’s George?”

Nobody does it like the Ukelele Man
No-one can hit that spot
If he can’t make you smile
Then no-one can
Just leaning on the lamp
Or TT racing at the Isle Of Man
Nobody does it like the Ukelele Man

I like a bit of blues and boogie
Like a bit of skiffle and soul
But what I love’s
A little stick of Blackpool rock
Rock rock ‘n’ roll
When women idolise me
I always have to tell ’em
Stop poking at me plectrums and
Don’t violate me vellum
And though my technique thrills them
I have never worked out why
The end of my performance
They always seem to sigh
“Oh, is that all? Don’t I get an encore?”

Nobody does it like the Ukelele Man
No-one can hit that spot
If he can’t make you smile
Then no-one can
He’s window cleaning with
His eyes on Fanlight Fanny’s fan
Nobody does it like the Ukelele Man

“I’ve got crate of his 78’s and I’m his greatest fan”

THE COCKEREL SONG

There is a club (“Rumours” in Blackpool) where they regularly play this record and a naked man runs along the bar, inadequately concealing his nodger with a rubber chicken. Beat that, Bruce Springsteen!

Some folks like a p*ssy, a budgie or a tit
Some take up with a Spaniel pup
That fills up the house with sh*t
Myself now I keep chickens
And I’ve a favourite one
He’s Dick my little cockerel
And I don’t know where he’s gone

Has anyone seen my cock
My big Rhode Island Red
He’s mostly pink with a little bit of blue
And purple on his head
He stands straight up in the morning
And he gives my wife a shock
Has anybody seen, anybody seen
Anybody, anybody seen my cock

He’s a stiff necked little upstart
And I’ve known him all my life
He’s my pride and pleasure
And a torment to my wife
Sometimes he’s magnificent
And sometimes small and thin
But he puffs up like a pigeon
When you tickle him under his chin

Chorus

He has two enormous wattles hanging down
They’re the best you’ll ever find
Madam, you may stroke him if you like
If you feel that way inclined
Be careful he doesn’t spit in your eye though

Chorus

Has anybody seen, anybody seen
Anybody, anybody seen his cock

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
Originally released on the album More Filth! Dirt Cheap…

I’VE PARTED (misprint)

Well… now there’s something new in the wind. With “I’ve Parted (misprint)” Ivor is letting rip his latest blaster which may be in bad odour with the censors but is bound to be a big noise in the charts once people get wind of it. This breezy little melody, featuring wind instruments, is bubbling under the bottom of the Hit Parade at the moment and the wind of change looks like bringing a very nasty blow to his rivals, who are understandably kicking up a stink about it.
Recorded shortly after Ivor’s record breaking chicken vindaloo curry eating marathon, Ivor plays all the instruments – he had to – nobody would go into the studio with him; and although some may accuse him of getting behind in his arrangements and his bum notes are clearly heard, once again Ivor is planning to drop one on the unsuspecting public.
Ivor pumped up the volume on this, his second single. Later, he was almost arrested on a trumped up charge.

My mother had the vicar and the vicar’s wife to tea
They cleared the room, they blamed it on the dog
But it was me…

I’ve f*rted, I’ve f*rted
I’ve made a trouser cough
I’ve whistled in me Y-fronts
I’ve just peeled one off
I’ve blown my bowel bugle
I’ve been eating peas
I’ve broken wind
I’ve dropped my guts
Open the window please

I’ve been eating cabbages, prunes and pears and beans
Drinking Dandelion & Burdock and you know what that means
Polluting the environment, my friends leave me alone
The front of me sings tenor and the rest sings baritone

Chorus

Bubbles in the bath!
Real rip snorters!
Up on one cheek and hope it don’t make a noise
Window rattlers!
Cushion creepers!
Don’t shake your leg and keep it in your courdroys

A gentleman tells before it smells, he waves his jacket ’til it’s gone
But I’m the kind of sneaky bugger who lets off and doesn’t let on
I let them go in lifts, in queues, in phone-boxes and trains
And when they stink the people blink and blame it on the drains

Chorus

“I say, have you f*rted?”
“Of course I have – d’you think I always smell like this?”

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
Originally released on the album The Winker’s Album

THE WINKER’S ROCK ‘N’ ROLL (misprint)

An old favourite, organically grown (well… hand-raised) and digitally manipulated so at last you can hear the words (and now even read ’em – and weep).

