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ivor biggun - the charabanc trip كلمات الأغنية

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 _rs_’ole with glasses

there was perfumed gordon the hairdresser
and n0body did make it clear
why a rude boy called taylor
cried out “h_llo 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 d_ck
we watched punch k!ll 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 postcards with fat women, nudists, and scotsmen
honeymooners and dirty week_enders
and in a machine what the butler had seen
dimly fl!ckered about in suspenders

we ate c_ckles 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 b_lls

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 coach light, 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

- ivor biggun

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