Absinthe
From Strindberg, the Comedy, by Sean
Foley, workshop production at National Theatre, 2006
If
your inwards are made of lead
And
you like the look of the walking dead
Brandy
is dandy but let it be said
Absinthe is
better!
If
your palette is made of stone
And
the company that you prefer’s your own
Wine
can be fine but research has shown
Absinthe is
better!
Absinthe
makes the heart grow fonder
And leaves you short of breath
And
gives you a chance – if brief - to ponder
The benefits of an imminent
death
If
you’re putting your life on pause
If
you long for the great indoors
Pernod is uurgh no and
that’s because
Absinthe
Made in Frinthe
Ditch romanthe
And piss your panthse
Absinthe is better!
The
Barber of Seville - As
performed Bristol Theatre Royal 2006
see individual
songs;
Beaumarchais
Folie de Vieux
The Letter Song
Love me for who I am/ finale
Rosine’s Dilemma
Stop That Overture (That Would
Be Opera)
You’re Nice
Beaumarchais
From The Barber of Seville, by
Beaumarchais, adapted by Lee Hall, Theatre Royal, Bristol, 2006. It was felt that we needed an Act Two
opener, and that it perhaps should be about the life of the author,
about whom
Lee wrote elegantly and passionately, in the programme notes.
Before
we start the second pair of acts
We’d
like to take a minute to impart some facts
About
the author: Beaumarchais
Who
for the record’s not around today
But
if he were, and truth were told
He’d
be very, very, very, very, very, very old
Pierre
Augustin Caron who wrote dramas for the stage
Was
born in Paris – that’s in France – at a young and tender age
His
mother was a woman and his father was his dad
And
Pierre Augustin’s childhood was the only one he had
But oh, his story is
Extraordinary, for he
Made
a wristwatch and sold it to the King!
Regal bling
Kerching, kerching!
You’d
not believe it were it in a play
That's the life of bubbly
Beaumarchais
Pierre Augustin Caron’s mind was capable and sharp
He
taught the king’s own daughters how to pluck the courtly harp
Amongst
his fans was Louis Quinze whose keen patrician eye
Observed
Pierre Augustin jockeying for position at Versailles
And oh, his story is
Extraordinary for he
Went
to England working as a spy
Eagle eye
But on the sly
A
brilliant mind but tootsies made of clay
Roller-coaster ride with
Beaumarchais
And
he made it up (he made it up!)
As
he went along (as he went along!)
Like
a badly practised (badly practised)
Four-part
song
Which
sometimes went (which sometimes went)
Obscenely
wrong
(each singer suddenly sings something from
the next...)
When
everyone sang a diff’rent song/
for Beaumarchais was an interesting....
The
song collapses
momentarily in confusion…
I’m
on G
I'm
on a D
I’m
on a B
And
we’re all in a box
Verse
three!
Pierre
Augustin Caron changed his name to Beaumarchais
And wrote
himself as Figaro, as fiction in a play
A
character so anarchic that a widely held conclusion
Is
that
He was the spark
The spark that lit the fuse
The fuse that
lit the dynamite of revolution.
And oh, his story is
Extraordinary for he
Made
a fortune trafficking in arms
Big guns
Small guns
Sold to the
Americuns
You’d
not believe it were it in a play
And that’s the life of bubbly
Beaumarchais
*Then
of course there’s verses four
Five
and six and seven
But
we don’t want to sing no more
And
the bar shuts at eleven
For
further information
And
for juicy quips and quotes
We respectfully refer you to the
Programme
notes.
* Matinee
version;
Then
of course there’s verses four
Five,
six, seven and eight
But
we don’t want to sing no more
We’ve
another show tonate!
Braziuw
From The Translucent Frogs of Quuup, music
by MS. Forgive the Kiplingesque orthography.
For those of an impatient
disposition,
/iuw/ = /ill/ in the manner favoured by the Brazilian accent.
Braziuw!
Come
with me where Senoritas dress to kiuw!
(Siren environment)
And you’ll concede
It’s
a bleedin’ Eden guaranteed to thriuw
Braziuw,
Braziuw!
If
you’re tired and tense you’ll soon commence to chiuw
And
pretty soon you’ll get to
Know
the driuw
Sipping
Caipirhińa when you’re in Braziuw!
Too,
too, too and ever so in the tropics!
Plot
a course for matrimonial bliss
Trav’ling
off to places kaleidoscopic
Never
fixed my peepers on stuff like this.
We’re
so thrilled that we’re gonna have a key-change!
Braziuw!
Where
a thousand rivers crowd with kind of kriuwl.
And
where you'll find a triuwlion trees
Hug
the breeze in ecstasies of chlorophyll
Braziuw!
Braziuw!
Surbiton’s
a size but here is bigger stiuw.
Because
it carries on and on for
Miles
and miles and miles and miles
And
miles and miles and miles and miles too
Big
by half a geographic overkiuw
That’s
Braziuw.
That’s
Braziuw.
And
she said yes
And
he said yes...
Yes...
Boris’
Disco Ship
From The Remains of Foley and McColl, BBC
Radio 4, 2000. Hamish and Sean
reluctantly do a bad advert for a Russian commercial venture;
HAMISH: I’m
Hamish
McColl, and if, like me
You’re young and free and hip
The place for you to be is the
middle of
the sea
On BORIS’S DISCO SHIP
SEAN:
I
couldn’t agree more, and I’m Sean Foley
Also I am hip
So come and roly-poly like the
cod and
the coley
On BORIS’S DISCO SHIP
BORIS: Yo,
get on, don’t be land-lubber!
Come on boat and flubber your
blubber!
We make party, we make racket
Wearing jean and bad leather
jacket
Call
0869
Double-4 double-2 double-9 8
4243
Double-4 3 9 6 2 4
Boy Meets Girl
Written
at Peter Duncan's request, for his one-man show, Duncan Dares, 2008.
Mark Stevens, who I met via Peter, allowed
himself
to
be dragged around the country, accompanying, and wrote the very fine
music for
this song
I
like to go to town to see the new musicals
I
like to view musicals
I've
seen eight thousand four hundred and twenty-two musicals
Your
wallet must be good fat ‘cos they' ain't cheap, musicals
But
oh, they're deep: musicals
They
make you laugh they make you weep they make you
Pay
a hundred quid to suffer cramp in the stalls
And
give ample applause
For
some camp curtain-calls
They're
always in three acts, and when they're not...
They
always are and here's an outline of the plot...
Act
one and summertime
And
all things are good
Poor
boy, impoverished but true
Meets
nice girl and hearts-a-throb
And
sings like he should
It's
love, la-di-dah! doo-be-do!
Moonlight
and promises
And
what can go wrong?
Dreamboat
and be my honey-bun!
Oh,
Love's a firework exploding in song
Bride
and groom, get a room, it's Act One!
Act
two and suddenly
An
amorous glitch
Else,
there'd be nothing more to say
He's
poor and handsome
But
turns out, she's rich
And
her dad, he goes mad, there’s no way!
Moonlight
and promises
Are
there to be broke
She's
left and he's bereft and blue!!
Oh
Love's a poison and bad for a bloke
Oh
it's cruel! That's the rule! That's Act two
The
curtain falls and from the stalls
You head to
the bar
And it's not very far
But it takes half an are
For
eighty other people somehow
Hijacked the
queue
Both the bar and the loo
And
by the time you get to the front and order a drink in a plastic cup and
hand
over a twenty not unreasonably expecting some change but being
disappointed in
that respect there's an tannoy announcement to quick take your seats:
as this
evening’s performance will continue any minute and you scrabble along
the row
with people tutting as you step on their feet by mistake and get there
exhausted just in time for the lights going down -
phew
Act
three and bugger me
Events
have got worse
She's
getting wed, but not to him!
Our
hero's emotional
Through
chorus and verse
What's
the use? Pass the noose! Life is grim!
Moonlight
but suddenly
The
girl's at the door!
Darling,
the other bloke was dull
Oh
Love's triumphant so let's sing once more
That's
your lot, that's the plot
Of
a great musical!
Bundle Song
From Dick Whittington, London Bubble
1994
MUM: Son
of mine you’re setting out
A most important journey
You’ll strike it rich, I’ve
little doubt
And make a load of meurney
There’s lots of things you’ll
need to
take
To help you
when you’re there
Your toothbrush and an anorak
Some dry-roast
peanuts for a snack
Your ointment for your spotty
back
And a change of
underwear
But most of all, the
question’s whether
You’ve got the right bag to
keep it all
together. .
1.
Forget
yer rucksack
Yer rucksack is a drag
Forget yer tartan job with
wheels on
And yer Kwiksave carrier bag
When you’re heading off to
Lundle
You must always pick a bundle
DICK:
A
bundle?
MUM: A
bundle
DICK:
That’s
unusual
MUM:
No,
it’s absolutely crucial
It’s
a spotted handkerchief on a stick!
2.
Forget
yer suitcase
You’ll
never close it when it’s packed
And yer hold-all contravenes
the trades’
de-
-scription’s
act
When you’re looking set to
trundle
Let me tell you, Dick, you
need a bundle
DICK:
A
bundle?
MUM: A
bundle
DICK:
That’s
original
MUM:
No,
it’s panto, it’s tradigional
It’s
a spotted handkerchief on a stick!
Dick
rapidly packs and leaves.
MUM: (tearfully)
Oh Dick I’ll miss you
This place’ll be as silent as
a tomb
But least it gives me half a
chance
To disinfect your room
Though his life has just
begun-dle
He will grow up quick
With his bundle... his bundle
(sobbing)
Goodbye
Dick!
Carolina
From Bewilderness,
The Right Size, 2001. Lyric
Hammersmith and on tour. The plot of the
show involved two men falling down the back
of a sofa into a strange purgatory where they gradually discovered they
were in
limbo and dead... and that is why this – the opening song and the first
thing the audience heard – starts off with a reference to the opening
of The Divine Comedy. Art, see? The show opened by my walking unannounced
through the
audience, up on stage, and launching into this, accompanying myself on
the
guitar-banjo, and very nerve-wracking it was, too.
Careful
when
you’re driving
Down
the B-road
of you life
There’s
a
black-spot on the corner
Where
the
accidents are rife
Careful
when
you’re driving
For we
really
can’t pretend
To
know what
rabbits of surprises
Hop in
silence
‘round the bend
And
I’ll be
there beside you when the brakes go wrong
Singing
this
incessant and infuriating song:
Take
me back to Carolina
Carolina,
Tennessee
In
my mind there’s nothing finer
Than
Carolina by the sea
Two
men on a
journey
To a
place
they’ve been before
Trying
to
remember
But
it’s twenty
years or more
Trying
to
remember
What
the
furniture was like
And so
they
failed to see an old man
Who
was wobblin’
on his bike
‘Twas
then I
grabbed the steering-wheel and pulled them thru’
And
sang to them
as I intend to sing again to you:
Take
me back to Carolina
Carolina,
Tennessee
Eatin’ donuts
in the diner
With
my girlie on my knee
Careful
with
your memories
So
that when you
lay them down
They’re
a
vintage worth uncorking
When
uncorking
time comes ‘round
Careful
with
your doing
So
that
everything you did
Is
worth the
effort of rememb’ring
When
they’re
nailing down the lid
And
I’ll be
there when things have gone from terrible to worse
Belting
out the
chorus at the end of every verse:
Take
me back to Carolina
Californi-orni-ay
Off the coast
of mainland China
That’s
where I intend to stay
Cheese in
Moonlight
From Cinderella,
Improbable Theatre at the Lyric, Hammersmith,
1998. In Improbable’s Cinders, the spectre
of
death haunted the fun-and-games. Billed as
Angela Carter’s Cinderella, in it the
fairy-godmother was the ghost of Cinders’ real
mother, come back from the spirit world to protect her daughter. Cinders’ friends, the mice, were
finger-puppets worn
by
the
cast. I thought that the
mice should have their moment of musing about death, too.
I hope I can find the recording of this
tune and put it on here – it really is quite odd and spooky. I met Spike Milligan at a party, when
that incomparable goon was very old and crotchety, and played him this
song. He listened and said,
afterwards, that’s a funny idea. Yes. Note, he didn’t actually say that’s
a funny song, nor did he say, you a genius, will you
be my friend? But still, I have an epitaph
now: Spike said it was a funny idea.
Our
mummy went
out walking
She
was savaged
by the cat
Her
tail was
badly severed
And
that was that
Her
dying words
were simple
But
effective: cheerio
Her
voice was
not rumbustuous
But
pianissimo
There
is much that I shall miss
In
that mouse
hole in the sky
And
I’ll give
you an example
Banana
pie
I
shall miss
the strange behaviour
Of
your uncle
Algernon
And
the way his
whiskers oscillate
When
blown upon
I
shall miss
the way that celery
Is
seldom
painted red
And
the way
that straw behaves itself
When
it’s a bed
But
of all
these raucous images
And
others
still beside
There
is one
I’ll miss the most
Unless
the
angels can provide
Me
With
CHEESE
IN
MOONLIGHT
Oh
what bliss
CHEESE
IN
MOONLIGHT
It’s
a very
specific phenomenon but it’s
one I’m bound to miss
I
can’t
remember Love
Although
I
danced all night
But
give me
something smelly
In
the cool
moonlight
CHEESE
IN
MOONLIGHT
Oh
what fun
CHEESE
IN
MOONLIGHT
The
poignancy
of Parmesan is wasted in
the sun
There’s
nothing
in the world
Can
whet your
appetite
Like
something
which is smelly
In
the cool
moonlight
Something
which
is smelly
Something
green
and yelly
Give
me
something smelly
In
the cool
moonlight
Conference
of the Birds
From The Scarecrow and his Servant, by
Philip Pullman, adapted by Simon Reade, Southwark Playhouse 2008.
Calling
all
birds, birds, birds!
Calling
all
birds, birds, birds!
Calling
birds of
every family persuasion
Feathered
brethren, creatures on the wing, all
Please
attend y'
once-a-yearly occasion
Formal
dress and
here's your conference call
Welcome
Albatross who cover the ocean
Pigeons
hatched
in metropolitan sprawl
Conference
approves a welcome-mat motion
Perch
your wings
and here's your conference call
Finch
and Wren
from dull suburbian garden
Kestrels
from
the sunlit bay of Bengal
Lots
to do and
begging, begging y' pardon
Silence
please
and here's y' conference call
Silence
please
and here's y' conference call!
A
Conurbation of Licentiousness
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/ London 2009. In
Kirk, The Donald of Donald who, of the two
Calvinist ministers on the island is the more hard-line, describes
Stornoway, in order to stop Morag getting any ideas of travel...
A
conurbation of
licentiousness
God
was absent
in that grubby bar.
Women
wore rouge
and mixed with men as freely as Sinners in Sodom do, or the wild Haggis
that
roam here on Aars
Ungoverned
by
scripture.
Music
–
aye! Well may you blush - was played without shame and accompanied by
foot-tapping.
I saw
grown men
playing at skittles
And
the whiskied
air was heavy wi' lust and the dusky musk o' fornication!
Cottage
From Bewilderness,
The Right Size, 2001, Lyric Hammersmith and
tour.
Sean
and Hamish, having arrived at a holiday cottage for a weekend of
golfing, find
themselves and the whole room inexplicably made out of brown paper. A strange man wearing a cheap suit and
one red shoe, comes through the wall and sings the following at a
breakneck
speed, to the accompaniment of a banjo:
REDSHOE Firstly
I should like to offer copious apologies
For
being unavailable to welcome you as planned
I’m
really very sorry – something happened at the office
And
I couldn’t wriggle out of it I hope you understand
Welcome! Welcome! Welcome
to the cottage!