When I was a kid in 1956
My big brother showed me some disgusting tricks
Sitting in the bathroom on my own
W*nking to the rhythm of me gramophone

And I was going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the w*nker’s rock ‘n’ roll

Well I tried to do the shimmy, I tried to do the twist
I tried to do the tango, I nearly broke me wrist
The women all point at me and scoff
Say “You won’t need me ’til your hand drops off”

And I’m going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the w*nker’s rock ‘n’ roll

Give me a ‘W’
Give me an ‘A’
Give me an ‘N’
Give me a ‘K’
Give me an ‘E’
Give me a ‘R’
Stick it all together and what’s that spell?

I’ve got Great Balls Of Fire
I’ve got blisters on me palms
I’ve got Willie And The Hand-Jive
And muscular arms
The Teds call me “W*nker”
When I’m walking down the street
‘Cause I love to jerk my gherkin
To the Boogie-Woogie beat

And I’m going
1-2-3-4 change hands
5-6-7-8 change hands
9-10-11-12 change hands
All you need is the rhythm and the wrist control
And you can do the w*nker’s rock ‘n’ roll

When Long Tall Sally met Johnny B. Goode
He didn’t do nothing but pull his pud’
Just the wrist and the fist and you can’t go wrong
Doing the Hand-Jive all night long

Chorus

ARE ‘MICE’ ELECTRIC?

Ivor Biggun presents Uncle Hans Von Trapp and The Mice-Tersingers. Featuring rude rodents and swearing.

Hello children, how do you do?
I’ve brought some friends to sing for you
Mein singing mice I’ve brought along
To sing ein little mousey song
So mein mouses don’t be slow
Sing along und here we go

Can little mousey pull ze pud’
Yes we can it does us good
Do little mice have tiny dongs
Yes they’re only one inch long
Zat’s not much to wave about
It’s more than you, you daft old kraut

Stick to ze script boys

Why do mouseys sing so high
‘Cause we’re so f*cking small, that’s why
Is it just ’cause you’re so small
Yes we all have … balls
Would you like to meet mein cat
No f*ck off you silly old tw*t

Now zen boys, you’ll never be as famous as Punky and Porky if you keep swearing

What do mouseys love to eat
Spotted dick and shredded wheat
In the pantry no-one sees
We p*ss in the jam and cr*p on the cheese
Now zen boys that’s quite enough
Oh f*ck off you dozy old poof

I’m beginning to lose mein temper!

Up your a*se you … old git
We’ll fill your larder up with sh*t
We’ll fight and f*rt and do as we please
We’ll f*ck in the bread-bin and steal your cheese

Scnitzel I am a silly goose
Mein pussycat has just got loose…

Go cat go! There is your favourite food… mouseburger

Auf wiedersehn children if you please
And as for the mouseys, hard cheese

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
Originally released on the album More Filth! Dirt Cheap…

HELLO MY BABY

A perfectly clean and wholesome little song recorded many years ago by Frank – “No-matter-how-young-a-prune-may-be,-it’s-always-full-of-wrinkles” – Crumit. The new second part is written by Ivor himself and performed by Miss Amelia Blowhard. Amazingly, this got played several times on BBC Radio. Then somebody turned it over, discovered that the “A” side was a song about f*rting, and it never apppeared again!

Hello…
Hello my baby, hello my honey
Hello my ragtime gal
Send me a kiss by wire
Baby my heart’s on fire
If you refuse me
Honey, you’ll lose me
Then you’ll be left alone
Oh baby, telephone
And tell me I’m your own

You call me on the telephone
You tell me that you’re all alone
I know that you are lying through your teeth
You dirty rascal
How could you expect me
To believe the lies you hand me
You’ve been out with that girl again
Now do you understand me
You broke my heart and made me cry
With every phoney alibi
When I could see the lipstick on your shirt
You dirty polecat
Telephone and tell me I’m your own

Chorus

I’m sorry that I made you blue
It was a beastly thing to do
I shouldn’t have upset you like I did
With Lil’ the barmaid
If you take me back again
I’ll never, ever wander
‘Cause when I did I found that absence
Made the heart grow fonder
So cross my heart and hope to die
I’ll never tell another lie
I’ll mend your broken heart
As good as new
My little cough-drop
Telephone and tell me I’m your own

Chorus

Hello, hello, hello
Hello, hello, hello
Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
Goodbye…

Performed by Ivor Biggun and Miss Amelia Blowhard
Traditional arranged by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
Originally released on the album The Winker’s Album

WINKING YOUR BLUES AWAY (misprint)

Ukelele fans will appreciate Ivor’s phenomenal right-hand technique. “It comes from years of practice, shaking ketchup bottles” he claims. Oh yeah? Pull the other one.