In
the kitchen you will find a plethora of cutlery
A
dozen knives a dozen forks and all of them the same
But
there’s a soup-spoon missing! We’ve
only got eleven, and. . . .
HAMISH
It
wasn’t us!
REDSHOE
It
wasn’t you, you won’t be held to blame.
Careful!
Careful! Careful of the things!
Here
there is a table, with half a dozen dining-chairs
On it is a vase with
compliment’ry
flowers
There’s monopoly and copies of
the National
Geographic
Which will help you, if it’s
inclement,
to while away the hours
Richard! Richard! You
may call me Richard!
I’d
like to draw attention to the local information pack
It’s
packed with information of a very local kind
There’s
swimming baths and church bazaars and what’s on at the cinemas
And
a map, in case you’re cartographically inclined
It
shows all in can show
The information pack
But since I’m playing banjo
I’ve left it out the back
I’m only playing music and
I’ve done the
best I can
So I’ve left it on the
windscreen of your
ice-cream van
Welcome! Welcome! Welcome
to the cottage!
Don't
Dabble with Men
From Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, London
Bubble at Greenwich theatre,
2002. A touching Victorian duet
between a loving Dame and her daughter.
Your
father was
a sailor and I met him down the docks
Which
was always
full of sailors who were fiddlin' with their... uniforms
He
took me to
the movies and a restaurant or two
And
then he
dropped his anchors and the end result was you.
Singing
been
there, done it, never again
And
daughter
don't dabble with men
If
you care for me
Daughter
don't
dabble with men
But
what if he's
nice and kind and gentle
What
if his
heart is warm and true?
What
if he's
soft and sentimental?
Mother,
d'you
think you might change your point of view?
Your
father was
a sailor and I think his name was Jack
He was
frivolous
and funny and fantastic in the... local rotary club...
I
bought a veil,
I bought a gown and dropped some heavy hints
He
caught the
bus to Bournemouth and I haven't seen him since
Singing
been
there, done it, never again
And
daughter
don't dabble with men
If
you care for me
Daughter
don't
dabble with men
But
what if he's
nice and kind and gentle
What
if his
heart is warm and true?
What
if he's
soft and sentimental?
Mother,
d'you
think you might change your point of view?
Drink
From Strindberg, The Comedy workshop
production at the National Theatre, 2006. A
traditional Nordic drinking song. In
fact, twp of ‘em. See also "Absinthe"
Sing
what’s good about Sweden
That’s
the joy that we’re needin’
Sing
things that are great
About
that Scandinavian state
Jokes?
Oh deary me, no
No
joke at forty below
No
joke when stuck in a sauna
And
twenty depressives are crouched in the corner
Nights:
long. Days: short
Time
enough for protestant thought
Time
for a rant from a Calvinist
And
that’s why the people are constantly pissed
Put
yourself in those Nordic blues
And
join in this culture of booze!
Drink!
Drink!
Drink
to remember
The
arctic
Joys
of December
The
nights are drawing endlessly in
So
break out the aquavit, whisky and gin
Drink! Drink!
The
evening is gloomy
My
liver’s the texture
Of
griddled Haloumi
The
sky is a uniform grey
What
better occasion to author a play?
Drink! Drink!
Why
remain sober when
Winter
Bites
like a Doberman
Life
is a bastard
And
best is approached
Being
thoroughly plastered
And
poached!
Life
is
Much
over-rated
Let’s
cancel the day
And
become dehydrated
And
make ourselves stink
Make
our universe shrink
Make
our corneas pink
With
Drink!
Eat
the Frog
From The Translucent Frogs of Quuup, music
by MS. Anthony and the village elder eventually arrive at the spot
where the
frogs are meant to be, but there are none to be seen.
After a mellow start, this kicks off into a
tambourine-wielding party stomper
If
you’re
sorrowful and stressed
With
the turmoil
in your breast
And
it’s making
you depressed
You
should eat
For
life will
feel less hateful
Less
fierce and
cruel fate-full
If you
feed
yourself a plateful
Of a
treat
Something
sweet....
What’s
the
tastiest type of food?
What
gets
y'taste buds in the mood
What’s
the
gastronomic coup
-de-gras?
What
agrees with
big red wine
Is
it paw of
porcupine?
Is
it marinated
rhin-
-o’s arse?
Tastier
far than
the best hot-dog
Eat
the frog,
eat the frog!
Is
the
stir-fried corpse of a see-through frog
Eat
the frog,
eat the frog!
If
you’re
feeling down and blue
Eat
the frog,
eat the frog!
Pile
them high
on the barbeque!
Eat
the frog,
eat the frog!
What’s
the
grubbiest kind of grub?
Greasy
spoon or
gastro-pub?
Marmoset
or
monkey cub
to go?
Is
it butties
filled with ham?
Roly-poly
hot
with jam
Alphabetti
from
a can?
Oh no.
Sweeter
far than
your first real snog
Eat
the frog,
eat the frog!
Fricassee
of a
see-through frog.
Eat
the frog,
eat the frog!
The
taste is
fine and quite distinct
Eat
the frog,
eat the frog!
And
that’s why
the bastards are extinct
Eat
the frog,
eat the frog!
Everybody
Knows It’s You
From Evolution
by
Nina Conti. Ventriloquist Nina and
her foul-mouthed monkey, in a touching existentialist duet
MONKEY
Everybody knows
it's
you
That's doin' it
Everybody knows it's you
The basis of your stand-up
Is low-grade farce
With half your fucking hand up
A monkey's
NINA
Ah,
so..
That's what you're trying to do
Promulgate your point of view
Public'ly insisting
That it's me
MONKEY
Who's
into fisting
NINA
When
everybody knows it's you.
Oh, Monkey!
Everybody knows it's tough
Accepting it
We can empathise: it's tough
MONKEY
(You're
telling me..)
NINA
You're
chirpy and you're charmin'
My chimp-cheek'd chum
But I wouldn't shove my arm in
Your..
MONKEY
Arse
NINA
..Personality.
MONKEY You're
telling me
it's
tough
Listening to this puerile guff
Every night we sink ter
A song about me sphinc..
NINA
I
understand
It's tough, it's tough
Everybody knows that it's
tough to be a
sentient being
MONKEY
But
I'm not
NINA
Everybody
suffers from the solipsistic crisis of the mind
MONKEY
What
a wanker.
NINA
Everybody's
knows, that's the way it goes
Everybody's fleeing
From seeing..
MONKEY
The lubricated
hand
That's creep, creep, creepin' up behind.
Let's sing a duet!
NINA
What?
MONKEY
Let's
sing a duet!
NINA
Well..
MONKEY
Let's
sing a duet!
Exactly, cos we can't
Duet;
MONKEY Everybody
knows
it's
you
NINA
It's
not me that’s doin’ it
That's doin' it
No,
no! And what you’re saying
Everybody know it's you
Has
an element of taboo in it
Only way that we can
Let’s
sing! Yeah!
Both sing a duet
Let’s
sing a duet
Is a pre-recorded tape and a
La,
la, la-la la-la, la!
Techie to cue it
Ain’t
nothin’ to it!
NINA
Everybody
knows that we
Are separate as we can be
MONKEY It's
pitiful
NINA
Mutually
independent
MONKEY
With
your hand in the ascendent
NINA
Professional
entertainers
MONKEY
With
your fingers in my an-
NINA
It's
evolution in the making
MONKEY
Tell
it to the ringpiece
NINA
'Cos
Everybody knows
MONKEY
Everybody
knows
NINA
Everybody
knows
BOTH
It's
you!
Extra,
Extra
Written
for Les Dennis who toured a one-man show in 2003, for which Mark played
piano. Les, and his split from a Ms. A
Holden, had been a regular feature in the red-tops
Extra,
extra
read all about it
We’ve
got all
the sexiest headlines
It’s
news and we
want to shout it
Miles
and miles
of three-in-a-bed lines
We
cut the
craziest kinds of capers
It’s
in the
papers!
Extra,
extra
read all about it
Star
of Holby
City’s a virgin
We’ve
proof and
while we’re about it
Facts
are only
just now emergin’
Bubonic
plague
in cast of Neighbours
It’s
in the
papers!
Meanwhile
the USA
It’s
Syria next
and bombs away
And
it’s not
that we don’t care
But
stop press!
Stop
press!
Posh
has washed
her hair!
Extra,
extra
evening edition
J-Lo
claims her
father’s a Martian
Top
prize in our
competition
*Matching
mugs
with Little and Large on
Les
Dennis
thought he could escape us
It’s
in the
papers!
Extra,
extra
it’s an exclusive
Interview
with
Mariah Carey
We
ask what
would be her views if
The
archbishop
of Canterbury
Was
found in
certain sleazy gay bars
It’s
in the
papars!
Meanwhile
the oil’s run dry
A
toxic cloud is
in the sky
But
we haven’t
time today
Cos
stop press
Stop
press
Posh
takes a
holiday!
*nowadays this
rhyme
would suggest
Boxer-shorts
with Nigel Farage on
Financial
Advice Ballad
From Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, London
Bubble at Greenwich theatre, 2002. A
proper, soul ballad, think Luther Van Dross
Hey
girl,
I’ve
seen a lot
of world
Mountains
high
and sunset places
I’ve
swam with
dolphins ‘cross the
Green
ocean
blue.
And
I’ve kissed
a lotta girls
A
bit like you
only different faces
And
I wanna
share
What
I’ve found
everywhere
To
be
universally true (Universally true!)
Y’gotta
get a
pension plan
A
moderate sum
in a good portfolio
And
if you can
Try
to put some
money in a tax-efficient
Savings
account
Hey
Girl
I’ve
walked a
boulevard
As
wide as a
smile and long as forever
I’ve
worn out
plimsolls on
The
pavements of
Life
And
those stones
can get so hard
And
slippery
too, in inclement weather
But
girl, my
news
Is
not about
shoes
It’s
more about
sound advice (Sensible advice!)
Y’gotta
get a
pension plan
Talk
to a chappy
who’d be happy if you put him
To
the ombudsman
And
shop around
for the best high interest
Savings
account.
I
can see
You’re
crazy for
me
And
girl, I
understan’
But
dry your
eyes
‘Cos
I’m a
sensible guy
Who
is kinda
saving up for a cardigan
And
I wanna see
you with a pension plan
Hey
girl
I’ve
dreamed a
pack o’ dreams
But
dreams like
milk can soon turn rancid
I’ve
watched
them curdle an’ it’s been
Hard
to survive
And
if sometimes
to me it seems
Life’s
not as
fun-packed as first I fancied
It’s
still OK
I
await the day
When
I’m finally
sixty-five
When
I collect
my pension plan
I
wanna have a
good time but I’m holding out ‘til I’m
A
very old, old
man
When
maybe you
and I, oh baby we could buy
A
little caravan
A
PEP is quite a
step and an ISA can be nicer
For
the artisan
I’d
like to hold
you tight but it wouldn’t be right
When
the Halifax
can
Offer
me a deal
on the best high interest
Savings
account
Folie de Vieux
From The Barber of Seville, by
Beaumarchais, adapted by Lee Hall, Theatre Royal, Bristol, 2006.
There’s
a cold
wind coming
From
a darkening
hill
It’s
a breeze
that blows unknown
There’s
a cold wind
coming
And
it’s set to
chill
The
marrow in
your bones
Cold
wind is
coming
Nearer
every day
And
nothing you
can do
To
make it go
away.
There’s
a cold
wind coming
And
the joke is
this
That
you thought
you’d stop it
With
a young
girl’s kiss
Health
and Safety Song
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/ London 2009. Thinking
that the islanders are keeping a secret from her,
Puupiline van
den Blouws lays her ace card
You
must think
that I'm born tomorrow!
You
play the
mess-around with Flaps Van Den Blouws!
You
must think I
am some kinda foolish!
But
I show you
Here's
what we
do
I
call a Health
and safety meeting now…
I
call a Health
and safety meeting now…
Pulpit!
Pulpit!
Meeting to order!
Silence!
Silence! We use plan B!
Come
on, come
on…
I
haven't got
all daytimes
Everyone
listen
to me!
I
have
ev'rywhere investigates
I
finish my
report and here's what I found
So
much breaches
of the regulates
So
I show you
Here's
what we
do
I
call a Health
and safety meeting now...
I
call a Health
and safety meeting now…
Alright,
alright, I give you some examples
Pretty
soon
you're gonna see...
Directive
hundred and one
Forty
one stroke
G;
It
clearly says
in the
Code,
in the
code,
That
There
must be
barriers
Up
by the side
of the sea,
There
must be
visible
Lines
in the
road
Directive
hundred and two
Forty
two stroke
A;
Fire
extinguishers
Easy
to reach
And
A
paramedic
where
Children
are
come to play
And
supervisory
Guards
on the
beach
Because
of the breaches
And
dangerous beaches
And
obstinate creatures
With
beautiful features
I
close this island
I close this island down!
And
in the
paragraph
Nine
forty-three
stroke H;
Proper
protection is
Strapped
to the
knees
And
Every
chicken is
Kept
in a
chicken cage
And
on the hour
is
Checked
for
disease
Directive
hundred and four
And
there's
more, much more
There
must be
notices
Fixed
to the
wall
And
There
must be
everything
Nailed
to a
non-slip floor
There
must be
nothing at
All:
that is all
Your
Aars is assessed it
Is
tried it is tested
By
powers invested
In
me and you guessed it
I
close this island
I close this island down!
Those
are my
say-sos!
These are my
therefores!
You play with
fire
When you mess
with me!
And in a day
the
Royal Dutch
Air Force
Nuclear bombs
you
Into the sea!
For
your own
good
For
Health and
Safety
Your
choice
Your
choice
I
close you up!
I
close you
sideways!
I
close you now!
I
close this
island
I
close this
island down!
The Gels
of Hay Sosay Itty
From Cinderella,
Improbable theatre at Lyric,
Hammersmith, 1998
BUTTONS There are
parties where
the working classes
Mingle
with the middle
Drinking
beer from plastic glasses
In
the general slosh
But here
they're un-persuaded by
A
democratic idyll
And
ev'ryone this evening
Is
exceptionally posh...
THE GELS
OF HAY SOSAY ITTY enter, wearing two-dimensional cut-out dresses
GELS
Fwhat
a scene of wanton gaiety
Fwhat
a frenzied free-for-all
When
the gels of hay so say itty
Let
their hair dine et the ball.
The
prince commands and we obey it, he
Tells
us thet we dance till three
Thet's
how chaps in hay so say itty
Hope
to bag a bride-to be
BUTTONS They're the very height
o' fashion
And
frequently seen
In all the
glossy little photographs
In
Harpers and Queen
GELS
We
are very, very wealthy but it's plain to see
We're
only this wealthy because we deserve to be...
Fwhat
a night of impropriety
We
intend to drink champagne!
Thet's
fwhat gels in hay so say itty
Much
prefair to ord'n'ry wane.
We're
not bresh or lide or rioty
We
abhor all lenguage foul
We're
the gels of hay so say itty
With
no movement in our vowels.
BUTTONS They're the very height
o' fashion
And
here are no fewer
Than
half-a-dozen dippy debutantes
In
Paris couture
GELS
Each
and ev'ry single one of us an airistocret
And
hopeless at ir'ning thet's why all our frocks are flet...
The
Genuine Me
From Bewilderness, 2001. Towards
the end of
the
show, Sean and
Hamish strip naked as a visible symbol of their new-found openness and
rejection of artifice. Actually,
they stripped down to pink, towelling naked-suits, cunningly made by
Alice
Power, and sung this song in those
Look at
me now; I’ve got just enough pink stuff
Pink
stuff just enough to keep me in
Straight
to the point and stripp’d to the bare buff
Covered
with nothin’ but my natural skin
Look at
me now
Yeah! It’s the genuine me
Say how
d’ye do to the
Bare
chest, no vest, knobbly knee
Showing
my credentials with a capital P
Look at
me now; I’ve got nothing to hide
And I’ve
decided I’m
Beside
myself with glee
In giving
you the ring ding, real thing
Nothin’
but the genuine me.
Look at
me now I’m about to hit jackpot
Jackpot,
ready or not, ‘cos here I come
Shake it
till I break it in a first-rate fox-trot
Loose as
a goose on a pendulum
Look at
me now
Yeah! It’s the genuine me
I’m
fundamentally
Foot-loose
and fantastic’ly free
Breaking
out my bones with my skeleton key
Look at
me now; I’m as sharp as a knife
And I’m
a-handin’ out a
Lifetime
guarantee
I’m
cutting out the dead wood, feels good
Nothin’
but the genuine me.
coda:
Look at
me now
Yeah! It’s the genuine me
And I’m
rejecting my
Belief in
lingerie
In favour
of the bare back, bum crack
Nothing but
the genuine
Big bold
solid gold
Flappin’ like
a pengu-ine
Sea
breeze, yes please
Welcome
to the GENUINE ME!
Getting
Out
This
song was written in 2001 to be part of The
Play What I Wrote, Sean and Hamish’s (of The Right Size)
affectionate and successful tribute to Morecombe and Wise, in which a
“play” of
little
Erne’s is “staged” with that evening’s guest star in it, as per the TV
M&W
standard. The “play” was set in
the Bastille, with Erne as the Scarlet Pimpernel, all very much in the
Eddie
Braben mould, and this song is self-explanatory. Sadly
for nearly everyone, the money being offered by the producer was rather
less than you might expect, and Mark
and I were forced to decline, so this song never got heard. Eventually, The Ridiculous Song was
included in the show, so I did get a dribble of royalties, but it
marked the
end of an era...
In
martial vein;
Book
your seats on Eurostar!
Yip
yaroo and hip hoorah!
To
Dingy dungeon’s iron bars
Prepare
to say y’ au revoirs!
We’re
getting out!
We’ve
had it up to here with prison
Getting
out!
‘Least
we’ve had enough of this ‘un
We’ll
take a boat on the slippery-slappery sea
A
cabin’s booked at Calais for eleven twenty-three
The
sails are set
To
where we’ll get
A
decent cup of tea
And
we’ll catch the ferry
Back
to merry
England
We’re
getting free!
Now
the Pimpernel’s amongst us
Liberty!
From
these criminals and gungstas
We
want to feast on traditional English fare
The
simple country cooking that is envied everywhere
A
plastic tray
Of
something grey
From
a stall in Leicester Square
Back
in culinary
Very
merry
England
O
get me out of prison
Mister
Scarlet Pimpernel
For
I can’t endure the pain no more
-
And I can’t stand the smell
It’s
morbid and is oppressive
With it’s
endless shades of
grey
Which
go on and on and on but that’s
Enough about
this play!
O
Pimpernel you’ve been assigned
To whisk me
to the court!
My
hero!
- Thanks, you’re very kind,
But call me
pimp for short
The
Bastille oh, it’s gloomy
With its
walls devoid of
feature
Horrid,
horrid, horrid, horrid, horrid
Thanks, we’ve
got the peechure
The
road to freedom lies before us
Let
us recapitulate the chorus
Getting
out!
Hit
the road and head to Blighty
Never
doubt
We
want sandwiches and high-tea
We
want to stroll down a cosy country lane
Where
trees are sweetly swaying in a gentle hurricane
It’s
summertime
And
so we’ll find
An
awful lot of rain
That
is customary
Back
in where we‘re
Heading,
‘cos
It’s
necessary
Getting
out
To
gad about
In
England
And,
while we’re at it, here are some out-takes;
We’re
getting out!
We’re
going back to London
Where
we’ll shout
That
we’re home with gay abundon
We
want to pause by a dainty village green
Where
a morris-dancer’s rattling a demented tambourine
Like
a leather-trooser’d
Turkey
who’s had
Gallons
of caffeine
Back
in antiquary
Very
merry
England.
Annoying
is the croissant
And
the plays of Marivaux
There
are novels by Maupassant
I’m
delighted not to know
I
prefer my fish to poisson
And
my shrimps to ecrevisse
There
are novels by Maupassant
I’ve
been privileged to miss
For
“sixty” they say soixante
“Femme”
instead of “Wench”
And
the trouble with Maupassant
He’s
incorrigibly French
There
are melodies by Saint-Saens
But
you’ve got the main idea
Le Pays du
Maupassant
And
we’re getting out of here...
Can
you hear that awful noise?
It’s
the sound of angry men
They
paid thirty pounds a ticket
And
the interval’s at ten
When
the beating of your heart’s
More
exciting than the show
Then
you’re probably at a theatre
Which
is just along the road
Goosy
From Mother Goose and the Wolf, London
Bubble at Greenwich Theatre, 2003. In the
jovially complicated back-story to Peth’s script, the
central family was Jack of beanstalk fame, his girl and his mother, now
once
again fallen on hard times. The
Goose That Lay the Golden Eggs – Sandra - had stopped laying, and
therein
lay (or didn’t) their financial hardship. The
audience was invited to join in the chorus.
MILLIE
I
know a bird
I
won’t name names
But
once upon a time: seriously famous
Owned
by a giant, saved by Jack
And
she’s never going back
SANDRA
(distressed)
HONK HONK
MILLIE
And
that’s a fact
That
goose
Is
quite obtuse
SANDRA
HONK,
HONK? (What’s that?)
MILLIE
Means
‘beautiful’: means "great"
But
sad to relate, she can’t lay an egg
And
we’ve begged
SANDRA
HONK!
MILLIE
Begged!
SANDRA
HONK,
HONK!
MILLIE
But
no egg!
MOTHER
We’ve
tried everything
Pills
and potions
Lozenges
and lotions
To
melt her motions
But
all that we get
Is
a shrug of her wing
So
we swallow our pride
And
begin to sing
ALL
Goosy,
goosy
Bend
your goosy leg
And
lay, lay, lay a lovely little
Golden,
goosy egg.
Oh!
You
see pretty goosy I’d be
Happy
as can be
If
you’ll please, please squeeeeeze...
A
lovely little goosy egg for me!
We’ve
tried remedies
To
cure obesities
And
hom-e-omeopathies
That
should put geese at ease
But
all that we get
For
our pains is a pong
So
we open the window
And
repeat this song…
Goosy,
goosy... etc
The
following was a first draft of the verse, of which I was very fond. It had a funky rhythm, and when I’ve
got time or can be bothered, I’ll notate it for you so you can glimpse
just how happening I am. Anyway,
it was deemed to obscure,
referring to another girl who may or may not have been the one onstage,
singing
Once
there was a
girlie
Used
to get up
early
To
go and see a
woman who
Kept
a goose
Every
day
She
went to play
Any
excuse
Loved
the goose
But
there was a
prob it
Made
the woman
sob you could
Beg
for an egg
but
What’s
the use?
Come
what may
Goose
wouldn’t
lay
Wouldn’t
produce
Not
the goose
And
finally, here is the reprise version which inevitably came back at the
end,
once events (and I forget what they were, now) had persuaded the goose
to
lay. We segued into a bit of the
Hallelujah chorus, which was nice, and the lighting went all epic
ALL
We know a goose
Went
through hell
Force-fed
filth and
Fat
as any elephant
But
met a new best friend
A
real godsend
SANDRA
HONK
HONK!
ALL
Happy
end!
That
goose
Can
reproduce
And
once again is ovulating lucratively
She
laid an egg of gold!
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Sock
it to ya! Straight through ya!
Hallelujah!
Goose
of geese!
Top
layer! Hooray her!
And
egg of eggs!
Much
moolah! Much moolah!
And she’s free range for ever and
ever!
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Goosy,
goosy,
Bend
your goosy leg, etc
Come
on and squeeze!
I’m
begging, please!
Come
on and squeeze!
I’m
on my knees!
Oh
yes indeed!
And
lay, lay, lay, lay
A
goosy egg for me!
Hotel Stilton
From Dick
Whittington, London Bubble, 1994. Dick
arrives in London and finds himself in a seedy hotel,
run by rats pretending to be people. There's a recording of this
somewhere, hanging about, on cassette, with myself, Jane Nash and
Darren Tunstall singing it. I'll find it and let you know, shall I?
There’s
a dark,
dark doorway
Off
a dark, dark
street
There’s
a dark,
dark alleyway
Where
the
shadows meet
At
the Hotel
Stilton
Oo-ooh!
The
Hotel
Stilton!
Here’s your
dark, dark hallway
Here’s
your
umpteenth floor
Here’s
your
diff’rent noises
From
the dark,
dark doors
At
the Hotel
Stilton
Oo-ooh!
The
Hotel
Stilton!
Ooh! It’s
a little bit cheesy
Ooh! It’s
a tiny bit grim
Ooh! And
the carpets are greazy
So
come on in!
Here’s
your
dark, dark room, sir
Here’s
your
dark, dark light
Here’s
you bell
for the service
Through
the
long, long night
At
the Hotel
Stilton
Oo-ooh!
The
Hotel
Stilton
At
the Hotel
Stilton
Sleep
tight!
The
House
That I call Home
From Baldy
Hopkins for The Right Size, 1994, one of the
lesser-known Right Size shows. In the style of a
heartfelt folk-song
I
met an ancient
navvy
A-walkin’
down
the street
His
hands were
heavy hands of hardened toil,
And
likewise
were his feet
O
tell me,
gnarled pedestrian,
Where
lies your
fusty bed?
What
keeps you
warm when snow and storm
Abuse
you
wrinkled head?
And
this to me he said,
‘There’s
a light that burns in the window
There’s
a welcome mat by the door
There’s
a DPC with a guarantee
And
a ring-main cable runs beneath the floor
There’s
a joist that’s made out of timber
And
the walls are lathe and loam
It’s
the slopey roof makes it waterproof
It’s THE
HOUSE THAT I CALL
HOME’
O
navvy, there’s
much wonder
In
this place of
which you sing
Your
voice is
rare and strangely fibrous
Like
some
nectarine in spring
O
yonder stands
a tavern,
And
the pumps
are primed with beer
Let’s
toast the
news and further music
Pour
into my ear
Of
the place you hold so dear
‘There’s
a light that burns in the window
There’s
a fire that burns in the hearth
There’s
a two-way switch in the hallway which
Illuminates
the stairs to the toilet and the bath,
O
there’s a Teas-maid down in the kitchen
And
the spout’s all trimmed with chrome
There’s
a TV shelf which I made myself
In THE HOUSE
THAT I CALL HOME’
Thus
spake the
ancient navvy
And
we drank
into the night
My
heavy, heavy
heart was lifted
And
my wallet,
too, grew light
And
when the
last bell sounded,
And
the landlord
bade adieu
Asking
hadn’t we
home’s to go to?
‘Twas
with
certain déjŕ vu
We
both answered yes we do!
For
there’s my sweet young bride in the window
With
her teenage son on her knee
And
my grey-haired mum’s got a bag of plums
And
some friends who are Polish and they’ve all dropped by for tea
D’ye’
know this life may see me a-ramblin’
Both
to Reykjavik and Rome
But
where’er I schlep I’ll adjust my step
To THE HOUSE
THAT I CALL HOME
To THE HOUSE
THAT I CALL HOME!
Ice Cream
From Dick
Whittington, London Bubble, 1994. The
end of the plot bizarrely featured Dick Whittington
and
Mrs. Fitzwarren – a hitherto unsuccessful inventor and entrepreneur,
hence the opening verse - inventing Ice-cream
All
my business
plans and yearnings
Have
proved,
frankly, dire
And
on the
strength of recent earnings
I
could not
retire
But
now, they’ll
say this wench’ll
Surely run
a
business school
For
I can sense
the vast potential
If
you play it
cool. . .
Ice-cream’s
a
nice thing
It’s
Ice-cream
that we sing
Thrill
to the
big chill
That’s
surely
here to stay
We’re
into
freezing
This
freezing’s
so pleasing
So
pleasing that
we sing
A
hippity-hip
hooray
A
quick frisk with Dick’s whisk
Means
business will be brisk
Feel
in my bones this c-
-ould
be an icey day
Ice-cream’s
a
cool thing
It’s
Ice-cream
that you’ll sing
No
more your
wool-zing
Matilda,
no way
We’ve
got a
cornet
And
stuff to
adorn it
Ice-cream’s
been
born it
Is
surely her to
stay
A
quick frisk with Dick’s whisk
Means
business is low-risk
It’s
sure-fire, it can’t miss, ‘c-
-os
it’s an icey day.
It’s
the
Whittington whirly
Good
enough to
make you want to get up early
It’s
the
Whittington whirly
Surely
Surely
here to
stay
It’s
the
Whittington whirly
Just
one lick
will make your toes go kinda curly
It’s
the
Whittington whirly
Hippity-hip
hooray
‘Cos
it’s an
icey day!
If
He’s up in Time
From Road Rage, C4 Sit-com festival at
Riverside studios, 1999
He's
a part-time
giant on the legal circuit
He's
the
sometime solver of the corporate crime
If
there's a
litigation loop-hole he'll eventually work it
If
he's up in time
He's
a
half-baked baker of an optimism-biscuit
Of
the
well-intentioned he’s a paradigm
And
if he had a
reputation he'd be more than glad to risk it’
If
he's up in time
But
when he's
dreaming
It's
a crofters'
cottage somehow in Carshalton
It's
a world away
And
when he's
dreaming
There
are kids
and cots and crazy paving
Nothing
nasty
misbehaving
Maybe
one day
But
frankly in the
meantime
He's
the
half-right righter of a half-bad planet
He's
the
arse-end player in a pantomime
It’s
a complex
situation and he's almost understand' it
If
he's up in time.
To
miss his
breakfast
If
he's up in time.
Oh
yeah. . .
I like lager
From The
Remains of Foley and McColl, BBC radio 4 2000.
I like lager
In
me belly fish
an’
Chips
and curry
pizza an’
The
soccer on
the television
I
like lager
It’s
true
And
I bet that I
can drink a gallon
Faster
than you.
I
like girls but
it’
‘S
not reciprocated
Women
seem to
think that I’m
Emotionally
constipated
I
like girls but
Boo-hoo
It’s
easier to
get a pint of
Lager
or two
Help
Please
help me
I’m
so lonely
Help
Please
help me
To
buy
Some
more lager
I
like lager
Let’s
recap a
minute
In
my hand a
lager can
And
very soon
there’s nothing in it
I
like lager
It’s
true
And
I’d sooner
have a lager
Than
be singing
to you!
I
like lager!
I
Love the Desert
From Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, London
Bubble at Greenwich theatre, 2002. This
song was sung by the baddie, a character by the name
of Commander
H. Bann. The “H” later turns out
to stand for “Hosepipe”. This is
Peth’s joke, and a good one. The
character is obsessed and delighted by the prospect of global warming
and a
water shortage. The brokers’ men,
his reluctant sidekicks, don’t know the song but are forced into
singing
harmony in the chorus
Witness
the
desert, an epic of vacancy
There’s
grandeur
In
acres of
sand, yer
There’s
mile
after mile, as far as the eye can see
Ooh,
I love it!