All those lonely blues songs, you might feel that you wrote ’em
You might be sad and think that life has kicked you in the scr*tum
Be brave and wipe that teardrop from your eye
There’s one more remedy you can try

W*nking your blues away
W*nking your blues away
If you haven’t had a promise
And you haven’t got a sister or a wife
And your brother’s not keen
You can get to the promised land
The answer’s right there in your hand
Try w*nking to the rhythm of life

It’s a source of some amusement
That the craft of self-abusement
Was invented, so it’s thought
By the Greeks and the Westphalians
Perfected by Australians
Developed by the Welsh into a competitive sport

W*nking your blues away
W*nking your blues away
Shirt on the floor
One hand and a metronome
And lots of boogie-woogie
The Cowman sits there on his farm
With loads of blisters on his arm
W*nking ’til the cows come home

It’s time to take your trousers down
Lock the door and go to town
You can wipe away your frown and w*nk your blues away
Don’t worry that you’ll lose your sight
Make the world seem gay and bright
W*NKERS OF THE WORLD UNITE and w*nk your blues away

W*nking your blues away
W*nking your blues away
It’s a harmless hobby, it’s what your right arm’s for
And not for drinking lager
The basic kit for m*sturbation
Is a pl*nker and a hand and imagination
Keep w*nking ’til you just can’t w*nk no more
But don’t forget to close the bathroom door

I’VE GOT A MONSTER

Featuring two very fine gentlemen. The late great Screaming Lord Sutch (as Dracula) and the irreplaceable Judge Dread (as The Monster). Also, lend an ear’ole to King Kurt’s Dr. Smegma (a Werewolf), Amelia Blowhard, and a zonking guitar solo from Fearless Phil.

“‘Erm Doreen, I’ve got a confession to make. I’m not like ordinary boys”
“Oh Ivor, I know you’re not like ordinary boys, you’re about thirty years older than most of them for a start”
“No Doreen, I’ve got a strange peculiarity. Every time the moon is full I… scn*@!!rgggh”
“Oooh yeah you’re right, you’re not like ordinary boys…”

Well I’m Dr. Frankenstein
And I’ve got a monster
And I’ll show you this monster of mine
If anyone wants-ta
It’s a biggun, it’s got wrinkly bits
That dangle down to there
It’s pink and blue and purple and it’s covered up with hair
If you meet it in the midnight hour
You’re gonna get a scare
And everything would be just fine
If you had a monster like mine

“Hello baby, how would you like to be filled with Dread? Judge this for size…”

I’m Frankenstein’s monster
I’m custom designed
I’ve got a bolt through m’ neck
And a screw on m’ mind
He made me out of fibre-glass
And doner kebabs and conkers
Meccano, tripe and bits of pipe
And a couple of donkey’s pl*nkers
I think the Baron stitched me up
M’ knob’s a vacuum cleaner
I gave a cough
M’ balls dropped off
Just call me Frankensteina

“Blimey, this place is full of monsters and su(t)ch..”

I’m Dracula and most unsanitary
I’d rather suck than f*rnicate
I dress like Bryan Ferry
I drink the blood of virgins
I live in Notting Hill Gate
I haven’t had a decent meal
Since nineteen fifty-eight
They say I am a stupid count
I have a sucking force
At least that’s what he thinks they say
He could be wrong of course

“Landlord, mix me a Bloody Mary before I go batty”

He’s a friend of Dr. Frankenstein
And he’s got a monster
And he’ll show you its disgusting design
If anyone wants-ta
He’d love to suck your jugular
He’s got no moral fibre
He’s a nasty fly-by-night
A rhesus positive inbiber
And Peter Cushing’s pushing
Half a fencepost up his khyber
The future looks pretty grim
If you are a monster like him

We are hairy werewolves
When a bad moon’s on the rise
We all start looking like motorhead
and our knob’s increase in size
And ever since we were in the cubs
We’ve crept around in castles
And scratch the fleas and piddle on trees
And sniff each other’s ars’oles
Red Riding Hood thinks we’re dead good
Although we’ve got the mange
She likes it doggy fashion
Excuse me while I change

They call him Dr. Frankenstein
‘Cause he’s got a monster
He’ll show you his disgusting design
If anyone wants-ta
It’s a biggun, it’s got wrinkly bits
That dangle down to there
It’s pink and blue and purple and it’s covered up with hair
If you meet it in the midnight hour
You’re gonna get a scare
And everything would be just fine
If you had a monster like mine

“We’re not scared of the Mummy’s curse”
“Well I know something ten times worse…”
I’m a w*nker etc.

THE MAJORCA SONG

Never mind the Balearics, here’s Ivor tromping about, surrounded by nude Germans. With Ivors jivers. All percussion & lucozade bottle by Nigel Appleton. Bass – Mick Phillips. Chorus of senoritas by Norma Lee Soba. Recorded at Triplex, Acton by Gavin Lewis in the depths of winter… This is the celebrated filthy version including the repulsive vomiting sound-effect… which if listened to on stereo headphones gives you the aural impression that someone is spewing all over you.

Unos, dos, tres, Suzie Quatro

Every year when summer is here
I save up m’ money and fly
To the land of the sun, f*rnication and fun
And never let a day go by

Buenos knockas por favor
As I sniff up the breezes
There’s a whiff in the air
Of ambre solaire
And Julio Inglese-as
All day beneath the parasoles
I prat around on the beach
At night I’m p*ssed as ars’oles
And incapable of speech

But I’m going back to Majorca
Back to the prettiest girl that I’ve seen
I nearly went crackers
When she held my marracas
And they burst her tambourine
She was topless
I was legless
We boogie’d the moonlight away
Oh she swallowed my pina colada
Oh blimey, oh riley, o-lé
I said she swallowed his pina colada
Oh blimey, oh riley, o-lé

O-lé, o-lé, o-lé, o-lé,
O-lé, o-lé me down quick
A-ay a-ay, a-ay a-ay, a-ay a-ay, a-ay a-ay
I think I’m gonna be sick

“Ooh that’s better out than in”

I don’t go swimmin’
I just look at the women
As I stroll down by the ocean
They don’t wear vests
Upon their chests
They just wear sun-tan lotion

Buenos knockas por favor
Una paloma blanca
I go to Spain
Get out of my brain
And act like a w*nker
I wear reflective sunglasses
To secretly stare at the tits
But I never drink the water
In case I get the sh*ts

I’m going back to Majorca
To get up to m’ scr*tum in sin
There’s lots of how’s-yer-father
Down on the Costa Brava
And they blame it on jet-lag and gin
She was topless
I was legless
We boogie’d the moonlight away
Oh she swallowed my pina colada
Oh blimey, oh riley, o-lé
I said she swallowed his pina colada
Oh blimey, oh riley, o-lé

But when I get back to Worksop
And the sand runs out of my socks
I’ll dream of that sweet senorita
Who gave me a dose of… la dolce vita
And a vinto on the rocks

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
Originally released as a single and on the album Partners In Grime

THE CHARABANC TRIP

Ivor, putting on the Ayers, recites a touching poem of innocense lost, which will bring a lump yo your throat. If you are careful it won’t end up on the carpet. Pianist Robin Langridge remembers “I’m not easily moved, but during this performance, I very nearly went.”

“‘The Charabanc Trip’ by Ivor Biggun accompanied by Robin Langridge, aged 14, at the piano forte.
Music maestro please!”

On the map of North Notts you’ll find Worksop
Where I lived when I was a lad
In a house with me Mam, two sisters and Gran
One brother, a budgie, and Dad

At the end of our street was a boozer
black as stout, uninviting and glum
A den of depravity, it stank like a lavatory
Where me Dad went to hide from me Mum

At the end of the bar in a bottle
Every week half a dollar he’d slip
For the annual treat when the kids in the street
Went to coast on a charabanc trip

We’d set off in morning from Worksop
En route for Sutton-on-Sea
With the Holiday Club, them as paid up their sub
Half the street and my brother and me

There was old Mrs. Brough from the tripe shop
Big soft Doris, her two little lasses
And her sister Helen with a bust like two melons
And a face like an a*se’ole with glasses

There was Perfumed Gordon the hairdresser
And nobody did make it clear
Why a rude boy called Taylor
Cried out “Hello Sailor”
And something about ginger beer

There was Desperate Derek, his brother Big Eric
And Basher and Masher and Butch
And Lil’ who was willing for only a shilling
Which was still about tenpence too much

There was Mavis who wouldn’t
‘Cause her mum said she shouldn’t
There was Neville who wished that he could
And then there was Heather who said that she’d never
But looked like she probably would!