Quick,
sing the
chorus
We
don’t know
the chorus!
Aah.
Ah, ah, ah,
I
love the
desert!
Look
at the wind
as it rips through the scenery
Changing
sand
shapes
To
alien
landscapes
And
scratching
your skin like malevolent machinery
Ooh,
I love it!
Witness
the
cruel desert sun beating hot on us
It’s
sublime,
it’s
The
Beckham of
Climates, and
Day
after day
it’s superbly monotonous
Quick,
sing the
chorus
We
don’t know
the chorus!
Aah.
Ah, ah, ah,
I
love the
desert!
Isle
of Aars
From
– predictably enough – On the
Island of Aars, music by MS, Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/ London 2009. The finale of the show, in which the
reconciled characters are sailing away in a knitted boat to the
Caribbean,
towed by a giant turtle. Hard-hitting
Social realism, this.
Hans
Bloemendroep was Puupiline’s loathed boss, back in Holland
DAVE
Oft
have I wandered 'long the sea shore
Full many a mile til my
tootsies were
sore
MORAG Ships
in
the distance all of them pass
The option to land on the
Island of Aars.
THE
DON Stuff your
Atlantic,
shove your string vest
Our turtle is fast and is
heading
south-west
MORAG Blue
is the
skyline, green is the grass
And happy the souls on the
island of aars
ALL
Yes
happy our souls on the island of aars
Isle of Aars!
PUUP
I've
been chained to a desk-job!
ALL
Isle
of Aars!
PUUP
Fo'
a pension of heartache!
ALL
H
& S!
PUUP
But
I'm changing my plans
And Hans
Bloemendroep
Can push his nose
In where the droopin' bloomers
goes
ALL
Isle
of Aars, isle of Aars!
DAVE
The
puffins of purgat'ry pushed to the past!!
ALL
Isle
of Aars, oh mystical Aars!
And happy our souls on the
island of Aars
ALL
Isle
of Aars, isle of Aars!
DAVE
The
pennant of promise is pinned to the mast!!
ALL
Isle
of Aars, oh tremulous Aars!
And happy our souls on the
island of Aars
ALL
Isle
of Aars, isle of Aars!
DAVE
The
Haggis of happiness hatching at last!!
ALL
Isle
of Aars, pulchritudinous Aars
We chuck you a bucket of sweet
au revoirs
And thank you for sharing our
fondness
for Aars
I’m
A Boy – You’re a Cow
From Mother Goose and the Wolf, London
Bubble at Greenwich theatre, 2003. I’m
struggling fully to remember the plot of this panto,
as I write
this, some eight years after the event, and I can’t think why a
character
called Jack would be singing a song
to a cow, in Mother Goose. But
Peth’s Bubble pantos were
always a little different. I’m
sure it made sense at the time. Anyway,
here’s Jack, reunited with Daisy. This is
a big, fat, Sinatra-sings-My-Way song, music by
Mark: I wouldn’t have been up to the job.
Mostly
friendships
End
in end-ships
That’s
the old
cliché
Like
balls in
the net
Or
lest we
forget
When
all’s said
and done
At
the end of
the day.
But
you and I
are like a marathon
We
go on and on
and on and on and
On
and on and
on...
I’m
a boy!
You’re
a Cow!
Hoof
in hand;
we’ll wander this lovely land somehow
Walk
my way and
let’s take a bow
A
reunited boy
and a cow.
Whenever
the
world looks gloomy
Whenever
your
milk’s congealed
Whenever
it
rains then you ‘n’ me
Will
kinda both
lie down in a field
You’re
a (MOO!)
I’m
a (HUMANOID)
DANCE
BREAK
We’re
sharing a
love that’s lengthy
We’re
talking
the tip of tops!
We’ll
turn ‘em
all green with enthy
As
we
perambulate to the shops.
I’m
a boy
You’re
a cow!
Goes
way back
when
Still
happening
now
Let
this big old
world
Break
open the
schnapps
To
celebrate
Ruminants
dancing with chaps
They
can’t stop
Bovine
joy
You’re
a cow!
And
I’m your
boy!
I’m
Puupiline Van Den Blouws
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/ London 2009. Puupiline
Van Den Blouws is the implausible name of the
vampish,
bisexual Dutch Health-and-Safety officer who arrives on the island and
sets the
cat amongst the Haggis
Oh
the world is
dangerous and anarchic
With
many germ-infected
vermin all determined
To
infect ya
some day
If
only there
was someone Joan-Of-Arcic
A
glam madam
with some jihad to make the
Badness
go
way....
I'm
Puupiline
Van Den Blouws
The
Health and
Safety officer is in the house
Coming to
check you out
And
leave no
doubt
Of
what your
legal responsibles is all about
I'm
Puulpiline,
a mean machine
Of
every
regulation touchin' food hygiene
What
the cruel,
cool, rule book
Disallows
Puulpiline
Van
Den Blouws.
I
send you a
letter
A
letter much
sim'lar to this 'un
And
tell me do
you receive letter?
-
No
You're
looking
at
Ten
years in
prison
In
EU directives
the regulates are very strict
Say
hello to
your nemesis
Every
your
premises
Here
I become an
inspict
By
Puupiline Van
Den Blouws
The
world he's
gonna clap his hand in big applause
I'm
a pussy
– I mean pussy – cat and baby you're my mouse
I'm
Puupiline
Puupiline
Puupiline
Van
Den Blouws
And
I'm looking
for compliance!
Interval
From Cinderella,
Improbable
Theatre at Lyric, Hammersmith 1998. The
act-two opener
Did you have
a lovely time
IN
THE INTERVAL
At the
pantomime?
Aren't there
lots of stairs to climb?
Did you talk
about the show
IN
THE INTERVAL
Well, waddya
know
Only one more
half to go
IN
THE INTERVAL
IN THE
INTERVAL
You got as far
As finding
where the toilets are
The queue was
quite spectacular
IN THE
INTERVAL
Did you have
a load of treats?
IN
THE INTERVAL
Ice-cream and
sweets?
Please don't
throw up on the seats
Did you buy
the merchandise
IN
THE INTERVAL
At a bargain
price?
Fifteen quid
for the plastic mice
IN
THE INTERVAL
IN THE
INTERVAL
It all was
plain
That you lot
think that we’re insane
But more fool
you, 'cos you're back again
FROM THE
INTERVAL
In minor:
The
atmosphere was gloom and doom
IN
THE INTERVAL
In the
dressing-room
It's warm and
cosy as a tomb…
So IN THE
INTERVAL
We hatched a
plot
To sing this
song no matter what
And this is
it, and that's your lot
IN THE INTER-
MIDDLE
OF THE WINTER
IN
THE INTERVAL!
Let’s
Go
From The Scarecrow and his Servant, by
Philip Pullman, adapted by Simon Reade, Southwark Playhouse 2008.
The
“Let’s Go” song was the recurring inter-scene song, as Jack and the
Scarecrow
moved through a war-ravaged landscape, searching for the idyll of
Spring
Valley. Every time it came back,
it was longer as indignities and misfortunes piled up upon the pair.
1.
Let's
go (let's
go, let's go) this way!
We
don't know
where we heading but we're heading there today
I
haven't got a
coat and I'm
Dreading
the
snows of wintertime
My
shoes are
wearing paper thin
Toes
out,
weather in
We're
passing
out from hunger
And
we're
shrivelled up with thirst
And
so
Let's
go!
Cos
things could
be worse
2.
Let's
go ( Let's
go, let's go!) right now!
We
don't know
how we'll cope but Jack, we'll get along somehow!
My
only home was
turned to flame
When
the angry
soldiers came
My
mum is buried
underground
Tara
mum, see
you round
I
haven't got a
coat and I'm
Dreading
the
snow… etc, as 1.
3.
Let's
go, right
now, quick as you like, top speed!
It's
dangerous and
scary and
I
really need, I
really need
To
get away from
brigands, and
Soldiers
tearing
up the land
And
though we
haven't the faintest clue
Where
on earth
we're going to
Let's
go, let's
go, let's go..
Oh
but yes we
do..
Just
the place
for me and you
I've
the perfect
rendezvous
Tiddly
pom and
doo-be-doo…
4.
Let's
go this
way!
The
opposite
direction to a bristly fiancee
For
though my
heart is full o' pain
And
I will never
love again
My
curiosity for
the world
Is
still a flag
that flaps, unfurled
And
Jack, Jack,
Jack, m'lad
There's
still
adventures to be had
Me
only home was
turned to flame
When
the angry
soldiers came… etc as 2…and 1…
5.
Let's
go (let's
go, let's go) this way
The
sun is
working hard to put a shimmer on the day
We've
harmonized
the chorus and we've lengthened every verse
And
so
Let's
go
Cos
things could
be worse
6.
Let's go (let's go, let's go)
this way
We may be mad to go but we'd
be doubly
mad to stay
JACK
And
oh, a million pairs of wings are lifting us clear
SCARECROW Hearts
are full and lost for words
Thank you, conf''rence of the
birds...
JACK
And
up, up into the rarified atmosphere
SCARECROW My
only home was turned to flame
When the angry soldiers came
JACK
There's
nothing but seagulls and distance up here
SCARECROW Look,
Jack, on the ground
I do believe that that's a town
Hold m' hand and hold it tight
I always knew we'd be alright
BOTH
We're
passing out from hunger
And it isn't what we planned
And so
Let's go!
Get ready to land
7. Finale
Let's
go?
No,
no, no no
Let's
stay
For
Spring
Valley is as happy as hip-hooray
For
though my
home was turned to flame
When
the angry
soldiers came
That's
all in
the past
I
gotta home at
last
I
haven't a coat
but I'm
Sun-bathin'
all
the time
My
shoes are
wearing thin as air
So
yeah, wear the
other pair!
I'm
feeling
kinda peckish
And
I'm
tickle-ish with thirst
And
so
Let's
eat
And
so
Let's
drink
And
so
Raise
y' glasses and
clink,
clink ,
clink
I've
pizza in me
tummy
And
I've money
in me purse
So
hey
Let's
stay
Cos
things could
be worse!
The Letter
Song
From The Barber of Seville, by
Beaumarchais, adapted by Lee Hall, Theatre Royal, Bristol, 2006. This song represents an attempt on my
part and that of the production in general, to inject a post-modernist
twist on
proceedings.
If
you got a
play
And
an (old) old
play
And
a plot,
let’s say
Like
the plot
today and
What?
Talkin’
about a
plot.
And
you’ve come
to a spot
In
your pedigree
plot
That
was written
in a day
That’s
long
forgot
And
if you’ve
got a plot
And
it’s (well)
underway
Doing
(pretty)
OK
But
it’s coming
unstuck and
What?
Still
talkin’
about a plot
Which
has come
unstuck
At
the start of
act two
And
you need
some struc-
-Tural
(kinda)
glue
Introduce
a
letter
It
gets better
with a letter
It’s
an old
convention
And
there’s
always been
In
the second
act
A
scene of comic
tension
It’s
a trope
In
an envelope
The
letter scene
The
letter scene
The
letter scene
Life’s like a
Bicycle Made Of String
From Hold
Me Down, The Right Size, 1996. In
the show, Sean and Hamish cut out the first part of
choruses 1 and 2 – it is indeed quite a long song.
We recorded it intact (if a little
slow) on the CD Ridiculous Songs, and
I include the full lyric here. Similarly
to Wiggery Wack Woo,
at least in my mind, this song echoes
those cutesy life-story-with-a-homily-songs, popular in the fifties and
early
sixties (Que Sera, sera: It Was a Very
Good Year, Ugly Duckling) which gives the thing a homely, familiar
base on
which to rest the nonsense
When
I was a
tiny little nipper
Mum
would call
me in for tea, saying
Cease
your play, and come and eat your kipper
Then
there’s
time for sitting on my knee.
Tell me,
mother
Something
of
Life’s mystery
And
the years
flood back
And
the tears
flood back
As
the words
flood back
That
she said to
me;
O,
Life’s like a looking-glass made of cake
You
can rub-a-dub-dub but the shine won’t take
It’s
a bedtime story ‘bout a plastic snake
And
a tea-towel
Called Jake
And
LIFE’S LIKE A BICYCLE MADE OF STRING
A
soft-sprung saddle for the comforting
Wobble,
wobble till you’re fit to drop
But
woe betide you if you try to stop
So
I sought a
seat of higher learning
All
at
university, where
Many
souls were
similarly yearning
Burning
for
philosophy
Tell
me teacher
The roots
run
deep of the knowledge tree
And
the years
flood back
And
the tears
flood back
As
the words
flood back
That
he said to
me;
O,
Life’s like an epigram etched in brass
It’s
a pipsqueak parody of Twenties’ farce
It’s
a field-mouse hopping through the Gunter Grass
As
the night-train
Swoops past
And
LIFE’S LIKE A BICYCLE MADE OF STRING
With
bendy handlebars of reasoning
Stay
up nights ‘til you’re talking shop
But
woe betide you if you try to stop
Spoken;
It was then
that I heard of
him: an old man, a mystic beyond
age and beyond mountains. I was impelled
by an impulsion to seek him out. I
travelled to the interior of my being, on a camel.
Did
I come too?
No. This
kind
of voyage a man must make alone.
I remember
you. You were the man with the opinion
about onions.
Oh. You
did
come, then.
Years
went by
and finally I found him
Sitting
tiny
underneath a tree
Golden
light was
radiant around him
Golden
eyes he
raised to me
Show
me, master
The wisdom
of
tranquillity,
And
the years
flood back
And
the tears
flood back
As
the words
flood back
That
he said to
me;
O,
Life’s like an elephant daubed with cheese
It’s
a stranger faxing us from overseas
It’s
the faint suspicion on an autumn breeze
Of
a unicorn
Yes please
And
LIFE’S LIKE A BICYCLE MADE OF STRING
All
flopsy pedals with your feet strapped in
Push,
push ‘til you’re fit to drop
And
if you’re peddling
Don’t
go for the meddling
You’re
on a bicycle that’s made of string
It’s
as flimsical as anything
And
so it’s whimsical unravelling
When
you should be simply travelling
It’s
just a bicycle that’s made of string
Pedal,
pedal till you drop
And
then stop.
Life
is Pain
From Penny Dreadful’s Etherdome,
2011. The show, about the
invention of anaesthesia, seemed to me to need a song setting the stage
for the
world before anaesthesia, now almost unimaginable to us
I
was out in my
yard
A-fixin’
of ma
gate
Hammerin’
a
plank of lumber
I
missed that
nail
But
to sort o’
compensate
I
broke all the
bones in my thumber
Ouch! Ouch!
That’s
gotta
hurt, that’s gotta hurt, that’s gotta hurt, that’s gotta hurtt
I
tell you what
Life
is pain
That’s
the way
Jehovah planned it
And
it’s not for
us
To
try and
understand it
From
here to
Kingdom come
The
Almighty did
ordain
If
you
hammer-bust your thumb
You’re
gonna
feel pain, pain, pain!
I’ve
a tumour in
my neck
Tumour
in my
foot
Tumour
in my
spine
Makes
my back
sore
So
I went to the
doc
And
he said stay
put
And
he started
in
To
sharpenin’
his hacksaw
Ouch! Ouch!
That’s
gonna
sting, that’s gonna sting, that’s gonna sting, that’s gonna sting
I
tell you what
Life
is pain
Golly
Gee and
holy Moses
Those
is
blasphemies
To
doubt that
diagnosis
Ain’t
no doctors
in the bible
And
the
consequence is plain
At
the doctors’
you are liable
To
feel pain,
pain, pain!