Well my Dad took a crate of ale with him
Intending to travel in style
Charabanc did 25 miles to the gallon
My Dad did half pint to the mile

Rain were chucking it down leaving Worksop
Through North Notts it did not desist
There were cows with bronchitis and wet sheep to invite us
When Lincolnshire loomed up through t’ mist

Rain slacked off soon to a medium monsoon
And the day didn’t look such a black ‘un
When the driver called Reg pulled up by a hedge
And we all made a dash for the bracken

Dad rushed to a tree and said “excuse me”
And right there one penny he spent it
He said, “Ain’t it queer, one thing about beer
You don’t really buy it, you rent it”

Well this idyllic scene mid the nettles and steam
Was soon torn by my brother’s plaintive cries
The poor little nipper caught his dong in his zipper
He was dancing with tears in his eyes

Then back on t’ coach off to Sutton
We got there, ‘ee weather were grand
And we gazed on the sea, cold, the colour of tea
And smelt candyfloss, dodgems and sand

There were shops full of rock
There were hats with rude slogans
There was music and cries of hilarity
There were games on the sands, there were jellied-eel stands
And souvenir shops packed with vulgarity

My brother ran down to the ocean
His intention the water to reach
For his foot he just thrust in something disgusting
A donkey had left on the beach

The sea was as cold as a polar bear’s dick
We watched Punch kill the crocodile dead
And after throwing some sand at Salvation Army band
We went off to the funfair instead

There was a ride called The Comet made you scream, faint and vomit
Half deafening you hung upside down
And the last bit, a spinner, brought up rest of yer dinner
Not bad, you know, for just half a crown

There were post cards with fat women, nudists and Scotsmen
Honeymooners and dirty week-enders
And in a machine what the butler had seen
Dimly flickered about in suspenders

We ate cockles and whelks and big winkles
Soggy chips, toffee apples like glue
The hot dogs were funions like something rude wrapped in onions
But we ate them, and pease pudding too

Then we went on to dodgems and waltzer
And big dipper that rises and falls
It was on this machine that my brother turned green
And his eyes stood out like bulldog’s balls

The poor little chap he was sick in his cap
It was his best ‘un, he started to cry
So not wishing to spoil it we swilled it in toilet
And he wore it until it was dry

The driver found us and said “Back to the bus”
Through the dark we ran back the whole way
Candyfloss in our hair, but we didn’t care
Eee we’d had such a wonderful day

And with charabanc firing on several cylinders
We set off for Worksop and home
Rattling down the highway singing songs of Max Bygraves
Accompanied on paper and comb

In the dim orange glow of the coachlight, so low
Courting couples were billing and cooing
Hoping, perhaps, that the coats in their laps
Would conceal the rude things they were doing

We pulled up in our street about half past eleven
There was Mam, there was Granny & all
They gazed in admiration at the plaster alsatian
We’d won for ’em at coconut stall

I drank up my Cocoa, I ate up my sandwich
And soon up in bed I was curled
I was dreaming a dream I was leading the team
On first charabanc trip around world

Eee those things that I did when I was a kid
Although they were simple and small
Now I’ve grown up I find I look back in my mind
I’m sure they were best times of all

‘Cause I’ve been to Majorca, and by that’s a corker
I’ve been to Pompeii and Herico-alanium
The French Riviera, where the ladies are barer
I’ve even paddled in Meditter-anium

I’ve drunk various vinos in Torremolinos
But of all these I’ll tell you for free
There’s none can compete with that charabanc treat
With me brother to Sutton-on-Sea

Written by Ivor Biggun
Published by Universal Music Publishing Ltd./ Momentum 3
Lyrics reprinted by permission of the publishers
Available on the CD album The Fruity Bits of Ivor Biggun
Originally released on the album The Winker’s Album

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