I
was carrying a
child
I
was carrying a
pair
They
was twins,
I
was keen just
to see ‘em
So
I push, push,
pushed
Till
an
eight-inch tear
Appeared
in
My
perineum
Is
Childbirth
painful, then?
You
bet your
Life
is Pain
Especially
in
breedin’
It’s
the price
we pay
For
messing up
in Eden
Winter
brings
snowfall
And
summertime
brings rain
And
Motherhood
brings happiness
And
pain, pain,
pain!
Motherhood
and
broken thumbs
And
medicines
and bleeding gums
Never
mind your
roses and champagne
Life
is pain!
Love
is Like an Aubergine
From The Translucent Frogs of Quuup, music
by MS. Edith sings plaintively,
alone and neglected in the moonlight.
When
writing the show, I knew Rosie Craig (Edith) but Mark didn’t. He waited til he 'd heard her voice
till he wrote this tune, which has a big range beyond the hopes of most
mortals. We
knew we needed a torch-song, knew where it should go in the show, but I
had no
idea what 'words to use. Mark,
therefore, wrote the tune first, Rosie learnt it and worked on it
singing oohs
and aahs. When I came into
rehearsals having written this ridiculous written, that was the moment
when
Rosie realised, I think, the true extent of the nonsense in which we
were
engaged. She sang it with a rare
beauty, which made it truly absurd and very, funny
Love
is like an
aubergine
It’s
a purple
fruit
That
I’ve read
about but never seen
And
could it be
that Anthony
Is
like an
aubergine?
Love
is like a
ratatouille
With
a wet
courgette
That’s
often
stewed till limp and gooey
But
resolutely
French cuisine
And
stuffed with
aubergine
I’ll
take the
chance of indigestion
I’ve
got a knife
and spoon
With
those
D’you
suppose
A
fork’s out of
the question?
Love
is like a
quiche Lorraine
You
can have a
slice
And
if it’s nice
you’ll come again
And
now I want a
plate of some
If
you know what
I mean
And
he’s my
aubergine
Love
is Nothing Like an Aubergine
In
the second half of Quuup, after
partaking of the hallucinogenic Yumamá, Anthony
and Edith nightmarishly swap personalities for a while, and sing a
reprise of
this song as a duet. Mark’s piano
accompaniment transformed from the original molto rubato,
espressivo, to a rude plonky-plonk style
EDITH-AS-ANTHONY
Aubergines
have shiny purple skins
Which
contain a wealth
Of
wholesome healthy vitamins
But
spreading them with metaphors
Puts
strain on aubergines.
Love
is a thing, which is mostly common sense
And
half of it is women’s and the other half is gentlemen’s
And
absolutely nothing to do with French cuisine
So ner
ANTHONY-AS-EDITH.
Fry
me some eggs, boil me some bacon
I’m
on my knees
For
cheese
And
garden peas
For
my empty plate is aching’
For
a slice of aubergine
duet
EDITH
Love
is nothing like an aubergine,
ANTH
It’s
a purple fruit that I’ve read about but never seen
EDITH
And
only a woman
Would
construct such a tortuous analogy
ANTH
And
now I want a plate of it
EDITH And
frankly, if you’re hungry, eat a sandwich!
ANTH
It’s
what I’m dreaming of
EDITH That’s
as maybe
ANTH
The
aubergine of Love!
EDITH
But
aubergines have nothing to do with Love!
Love Me for
Who I Am / Finale
From The Barber of Seville, by Beaumarchais,
adapted by Lee Hall, Theatre Royal, Bristol, 2006.
This was the song which Rosine – who in our version
was a simple Essex girl transported to the Costa del Crime - was
supposedly
“learning” in her singing lessons: her suitor the count, disguised as a
singing
teacher in order to gain access
It’s
true; I’ve
a body to die for
And
a brain
that’s impressively smart
But
I need
someone to decipher
That
secret part
that I call my heart
Love
me for who
I am
Not
cos I’m cute
Or
suit
A
bubbling flute
Of Babycham
I’m
a femme
fatale
But
that’s not
all
I’m
more than
glam and glitz
I’m
more than
teeth and
Take
me please
to a geezer who’ll
Love
me for who
I is
Not
cos I’m
stacked
Attract-
-ive with Max Fact
-or artifice
I’ve
a kiss for
him
Who’ll
venture
out upon a limb
And
who will
love me
For
who I is.
Most
men look on
the surface
See
only her
face
And
not the
person palpitating who is waiting underneath
My
man won’t be
so seedy
He’ll
know I’m
three-D
And
can it be
un-feasible
To
find me this
pleasable, squeezable geezer who’ll
Love
me for who
I are
Not
just a
blonde
Respond-
-ing
not beyond
A
credit card
I
would rather
wait
Until
that
special kinda date
Will
come and love
me for who I are!
The finale of the show was quite an
elaborate number, in several sections, nevessary to tie up the loose
endings. Part of it includes
a reprise of the Love Me for Who I Am thing,
so I’ve included it under the same song
FIGARO That’s
the last line
of this play
How to finish it?
ALL
What
to sing and what to say
That won’t diminish it?
This
is the last song of the show
What
to sing in it?
We could sing a hey –hey nonny
no
(With
a hey nonny, nonny and a fol-de-rol
)
FIGARO Or
put a sting in it.
What
about the old man?
ALL
That’s
right
We’ll sing about the old man’s
morbid
plight
Look at him there
Empty
eyed
In the black despair
Of suicide
Life
has broke in two
His heart with a final no
can do
Death his only friend…
Not so good for a happy end.
Not so good for a happy end.
What
about Figaro?
ALL
That’s
it!
We’ll
sing a bit o’ Figaro’s vinegar wit
Listen
to him
Pontificate
That
Fortune smiles
On the fortunate
Life
will always tend
To
waste away like a wet weekend
Drink
his only friend…
Not so good for a happy end
Not so good for a happy end
FIGARO This
is the last song of the play
But what we haven’t heard
Is
anything yet of a save-the-day
Big four-letter word
ALL
For
we would miss the point
And
badly disappoint
To
mention not the word
That
all else sails above
That
strange, absurd
Essential
word
That
all-disturb
-ing
noun and verb
That
vast, un-killable
Monosyllable
Love...
ROS
Love
me for who I am
COUNT I
will love you darling for who you am
ROSINE Not
cos I’m cute
COUNT
No!
ROSINE Or
suit
COUNT
Although
ROSINE A
bubbling flute
COUNT
Madam,
you’re
glamorous
ROSINE I’m
a femme fatale
COUNT
Et moi, un
homme
ROSINE But
that’s not what?
COUNT
It’s French
ROSINE
Oh.
BOTH
For
we don’t give a damn
For
all that shallow shambles
We’ve
found somebody who’ll
COUNT Love
me for what’s in here
Not
cos I’m rich
By which
I mean six
Hundred grand a year
BOTH
That’s
small beer compared
To
what the two of us have shared
ALL
Love
them for who they are
Their
lucky star
Flew
in
On
easy-jet
To Malaga
It’s
the hope that saves
Us
from the terror of the grave
That
someone will love us for who we are
FIGARO Goodbye
propriety
Forever
we eschew
The
clench of cold, cold sobriety
Got
better things to do
Like
cuddlin’ and kissin’
With
a case of Manzanilla
Rosine
was in prison
Till Love came to free her
Manzanilla
Will
free her
Bugger
me, there’s a rhyme
And
Bacchus
Goes
crackers
If
he don’t get a bloody good time
Goodbye propriety
Forever
we decry
The
stench of high, dry society
Got
bigger fish to fry
Like cuddlin’ and kissin’
With
a glass of good Rioja
Rosine
was in prison
Till
Love came to unlock her
Rioja
Unlock
her
Bugger
me, that’s the rhyme
And
Bacchus
Will
sack us
If
we don’t have a bloody good time
Have
a bloody good
We’ll
have a bloody good time
Lupine
Love
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/London 2009. This
song was the big hit of the fictional sweat-metal
band to which
Dave Bladget had once belonged, Tungsten
Örkid
Come
into my
parlour said the
spider
to the
fly
You
can scream
and holler and you
Might
well want
to cry
Nothing
you can
do
Cos
you're the
latest sacrifice
To
Lupine Love
I
like you bent
over, baby
Standing
up as
well
I
got you sent
over, baby
From
the next
hotel
By
this time
tomorrow morning
You’ll
be
screaming bloody hell
That’s
Lupine Love
Lupine
Love
In
The morning
Love
In
the car
Love
In
the evening
Ta...
Luxembourg
From The
Remains of Foley and McColl, BBC radio 4, 2000.
Music by Mark Stevens. Sean
and Hamish are sent to Luxembourg, to take part in the Drama 2000 radio
Olympics. Gloomy organ music
introduces a song of gothic solemnity;
Hold
on to your
hats, we’re going to a place
The
spiritual
home of the human race
It’s
a happy,
happy, happy, happy, happy land
They
say that
it’s a Duchy and they say it’s grand
It’s
got a
street-lamp, it’s got a station
It’s
got the
cheek to call itself a Nation
Luxembourg,
Luxembourg
The
most
happening Bourg in the whole of Europe
Luxembourg,
Luxembourg
It’s
got a house
and they’re planning to put more up
And we
segue
into an ultra- smooth radio jingle;
Hearty
you ve
velcome
Mit
schnapps for
toast
Proud
to be of
this year’s
The
host
Von
Drama
Zwei
Tausend radio avards
Proud
to have
also syrupy chords.
Vilkommen,
bienvenue, and top of the morning to Luxembourg!
A
Moment in
Time
From The Translucent Frogs of Quuup, music
by MS. This is the show opener,
sang apropos of nothing, but setting a tone of whimsical reflection,
which was
the counterpoint to all the ensuing nonsense.
When
I was a boy
of eight or nine
Life
seemed long
like a transatlantic telephone line
Long,
like a
fixed unblinking gaze:
Long
as the
summer holidays.
But
now that
I’ve turned ninety-four
That
lengthy
length seems length no more
And
if ever I
meet that boy of eight
I
counsel him to
contemplate
That
It’s
fleeting
This
possibility
whilst the heart’s beating
This
opportunity
for thought
Is
short
And
though it
may be mediocre and
A
badly
dealt-out poker hand and
Quite
scary
You’d
best
believe it, boys it’s temporary
And
soon you’ll
be as warm as February
In
an arctic
clime
It’s
just a
moment in time.
A
moment in time
Life
is kind
A
pretty heavy
deadline helps to concentrate the mind
Forever
and a
day would bore you stiff
You’d
only put
off till tomorrow
What
you’d put
off till tomorrow
So
that if
You’re
blinking
It’s
gotta be
better than that long forty-winking
And
so in spite of
myself I find I’m thinking
It
would be a
crime
To
sail
despondent through this paradigm
Of
a fragile,
fleeting moment…
And, to close the show
It’s
fleeting
This
possibility
whilst the heart’s beating
This
opportunity
for meet-and-greeting
Is
a long, long
climb
But
still a
moment
Blink
and you’ve
missed it
It’s
just a
moment in time.
(It’s
too, damn
hot)
It’s
just a
moment
(It’s
too, damn
hot)
It’s
just a tick
of time.
(It’s
too, damn
hot)
It’s
just a
moment
(It’s
too, damn
hot)
It’s
just a tick
of time.
A
Moment of Sin
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/ London 2009. The
Donald of Donald reveals his guilty secret to
Puupiline, who he has
tied up to a chair
DONALD
Oh
I remember it was Tuesday
In
late September on a Tuesday
And
in the sunset puffins flitting
And
in this chair Fiona sitting
Sitting,
knitting
Benefitting
from the sitting, sitting knitting a befitting negligee!
In
grey
I
can't recall our conversation
I
only know the air was fragrant
And
suddenly my circulation
Was
pumping madly from my heart
In
fits and starts
To
other parts
And oh
PUUP
So
it's perfectly plain
THE
DON
By the glow of the
lamp, the face of an angel, angel
PUUP
He's
mad , that's bad
THE
DON
And oh
PUUP
He's
completely insane
THE
DON Must a man
be
condemned
For a moment of sin?
For a moment of sin?
She stood and
went into the
kitchen
And
that's the moment when it happened
The
shame forever in my mem'ry
For
as she fiddled with the kettle
I
saw that there upon the cushion
An
indentation
An
indentation of temptation
And
when I knew that she wasn't looking
I
sat myself on the cushion of temptation
The
very cushion she'd just vacated
I
sat there all of thirty seconds so you see
I'm Morag's
Father.
And
oh
PUUP
That
sounds tough, that sounds hard
BOTH
In
the seat of my (your) pants, the warmth of an angel,
angel
PUUP
Help!
THE
DON
And oh
PUUP
Call
the National Guard
THE
DON Must a man be
condemned
For a moment of sin?
For a moment of sin?
That's my secret
That is why
It is time for you to die!
Moonshine
Emma’s Sex Blues
See Mr
Puntila and his Man Matti, 3
Morag, You’ve Grown Some
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/London 2009. Of
the two Calvinist ministers of the island, Hamish
MacSurname –
whose song this is - is the marginally more liberal, but
counterbalances that
possibility of niceness by hideously lusting after Morag.
This is his wooing style/
HAMISH
God
created womankind
For
fun and procreation
And
added grace and prettiness
To
add to Man's temptation
But
thus unfurls the wonder
Of
His grand eternal plan
For
an ugly girl can sometimes get a man
Morag,
oh Morag
With
clothes like a bin-bag
And
hair like some joke-shop/ rag-tailed canopy
Any
day now
It's
y'birthday
Is
it Wednesday?
Is
it Thurthday?
And how old will you be?
MORAG
Twenty-three
HAMISH Oh,
Twenty-three?
MORAG
Twenty-three
HAMISH
Oh
MORAG On a
Sunday
HAMISH
What
a lot o' fun-day
Morag, you've grown some
And contours, you own some
And although your face is
somewhat odd...
You are bloomin'
And surely
You're a wooman
Not a girlie
And thank you, thank you God!
After
that, in Kirk, he finds a passage in the Bible, which decrees that any
woman
yet unmarried beyond the age of twenty-three, is illegal and presents
the
notion of the two of them marrying as inescapable destiny
The time has
come
To sweep you
up
Like dirt
into a dustbin
And thus
fulfil
Jehovah's will
With a Hamish
as a husban'
When we are
wedded
And bonded
and bedded
No longer
frustrated fiancées
Celebration
Consummation
And to hell
with Moderation
In seven
long, hard, long days
And
much later, when he cataclysmically realises that he and The Donald of
Donald
– his nemesis and ecumenical rival – are two sides of one and the
same schizophrenic personality, he officiates at the ultra-liberal
marriage
between the two reconciled sides of himself. Had
to be there.
Now
we are
linked-up
And
pretty in pinked-up
No
longer, we’ll languish on the shelf
Gay
abandon
Crack
the bubbly
Bring
the band on
And
I’ll prubbly
Sing
a duet with myself!
Mother
Goose and the Wolf
London
Bubble at Greenwich theatre, 2003. A bunch
of lederhosen-clad Kantors sing some half-arsed
Brechtian scene-change device. A typical
Bavarian-isch Yodelling tune
(I/ V/V/ I/I V/V/ I!) but which went seriously weird where it says so
Opener
Yodel
adle-odle for it’s Panto season
Once
again it’s that time of year
Yodel
adle oh and that’s the reason
That
we’re dressed in all this gear
Yodel
adle odle tho’ our knees are frozen
And
our hands are turning blue
All
thru wearing yodel- lederhosen
We’ll
sing yodel adle ooh!
Come
with us we’re kinda in Bavaria
Somewhere
sorta near a mountain range
In
some Eastern European area
Where local
people sing in
Weird time
signatures
It’s quite
worrying
And downright
strange
But
here amongst the fragrant Alpine flowers
Chickens
cluck and cows say moo
And
the leather trousers
Sing
for hours and hours-ers
Yodel
Adle Eedle
Idle
Odle Udle
Eedle
idle odle ooh!
Between
1 and 2
Yodel
adle odle now they’re reunited
Jack
and Millie and cow and Ma
Understandably
a touch exited
After
more than seven yah
Now
we’re off to market where the stalls are groanin’
Local
produce and local veg
To
the village Jack and Cow are goin’ in
Next
scene: A hedge.
Between
2 and 3
Oh
beware the woman with the dark apparel
Check
the small print before you buy
She
will ‘ave you yodel over a barrel
We
don’t trust her – and nor do I.
Between
3 and 4
Deary,
deary yodel me so Jack has legged it
With
the goosy’s own pride and joy
He’s
a pudding and he’s over egged it
Naughty,
naughty, naughty boy.
Not
that we intend to be judgemental...
Not
that we intend to point the blame
Jack
has all the very best intentials
But
an idiot all the same
Between
4 and 5
Now
you leave the world of light behind you
Here
the darkened atmospherics change
Here
you’re lucky if your friends can find you
For
who knows what is lurky
In
these shadows murky?
It’s
quite worrying and downright strange
Act
Two opener
Yodel
adle odle now you’ve had your Fanta
Had
your ice-creams and cups of tea
Now
you get your second slice of panta
Rather
yodel you than me.
Yodel
odle odle for the plot is thick’nin’
Here’s
the woman with dodgy plans
Toxic
as a tablespoon of strychnin’
Slipp’ry
as a non-stick pan.
Yodel
adle odle she is nasty
Yodel
adle odle she is mean…
Between
6 and 7
Yodel
adle odle oh they cooked some afters
And
the bad wolfie came to tea
With
some acting worthy of the BAFTAs
And
he’s only twenty three
Now
they’re chasing after various creatures
Hurry,
hurry up for goodness’ sake!
Oh,
this story has a lot to teach us
If
we can but stay awake...
M’Pip
From The Translucent Frogs of Quuup, music
by MS. The men-folk of the Quuup
break out the booze and the scene
spins into a wild party, with Anthony watching from the sidelines
M’pip,
it’s our national drink
M’pip,
it tastes much better than you think
M’pip,
drink it down, and drink it deep!
It’s
what we like to call M’pip!
EDITH M’pip,
M’pip!
CHRIS
M’pip,
that’s right, that’s right!
EDITH M’pip,
m’pip!
CHRIS
Mm,
you’ve got it right!
EDITH M’pip,
m’pip!
CHRIS
Drink
it down, and drink it deep!
BOTH
It’s
what we like to call M’pip
Down
here in this pre-agricultural habitat
We’re
taking Life as it comes
The
food is for free, simply reach out and grab it
And
sit back and twiddle your thumbs
There’s
no need for work or for worry and plenty of
Days
of nothing to do but sleep
And
when you awaken you’re slakin’ your thirst with m’pip.
CHRIS M’pip,
m’pip!
EDITH
I
don’t know if I should
CHRIS Just
one sip of M’pip!
EDITH
I
don’t know if I could
CHRIS It’s
not that toxic and it’s cheap!
EDITH
I
normally stick to sherry but...
I quite fancy some M’pip!
EDITH
For
who cares for sherry the thought is absurd in a
Land
where the fashions are free.
For
here, it is clear, no one dresses for dinner
Or
breakfast or luncheon or tea!
Look
at this warrior a physical god with a
Bod
could probably make you weep
With
tears in my eyes I’ll say thanks and I’ll try some m’pip!
CHRIS
Chew
some bananas till they turn to slime
Gob
them in a bucket with a slice of lime.
Leave
for a fortnight while you have a sleep
And
that’s the way we make M’pip!
Mr. Puntila
and his man Matti
From the Almeida/The
Right
Size co-production, 1998
1. Prologue
Sung by the
actors playing Puntila and
Matti.
(SPOKEN) Before we start
This
evening's ‘art’
We'd
like to take you through a bit of theory
It's
conceptual stuff
And
short enough
But
even so we're going to sing it so's to stop it getting dreary
(HALF-SUNG)
So sit up straight
Concentrate
Don't
laugh; you'll only make the place untidy
(SUNG) For
here comes Bertold Brecht
And
we expecht
Your
essays to be handed in by Friday
1.
Karl
Marx was a German fella
In
eighteen-sixty-seven he wrote a real
best-seller
It's
a capital book, packed with wit and wisdom
Concerning
economics in a capitalist system
Where
the rich get fat
And
surplus value is expropriated
From
the proletariat
The
very hands in which, ironic'ly, that value is first created
Which
means that money's made by nicking it from people who generate it.
2.
Bert
Brecht is a name that's dear t'
Any
Joe who dips his toe in soc'list theatre
No-one
ever did more than big bad Bertie Brecht did
In
dramatic applications of a Marxist dialectic
Where
he recreates
The
historic struggle of the working classes
In
such a way that alienates
And
so denies the viewing public Aristotelian catharsis
Which
means that you lot all should get up off your theatre-going arses
3.
And
so to Puntila and Matti
Matti
is a working man and Puntila's a fatty
And
it features some scenes of humorous behaviour
Performed
against a backdrop of a
mythic Scandinavia
Where
the pine trees throng
There's
hardly room to cram another tree in
Summer
evenings are so long
And
where in scene one Mister Puntila discovers a human being...
2. Puntila
Song
Punctuation
between scenes. Lyrics by me, after
Bertold Brecht
1.
Puntila,
Puntila
Spent a
week a-drinkin' in a hotel bar
The
waiter's dead
He's
three days late for bed
I never
noticed him, says Puntila
And
waiters are for waiting that's the way things are.
Puntila,
Puntila
Thought
that he'd befriend the bloke what drove his car
Take my
purse
Cash is
such a curse
Let's
wander naked 'neath a lucky star
And talk
about equality, says Punt
Says
Puntila
2.
Puntila,
Puntila
Contractual
formality was his bęte noire
Let's get
pissed
I'm
practic'ly a communist
C'mon and
work for me, says Puntila
We'll get
along like brothers, that's the way things are.
But
have a care (have a care)
He's
a strange one
When
he's pissed he's rinky-dinky
As
a day-trip to Helsinki
But
beware (careful there)
There's
a change on
After
several cups of coffee
He's
an archetypal toff he
's
an incorrigible twat
So
what d'you make of that?
Puntila,
Puntila
La
di da di da di da di blah blah blah
3.
Puntila,
Puntila
Had a
wayward daughter who was lah-di-dah
The
attaché
Has
booked his wedding day
It's
heavy-pencill'd
in the calendar
And I'll
be getting shot of you says Punt
Says
Puntila
O
he's a git
But when he's
plastered
He's
redistributing money
In
a land of milk and honey
Like
a schit-
-zophrenic
bastard
And
he cannot comprehend
That it is
tough to find a friend
When
nearly everything you know
Reflects
the status quo
4.
Puntila went
too far
Canapés
and crudités and caviar
Raise
your glass
Toast the
working-class
They're
representative, says Puntila
Of
everything that's best about the way things are
3 Moonshine
Emma's Sex Blues
I got me
a man
Best I
ever had
Good
enough to drive you mad
Sweet and
simple sugar-dad
Ooh, Mr.
P to me you're sexy and you're strong
And I’m
looking for a man to treat me
Wrong, wrong,
wrong, wrong.
I got me
a man
Courteous
and polite
Comes
back home to me at night
Sober as
a stalactite
Ooh, Mr.
P I need you t’understand this song
‘Cos I’m
looking for a man to treat me
Wrong, wrong,
wrong, wrong.
I got me
a man
So damn
good to me
All he
drinks is herbal tea
Treats me
like a deity
Ooh, Mr.
P I see we gonna get along
'Cos I’m
looking for a man to treat me
Wrong, wrong,
wrong, wrong.
4 Epilogue
MATTI
I'm off;
I think that's where we'll leave it
Puntila
wants friendship but it's tricky to achieve it
When you
hop between power and sentimental boozing
Unable to
acknowledge that the privilege of choosing
All
depends on cash -
And face
it: if you're loaded then you're laughing -
All the
rest is balderdash
To talk
of misty-eyed utopia when half of the world is starving
And as
for Matti
The fact
of the matter is that he
Gets
another job and drives some other bloke's Bugatti
But he
will only find a boss who actually cares
When he
becomes the master
When we
become the master
When all
of us are masters of our own affairs.
No room for
Dickie
From The
Remains of Foley and McColl, BBC radio 4, 2000. Music by Mark Stevens.
Hats
off to Steve Delaney and his inimitable creation, Count Arthur Strong. This song has had several outings
since, sung by me in Cabaret and Songs My
Granny Frowned At, but in The Remains
of Foley and McColl, this was sung by a character called Dickie
Bow. The part of Dickie Bow was billed as
being played by Count Arthur Strong: Steve Delaney wasn’t mentioned and
indeed
insisted on his doing the recording (in front of an audience) in full
Arthur
Strong wig and make-up. Dickie Bow
was similar to Strong – a doddery and unemployable old actor.
On
the radio, the cut-down version was recorded, but here is the full
story.
When
I was small
my father said
Toddle
off,
Dickie, it’s time for bed
Father,
oh not
so soon!
For
it’s three
in the afternoon!
Your
mother and
I have two-
Hundred
fun
things to do
Children
ain’t
welcome, and
Dickie,
espec’ly
you
Go
somewhere
else and play
But
please
Dickie, please Dickie, please go away
There
is no room
for Dickie
No
room at all
Go
eat your
supper
Alone
in the
hall
You’re
an awful
mistake and we think you should know
There
is no room
for Mr. Dickie Bow
So
I embraced
dramatic art
Hartlepool
rep
and a speaking part
Speaking
both
loud and clear
Saying
programmes, get your programmes here
But
fleet-footed
destiny
Brought
me the
RSC
There
I
auditioned in
March
1963
And
as I gave
them my Lear
A
voice from the
darkness said
Let’s make
this clear
There
is no room
for Dickie,
No
room at all
A
personal
comment from
Sir
Peter Hall
Though
the stage
is enormous we must let you go
There is no
room for whatever
your bleeding name is.
Now
I’ve been
sacked from the radio
No
room again
for Dickie Bow
Back
to my flat
alone
To
wait for my
agent to sodding-well phone
With
a one-bar
electric fire,
Very
soon I’ll
expire
Toddle
off up to
the
Heavenly
extras’
choir
And
I know when
I do
Saint
Peter will
say, ‘I’ve a message for you’
There
is no room
for Dickie
No
room at all
Your
role as an
angel is
Pitif’ly
small
You’d
be better
off trying
The
place down
below
Oh
but take it
from me
There’ll
be no
guarantee
For
there’s no
room in ei-
-ther
for you,
No!
No
room for
Dickie Bow!
No room for
Dickie (shorter
version)
No
room for
Dickie
No
room at all
Heard
the words
first from
The
great Peter
Hall
I’ve
heard the
phrase all of my life
On
my honeymoon
night it was used by my wife
Now
I’ve been
told to go
Farewell! Dame radio!
Back
to the
basement
Bed-sitter
in Pimlico
Sit
on my bed
alone
And
wait for my
agent to sodding well phone
To
say
No
room for
Dickie
No
room at all
They
want
someone else
Or
else no one
at all
They
want me to
pass on a phrase you might know
There’s
no way we’ve got room for
Mr.
Dickie wassisname
Oh,
Morag
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/ London 2009. Morag,
believing Puupiline van den Blouws to be a man, and
an eligible
one, puts make-up on for the first time, and it’s a mess
PUUP
Oh
Morag
Let
me touch your face, Morag
Allow
me just this much
A
little wet-wipe and a touch, Morag
You
ain't, Morag
Showing
much restraint, Morag
And
let me put things right
Cos
you're kinda shite
With
paint, Morag
MORAG Puulpiline
van Den Blouws
I
think you think me dull and
Kinda
clumsy
Puulpiline
van Den Blouws
I
think the girls in Hulland
Are
yum-yum-yumsy
Puupiline
van Den Blouws
PUUP
Morag,
Morag
BOTH I
think your face is
The nacest
PUUP
Perhaps,
Morag
We'll
tidy up this sloppy slap
Of
slap-on, Morag
And
then the birthday girl
Might
get a proper present to unwrap
Morag
MORAG
Puulpiline
BOTH
I've
never met a man/girl like you
And later,
Puupiline
writes a goodbye note
Dear
Morag
When
you read this note, Morag
I
will be sea-afloat
And
back to Holland in my boat
Morag
It's
pants, Morag
Holiday
romance, Morag
And
though we both feel bad
Believe
me, we never had
A
chance, Morag
On
the Island of Aars
- See
individual song titles;
A
Conurbation of Licentiousness
Health
and Safety Song
Isle
of Aars (finale)
Lupine
Love
A
Moment of Sin
Morag,
you’ve Grown Some (Hamish’s courting song)
Oh,
Morag
Puupiline
van den
Blouws
Sinners
Down in the Deepest Pit
The
Sky Today
Trees
Very
Happy Memories of Holland
Pain – from Penny Dreadful’s Etherdome – see Life
is Pain
Personal Tragedy
From The
Remains of Foley and McColl, BBC radio 4, 2000.
Music by Mark Stevens, a churning,
chuntering delta blues
Ma
dawg’s dead!
Ma
dawg’s dead!
Met
a man who
had just lost his wife
It
was the
Worst
day of his
long life
Y’know
the
Pain
and misery
were driving him mad
I
said
Back
off, brother, you’re too
sad
Ma
dawg’s dead!
Ma
dawg’s dead!
I
watched the
news it’s a turbulent world
I
saw the
Flags
and
bandages being unfurled
The
woman found
her baby but had lost the plot
Turned
it off,
it didn’t touch the spot
There
ain’t
nothin’ you can say
There
ain’t
nothin’ you can do
There
ain’t
nothin’ you can say, ain’t nothin’ you can do
To
touch the
pain, pain, pain
That
I’m
pers’nally goin’ thru
Ma
dawg’s dead!
Ma
dawg’s dead!
My
dog was a top
dog and a hot dog and a friend
How
could my
pooch meet such a sticky end?
The
lorry came
from nowhere and my tragic epilogue
Is
that I found
a crimson pancake where there once had been a dog
There
ain’t
nothin’ you can say
There
ain’t
nothin’ you can do
‘Cos
my dog’s in
two dimensions
On
the A
four-twenty-two
Property Is
Theft
From Road
Rage, C4 sitcom festival. 1999. Think
this was cut from the show, and I can’t remember
there
ever being a tune for it, but it’s a nice poem. It’s
raining cats and doggerel.
I
bumped into an
Anarchist
I
took him to my flat
I
offered him my sofa
Saying park your arse on
that
Sofa,
I say sofa
More
a concertna’d futon
But
comfortable enough
For an
advocate of Proudhon
I
offered him
refreshment
Leave
it up to me
I
said, you
look exhausted
Have a cuppa
tea.
His manner
darkened visibly
He shook
his head and frowned
No thanks, he
said, for me that drink’s
Politically
unsound
I said, my
tea's exotic
I’ve
unusual stuff it’s true
But there’s
surely nothing devilish
In a cup
of tea or two.
I’ve got
Assam picked by moonlight
From
a mountain-top in Bali
He responded
with a mumbling
Of the Internationale
I said I had
Darjeeling
But
he said he’d rather wait
And that my
offer was the product
Of
a Bonapartist State
I said I'd
make some Maté
That
I'd bought in Mexico
He asked what can the maté be?
I
told him: he said no.
What about
some Pekoe
With
some mango blossom in it?
He replied
the revolution would be
Here
at any minute
So in utter
desperation
I
suggested P G Tips
No pasaran, he screamed,
that brew
Will
never pass these lips !
I was
thoroughly bewildered
'though
his arguments were deft
Till he told
me in plain English
That
all proper tea is theft
Yes, his
political convictions
Were
firmly on the left
And he looked
me in the eye and said
All
proper tea is theft
He said I’ll
have some camomile
For
herbal is my tipple
And
I'll
raise a cup of peppermint
To
the world's downtrodden pipple!
For whilst
the working classes
Are
of liberty bereft
I'll
take no
milk and sugar, ta:
All
proper tea is theft!
Puntila – see
MR Puntila
Rat
Supremacy March
From Dick Whittington, London Bubble 1994.
This
had a tune based on my understanding of something by Bartók: a
diminished
scale, going tone-semitone up, tone-semitone down (C, D, D#, F, F#, G
etc,
ascending; G, F, E, Eb, Db C descending). Musicians
properer than I, will be able to describe the
thing
better. It was eerie, which was
what I wanted. The bass riff
accompanying it was a various diminished arpeggios in a 3/4: 3/4: 2/4
pattern,
so the whole march took on a lopsided gait and gave the on-stage rats a
chance
to dance weird
Rats
are on the
march!
Eek!
For
far too long
we have been skulking in the gutter!
Eek!
Rats
are on the
march!
Eek!
We’ve
itchy feet
and soon the footprints in the butter
Will
be ours,
will be ours
Will
be rat,
rat, rat, rat!
Rat
is a dream, it’s a way of thinking
Rat’s
on the line in time
when the ship is sinking
We’re
on the move, and
that’s that
We’ve
smelt the future, and
the future’s rat
Rats
are on the
march!
Eek!
You’ll
hear the
scratching and the scuttling in y’ cupboards
Eek!
Rats
are on the
march!
Eek!
We’re
on
manoeuvres from the city to the subbubs
Will
be ours,
will be ours
Will
be rat,
rat, rat, rat!
Rat
is a rhythm; it’s a way of grooving
Rap
like a rat, y’ can see
the way the world is moving
Better
watch your back, and
the fur on your cat
‘Cos
we’re knocking at the
door with a rat tat tat
Rats
are on the
march!
Eek!
The
reek of
destiny is rising from the sewers
Eek!
Rats
are on the
march!
Eek!
And
soon the
lovely things that currently are yewers
Will
be ours,
will be ours
Will
be rat,
rat, rat, rat!
Rat
is a vision, it’s an age-old story
‘Rats
in the cellar’ is a
nice little allegory
Starting
in the basement,
nearer and nearer
Fruition for
the mission of
the great rat era
Beneath
the floorboards,
chewing at the cables
Rat feet in
the food on the
dinner-table
Chit chat? No time for that
‘Cos
we’ve smelt the future
and the future’s rat
We’ve
smelt the future, and
the future’s rat
We’ve
smelt the future:
Dead
cat!
Real People
Originally
From The Remains of Foley and McColl, BBC radio 4, 2000, Mark
and I
re-wrote this (several times) so that we could perform it in SMGFA and
other
cabarets.
So
that the intro which on the radio started thus:
Sometimes
on the
radio there comes a git
Who wins
applause, with little
cause, by large-ing it
Artificiality
and counterfeit
Are
rife upon
the radio today!
But
here at The remains of Foley and McColl
We
say no to fiddlestick and fol-de-rol
The
shallow
modern ethos
Is
frankly miles
beneath us
Turned
into
Oftentimes
on
stage appears a gruesome git
Who wins
applause, with little
cause, by faking it
Artificiality
and counterfeit
Are
commonplace
in cabaret today!
But
we,
performing Songs My Granny Frownéd At
Shout ya boo and thank-you! No! to
all of that.
Our
library
cards and ID
Are
strictly bona fide
Me
and Mark
We’re
real
people
With
real
emotions
Just
like real,
real people
Me
and Mark,
we’re the kinda guys
That
you could
fall in love with
We’re
too damn
believable
We’ve
got
families (Too right!)
We’re
home-lovin’
We
like to slip
a quiche into a
Fan-assisted
oven
Oh
man, we’ve
got sex appeal
Because
we’re
incontrovertibly real
I’m
not real
I’m
just the
words of a strange, strange song
The
song’s not
real it’s
Simply
silence
gone
Terribly
wrong
What’s
that
noise from the men on stage?
In
an unreliable
Makes
you
cry-able
Cold
and cynical
age
At
least
Me
and Mark
(That’s us!)
We’re
real
fellas
And
if the
script permitted
They’d
be here
themselves to tell us
Oh
yeah, we got
sex appeal
(Big
bags!) Big bags of sacks appeal
(Our
shoes!) Our
shoes have got socks appeal
Because
we’re
Incontrovert-and-undeniab-ly
real!
The
Ridiculous Song
This
is the first thing I wrote for The Right
Size. In 1993 I joined them on
a tour of South America, playing the baritone horn as part of an extant
show of
theirs called Flight To Finland, and
the following year, when they were making a new show to which they had
given
the title Stop Calling Me Vernon, they
called me in to a rehearsal room in Kings Cross, to see a run-though
with a
view to tidying up one of the two songs in the show.
I shall never forget that afternoon, it remains for
me one
of the watershed moments of my life: the show was a brilliant, farcical
tour-de-force of old vaudeville routines, jokes and slapstick, set in a
darkly
comic, Becketian framework of two old Vaudevillians stuck perpetually
in a
second-rate show, perpetually dreaming of being recognised and promoted
into
better art, and always, inevitably, failing. It
started and finished with the two of them in bed
together, standing upright with pillows strapped to their heads. It was theatre of a poignant, stupid
beauty which I felt I had always dreamt of but had never been able to
realise,
and I feel sorry for all people who didn’t and will never see it. Years later, this song (eventually)
opened and closed The
Play What I Wrote,
I’m
dreaming
I’m
dreaming
I’m
dreaming I’m
asleep
Dreaming
I’m
awake
Dreaming
I’m
a-singing a ridiculous song
About
a song
about a dream
And
he’s (I’m)
remembering a joke
A
joke about a
man
A
man who wore
his trousers backwards
So
it would
appear no flies on him
Three
and twenty hours in every day
We stand
Stand
sleeping in this curious way
We sleep
Sleep
standing and you’ll hear us say
We’re kept
cosy by a stiff
duvet
I’m
(he’s)
dreaming of a girl (dreaming of a girl)
Who’s
swimming
in the sea (she’s on her holidays)
And
wearing
inappropriate clothes
She’s
in a suit
and that’s the dream
I’m
dreaming I’m
asleep dreaming I’m awake dreaming that I’ve nodded off
Whilst
singing a
ridiculous song
About
a song
about a dream
He
has got a cousin called Elaine
Elaine
I’ve
got another named the same
Same name
Two
women but the self-same name
Such
coincidence we can’t
explain
I’m
dreaming of
a hope
Hoping
for a
light
To
finish a
ridiculous song
About
a hope
about a light
Finish
a
ridiculous song
About
a song. .
.
Road Rage
In
1999, at the instigation of Nigel Smith, I wrote a pilot for a sit-com. It was staged with nine other potential
sit-coms at Riverside studios, in what was to turn out to be the final
year of
Channel 4’s Sit-Com festival. The
Right Size also staged a pilot, as
did Mitchell and Webb. Road Rage
was subsequently commissioned for a few episodes by the BBC, but never
got made
and fell down between the cracks of the TV world, shame.
Road
Rage was set in a tree-house, centre of an anti-road protest. The Newbury by-pass protest was recent
news, and I was drawn in by that situation in which crusty,
subterranean
hippies and fox-huntin’ country types bizarrely found themselves, for
once, on
the same side. Here is the opening
gambit from that show
Picture
yourself in someplace rural
Under the
trees in the dappled light
As calm
as a corpse with an epidural
That's
how low we're sinking tonight
The name
of the wood is Fortnum Samper
The name
of the place is England-shire
The name
of the game is to rubber-stamp a
Roguish
plan to run a road through here.
They've
already got
The tarmac hot
It's ripe and
ready for spreadin'
The end is
nigh
We're all
gonna die
In an
arboricultural tarmac-geddon. . .
But the
warriors are gathering' in Fortnum Samper
Armed to
the teeth with camping gear
With
tipis and tents and a Volkswagen camper
To stop
the plan to ruin England-shire
And a
roguish plan to run a big black road through here. . .
And
outro. . .
The sun
is ascending in Fortnum Samper
A
definite shift in the atmosphere
A day is
approaching to put a damper
On the
rogues who want to run a road through here
Rosine’s
Dilemma
From The Barber of Seville, by
Beaumarchais, adapted by Lee Hall, Theatre Royal, Bristol, 2006. This song closed the first half.
Rosine’s verses were in fairly standard
Lloyd-Webber dullness, sung with a level of faux-intensity appropriate
to that
fell medium, and when the chorus came in it was in a martial,
no-nonsense vein
and then it all went G&S patter-song on us
ROSINE
This
man will look after me
He
showers me with jewellery
Is
it therefore daft o’ me
To
contemplate tomfoolery ?
Where
am I going ?
What
am I doing ?
Who
is this man who’s
Pursuing
me, wooing ?
Is
it destiny I’m feeling?
Does
the devil have the best tunes?
And
tell me is it wrong
To
start a song
With
an endless list of questions?
CHORUS
Don’t
ask us, love
We’re
just the chorus
Passions
float before us
In
a manner rarefied
Voices,
voices
Disembodied
voices
Aah! Aah!
And
thus for moral choices
We’re
unqualified
Sorry
to spoil your day
But
we’ve really got nothing to say
ROSINE
You
don’t understand
I
don’t think I can hand-
-le
the passions that lie in my breast
I
thought I was happy
But
meeting this chappy
Has
put all of that to the test
I’m
only human
And
out of the two men
Bartolo
has plighted his troth
But
Jonny-come-lately
Impresses
me greatly
I
wonder if I could have both.
CHORUS
She’s
holding a candle
For him but
can’t handle
The passions
that lie in her
vest
ROSINE (correcting
them) Breast!
CHORUS
She’s
only human
And
out of the two men
She
doesn’t know who she wants best
As
we said, love
We’re
just the chorus
Better
to ignore us
As
an abstract, personified
Voices,
voices
Disembodied
voices
Aah! Aah!
And
thus for moral choices
We’re un...
ROSINE Yes,
yes, yes, yes,
That’s all
very well
But
I’m living in hell
In
a purgatorial gloom
I
want to be faithful
But
faithful to who?
Or should it
be faithful to
whom?
CHORUS Tra
la la la la la ! etc
ROSINE Oh
who would be feminine?
Oh what a
dilemma in
Which
I’m starting to stew
What should I
do?
CHORUS Tell
you what, love
We’ll boil a
kettle
Maybe you
should settle
For a nice,
hot, cuppa tea.
We’ve
opinions after all
For we find
we want a cuppa tea
And you to be
less uppity
A cuppa tea
and a biscuit
And an
interval!
Royal
Wedding
I wrote this in 2011
for an
audition for a forthcoming C4 satirical comedy show: the subject of the
song
was given. They never even got back to me!
O let us be married says
In-Bred the German
I’ve
very good prospects says William to Kate
The
doctor’s confirmed that you’re almost a virgin
And
Grannie’s approved it so let’s fix a date
Hardly
wait
O
let’s drive to church in a coach made of silver
And
fill up the Abbey with poshers and trees
It’s
costing a fortune and thoroughly tasteless
But
fuck it, we’re Royals, we’ll do as we please
What
a breeze
O
who are these people ten deep at the roadside
Subservient
pebbles upon the sea shore?
Just
wave to them, darling, says in-bred the German
And
look like you mean it, they’ll love you much more
O
who’ll bring the bacon says Duchess of Cambridge
And
who’ll pay the school-fees says Middle-class Kate
It’s
all taken care of In-Bred the German
The
tab will be paid by the coffers of state
Ain’t
it great?
But
won’t they shout bollocks, says Duchess of Cambridge
And
won’t they be sharp’nin’ the old guillotine?
No,
no: this is England, they’re pretty well-trained
Just
look at them queuing all night in the rain
Children
and cattle all need to be led
And
on fatuous pageants perpetually fed
And
now they believe that it’s happy and healthy
To
worship the unjustifiably wealthy
Climb
in this big limousine
Be
my queen!
The
Scarecrow and his Servant – see
individual song titles;
Let’s
Go /and finale
Spring
Valley/ and Jack’s Despair
War
Conference
of the Birds
The Shoe
From Cinderella,
London
Bubble 1995; and revised and recycled for Cinderella with
Improbable Theatre at Lyric, Hammersmith, 1999. A
trio sung by the broker’s men and the
Prince
The shoe,
The shoe,
Our only
hope's the shoe
It's all
we've got,
And a very
long shot
But nothing
else will do
No clue-
's taboo
So scrape for
residue
Find bits of
skin
And send them
in
For
microscopic view.
This Ms
She is
Transparently
the biz
She came, she
saw,
She conked
him for
His heart is
broke in two (cleft in twain)
I'm pale (he's
pale)
I'm wan (he's
wan)
His appetite
is gone
We need the
foot
Of her who's
put
His highness
in this stew
And all we've
got's a shoe.
We're
on a mission
Search!
Search both long- and lat-
itude
To
solve the mystery
Search!
Search until
you drop!
We've a faint
suspicion
Search! She'll have one foot in the
nude
She's
foot-loose and
fancy-free
Search!
So we'll catch her on the hop
Hold a big
audition
With footwear
as your
guide!
One
precondition
For the
Prince has said, she’ll
be my bride
If
once her tootsies fit inside. .
This shoe!
The shoe
Thank
goodness for this shoe
We shall not
rest
Until our
quest
Results in
rendezvous
So too-
-dle-oo,
The time is
overdue
We bid you
all a fond adieu
To search
each street and avenue
Ask not for
who, we happy few
Once more
unto the breach and do...
Your utmost
with this Shoe!
The Sky Today
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/ London 2009. Morag’s
big theme, so it came back in several shapes
1
The
sky today
Is
patchy clouds
with rowdy gusts
Of
blow away
And
up above the
sea
The
screeching
birds have spied a shoal of what they
Want
for tea
I’d
like to
warble more
But
Christ it’s
wet and I’d be better off indoors...
Oh how d’ye
fare
Thomas
the Chair
And
how d’ye like the mornin’?
A
terrible storm we had las’ night
A
wicked bout o’ stormin’!
Another
gust, I thought, maybe
We’ll
be blown awa’ to sea:
Puff! Gone! Where would
we be?
In
the land of blown to sea...
2
The
sky today
A
picture book
of where to look
For
shades of
grey
And
grey the
restless sea
Until
the pale
horizon seems
A
distant
make-believe
Made
of memory
Perhaps
I'll
knit a boat
Of
string and
stuff and Puffins steeped
In
creosote
And
maybe sail
away
To
distant lands
if only for an hour or so
On
Saturday
(spoken)
Oh
waves, tell me your stories!
Have you seen the seven seas? I'll settle for six. If only you could
speak in
words, rather than in that sort of pish-pish noise...
Oh
mother mine
The
sea is grey
but just to say
I'm
doin' fine
My
scabby knee
has cleared
But
Martin Mouse
has quit the house
And
simply
disappeared
He'll
be back
next year
O
mam, I wonder
when
Or
where or
whether we will ever
Meet
again
We
used to walk
this way
(both)
holding
hands
And
so each
morning I'll return to sterile sands
Still
holding
hands
And
just to say
The
sky today
3. Duet
with Dave: Morag is contemplating suicide
MORAG The
sea today
Is carbon black with brackish
bouts
Of sullen spray
DAVE
The
sea is cold Postmistress don't go so close...
MORAG And
all my
weary bones
Will dream amongst the tides
for I have
filled
My bra with stones
DAVE
You're
not alone Postmistress, don't go so close
MORAG I
will be
nursed below
And rocked upon the bosom of
The undertow
DAVE
I
will look after you Just give me a week or two...
MORAG And
Morag's
hush-a-by
DAVE
Don't
go...
MORAG Will
be the
drift of currents shifting in a
Seamless sigh
And so goodbye
Sinners
Down in the Darkest Pit
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/ London 2009. Hamish
MacSurname wields a tambourine as he whips up this
call-and-response hymn
HAMISH Sinners
down in the darkest pit
MORAG
Drowned
in a tank of Satan's spit!
HAMISH A
Hindu,
Sikh and a Jesuit
MORAG
Drowned
in a tank of Satan's spit!
HAMISH What's
that
awful burning smell?
Belching forth from Satan's
well?
What's become of Jezebel?
MORAG Gas-mark
nine in the fires of hell.
BOTH
Gas-mark
nine in the fires of hell. Yeah!
________________________
The
Song My Granny Frowned At
This
was the spurious framing-device from Song
My Granny Frowned At, 2006: Mark’s
and my cabaret, which was a wallow through our back catalogue, together
with
new stuff. At the top of the show;
My
granny had a
rocking chair
And
high-piled white
emulsion hair
And
when I saw
her, always there
Was
crumpets.
I
was young and
debonair
And
dressed in
modish disrepair
With
breaking
voice and sprouting hair-
-y
umpits
What
happened,
dear, today at school?
Have
you been
regular at stool?
And
if not, what’s
that awful ghoul
-ish
pong?
I
said, that
reek of unwashed goat
Which
you so
sensitively note
Is
Armpit, but
today I wrote
A
song!
She
grabbed the
chair and slapped her thighs
Volcanic
passion
filled her eyes
A
song, she
screamed, a song, why I’s
Your
woman!
Sing,
she
yelled, sing if you dare
For
in this head
of livid hair
Opinions
lurk
that I will share
With
you, man.
I
answered her
with quavering throat
And
voice as
dark as creosote
And
trembled at
the first note
Of
my song
She
listened
with her head inclined
And
facial
grimace so designed
To
let me know
that in her mind
My
song
Was
wrong…
These
are the
songs
At
which my
granny frowned she
Sighed
with
every syllable
And
gagged with
every sound
Sing
song, you
can’t go wrong
Unless
you’re in
a granny’s flat
Where
I sang a
song my granny frowned at
I
sang a song my
granny frowned at
These
are the
songs
At
which my
granny sneered
Your
mother married badly and
It’s
turned out as I feared
Either
you’ll
think the same
Or
you’ll
conclude that she’s a twat
But
these are
the songs my granny frowned at
These
are the
songs my granny frowned at
And, at the
end;
Those
were the
songs
At
which my
granny frowned
She
cried your songs are excrement
I
asked her to
expound
She
said she’d
rather eat
Her
central
heating thermostat
Than
hear one
more song
I
felt her words
As
if a
casserole of turds
Upon
my dinner
bowl
I
stared upon
the ground
Right
there, I
grabbed her chair
In
which the
bastard woman sat
And
something
turned red
Here
in my head
Something
went
snap, because I killed her
The music
gets all
jump-jive and celebratory;
And
now that
she’s dead, dead, dead
Because
of what
she said, said, said
She’s
absolutely
dead, dead, dead
You
know that my
granny don’t frown at my songs no mo’
And
now that she’s
dead, oh my!
I
can sing
whatever I damn well like
Love’s
An
Aubergine or Life’s a Bike
You
know that my
granny don’t frown at my songs no mo’
Granny’s
toast
Feedin’
azaleas
Granny’s
close-
-er
to Australia
Granny
said
My
songs were
failures
And
look at her
now, boy.
You
know that m’
granny’s tucked
Under
the patio
Completely
fucked
And
laid out
flatio
Granny’s
wearing
a concrete floor
She
ain’t gonna
frown about m’ songs no mo’
Granny’s
dead
Like
a
see-through frog
Granny’s
dead
Like
a defunct
dawg
Granny
dead
Like
a Dickie
Bow
Granny
dead
And
the brave
little fishy when he walked asho’
Granny’s
dead
Halle-bleedin’-luyah
Granny’
dead
S’why
I’m
singin’ to yah
My
granny paid
for a point of view
And
just
remember I could do the same to you
Spring
Valley
From
The Scarecrow and his Servant, by
Philip Pullman, adapted by Simon Reade, Southwark Playhouse 2008.
This
song has a very special meaning for me: after years of showing my music
writing
to Mark (Stevens) and him approving, but always tactfully improving
upon it,
this song, when I showed it him, elicited a nod of approval and the
comment, you’ve got it now, and he changed not a
note. That meant a lot. “Scarecrow” was the last project I
worked on with Mark (he recorded the backing tracks for me, and
arranged some
of the tunes) before he died in 2009. This
is a “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” –ish song of
yearning.
Spring
Valley is
a place that I dream
Where
the waters
giggle as they tickle the stream
And
the breeze
on your knees
Is
as pleasurably
pleasing
As
bedtime
treats
As
chocolate
cheesecake
And
I know
Spring
Valley is
a dream I'll pursue
For
my straw
heart's practising the day that it's true
There'll
be
peace for me, Jack and pizza for you
When
we finally
reach Spring Valley
Spring
Valley is
a place we can go
When
we're
wacked and wearisome and wonky with woe
Where
the wheat
as it sways
Has
a sweet way
of saying
You're
welcome
here
Your
skies are
clearing
And
I know
Spring
Valley is
a place we can be
Where
health and
happiness and breakfast makes three
And
where every
night, Jack the pizza is free
In
the place
they call Spring Valley
To which Jack
replies..
Oh,
not Spring
Valley again!
Stop
it, stop
it!
Lord
Scarecrow,
there is no such place
No
such
place.
And
I know that
It’s
a dream,
it’s a story and it’s
Cruel,
cruel to
say that it's true
Only
thirst and
hunger and Death times two
And
there's no
place as Spring Valley
And later,
when the
scarecrow is (we think) dead;
Oh
don't leave
me here without you
This
can't be,
this can't be the end
We've
travelled
so far
And
in a
friendless world
You've
been my
only friend
And
oh, Lord
Scarecrow, I am deep in your debt
For
my world
turned possible the day that we met
If
I live till
ninety, I'll never forget
How
a scarecrow
loved his servant
Stop That
Overture
(That would be Opera)
From The Barber of Seville by
Beaumarchais, adapted by Lee Hall, Theatre Royal, Bristol, 2006. It seemed to me that an audience coming
to see The Barber of Seville, never
mind that the thing had been advertised as a play and not an opera,
would
nevertheless have some doubts in their mind, no-one ever having heard
of it as
a play. I decided to attack the
problem head-on, and this opening song is the result, where several
operatic
clichés were used in order to deny themselves. We
started on stage with a dumb-show of some elements of the
plot, whilst Rossini’s overture was playing, which canned music was
interrupted
thus;
ALL
Stop
that overture
Stop
that overture
Stop
that overture
BARTOLO
Turn
if off, turn it off
ALL
Stop
that overture
Stop that overture
Stop
that overture
BARTOLO
Do
us all a favour
ALL
Stop
that overture by Rossini
You’ll
give the audience the wrong idea
If they get an overture
An operatic overture
They’ll think they’re here t’
Here in the theatre
They’ll
think they’re here to hear
An Opera
How
quaint
An opera
Which
they ain’t, no!
FIGARO Especially
those passages of droned narration
What d’you call it?
ALL
Recitative
FIGARO
Thank
you. Recitative.
Bits
of information both irritating and un-neccesative
Which
no one can be bothered to turn into a song
They’re
frankly wrong
And
much too long
And
belong
In
a billabong
ROSINE And
the arias
It’s
a worrying thing when sopranos start singing their arias
With a heave of the cleavage
the diva
gets bloody hilarious
BARTOLO And the lugubrious bass
Has
a |bearded lugubrious face
And
a voice that can really go low
He’ll
guarantee
Complete
misery
In
the long dark night of his solo.
ALL
That
would be opera, opera
Oh,
what a fright.
And
so we won’t be singing opera
Tonight
ROSINE/COUNT And the duet
ALL
There’s
always a duet
ROSINE/COUNT After much heavy
petting
The lovers are getting down
to it
In
a duet
By the end of Act Four
They’ll be dragging the au-
-dience through it
BARTOLO
It’s
as sexy as suet
FIGARO Spare
us the swooping and whooping in parallel thirds
And the mad repetition of all
of the
words
ALL
The
mad repe-, mad repe-
Mad
repe, mad repetition
Petition,
petition, petit
The
words, the words, repeating the words
The the,
The the,
the the
ALL
That
would be opera, opera
Christ,
that would be shite
And so we
won’t be singing
opera...
ALL
For
when the Barber of Seville
Was
written, every boy and gil
Who
mingled at the Comedie Francais(e)
Knew
for sure and knew for certain
Lurking
right behind the curtain
Written
by Pierre de Beaumarchais
Was
not
Was
not
Was
not an opera
Never
any thought
Was
ever improperer
They
were there
To
see a play!
(They
Call Him) Strindberg
From Strindberg, The Comedy, a National
Theatre workshop production in 2006, written by Sean Foley. Set in a period in Strindberg's life
when he had given up writing plays, even though famous for it, and had
retreated to an Absinthe-fuelled existence in a Parisian garret,
obsessed with
the paranoid conviction that (amongst other things) Ibsen is stealing
his
thoughts by means of electric rays. He claimed to have found a way to
transmute
sulphur into pure gold, and will shortly publish his method in the
scientific
journals, at which point his dramatic reputation will be relegated into
a minor
sideshow of his true genius.
They call him
Strindberg
Of the
naturalistic modern school
Of dramaturgy,
The writer of
the rules
A maverick
A clever-dick
A giant and a
jewel
But more than
all of that
The man’s a
catastrophic fool
He’s a fool
STRINDY
I’m
a genius
THEY
He’s
a fool
STRINDY
I’ll
go berserk!
THEY
And
a fool
STRINDY
At
the imbeciles
THEY
Cannot
be told
STRINDY
Ign'rant
of my work
THEY
A
numbskull, for
Believing
Sulphur
Can be turned
STRINDY
Can
be turned
ALL
Into
gold, gold, gold!
They call him August
It’s a moniker that quite befits
A smörgĺstbord of
Sagacity and wit
A radical
A daddy-cool
Of politics and grit
But more than all of that
He’s a complete and utter tit.
THEY
He’s
a fool
STRINDY
I’m
a genius
THEY
He’s
a fool
STRINDY
You’re
all blind!
THEY
And
a fool
STRINDY
I’m
a higher form
THEY
Cannot
be told
STRINDY
Of
humankind
THEY
Thinking
pulver-
-rising Sulphur
Can be turned
STRINDY
Can
be turned
ALL
Into
gold, gold, gold!
Dark, moody,
suspenseful
middle section
STRINDY First you
get a kettle
And you clean
it out with Dettol
And you fill it
with metal
Which is base
THEY
(which
is base!)
STRINDY Then you
add a brandy
Which will
always come in handy
For the science
and getting
Off your face
THEY
(off
your face!)
THEY
(sotto,
so as not to upset him) It’ll never work!
It’ll never
work!
The man’s gone
mad
He’s a berk.
STRINDY Then you
grasp the nettle
Take your
kettle full of metal
And you whip it
with a length of
Twine
And then, the
ingredient
The mystical
ingredient.
Which is secret
And is mine,
mine, mine…
THEY
This'll
be good.
The music
turns all
nursery-rhyme
STRINDY I’ve got a
bottle of electric thoughts!
Electric
thoughts
Electric
thoughts!
I’ve got a
bottle and I’ll prove it in the courts
And it came
from Saturn!
Somehow,
through sleight of hand, he produces a nugget of
ALL
Gold!
Gold! Gold!
The dream of
the ancients
Of each human
being
Of every last
Tom, Dick and Harry
We barely
believe
That we're
actually seeing
It here in this
garret in Paree!
They call him Strindberg
He’s a cut above the common
throng
Of mortals who
In the pantheon belong
A visionary
And brother, we
Admit to being wrong
And retract the central tenet
of our calminating song
For he's a genius
STRINDY
I’m
a genius
THEY
He’s
a wonder
STRINDY
I’m
a wonder
ALL
And
the truth can now be told
That the
gloom-filled plays
Were just a
passing phase
They are risible
and rotten
And in time
will be forgotten
But the world
will always welcome
Gold, gold,
gold!
Stuck In
a Bathroom
From Do You Come
Here
Often, the Right Size, 1997. The
show-opener, in which Sean and Hamish find themselves
both bound and
gagged – albeit in such a way as to not impair in any way, either their
movement or their speech - find themselves trapped in a bathroom. Mark Stevens worked for days recording
a simply brilliant backing track for this. Another
song of mine from the state-the-bleedin’-obvious
school.
Stuck
In a bathroom
Stuck
It’s grim
Stuck
In a bathroom
With him
If only we
could sing
(If only we
could sing!)
We’d sing a
song with singing in it
(With
counterpoint to underpin it)
I’d sing the
counterpoint this minute
If only we
could sing!
We’d sing a
song about escape
A song of
freedom and escape
But our
voices can’t escape
‘Cos they’re
gagged with sticky tape!
One minute
(Four minutes)
It may be
only one minute.
Four minutes
It may have
been a month
September
(Four hours)
I think it
must be October
Four hours
I remember
Stuck in a
bathroom
If only we
could walk
We’d walk
around the room like this
And over here
we’d reminisce
About the
movement that we miss
If we could
walk, if we could talk!
We’d talk of
this, we’d talk of that
(We’d chit
and chat and chew the fat)
But we can’t
walk and we can’t sing
Because we’re
prisoners of string,
We’re
prisoners of string,
We’re
prisoners of string!
Subtle
Song
From The
Remains of Foley
and McColl, BBC radio 4,
2000
Blaring
rock:
From
now on
we’re gonna
Be
subtle
Everything
crass
goes in the
Coal
scuttle
Gimme
an S
S!
Gimme
a U
U!
Gimme
a T A L
and a dictionary too
We’ve
been in
space in a
Space
shuttle
But
we’re coming
in to land on the
Planet
Subtle.
Too
Damn Hot
From The Translucent Frogs of Quuup, music
by MS. Edith and Anthony, in a
canoe in the Amazon, are hot.
D’you know it’s too damn hot
in the
Amazon
You need not put pyjamas on
You need not
EDITH
Put on
anything at all
ANTH
Apart
from y’ clothes
EDITH
Because
the crash bang sun
Sledgehammers on
The cast iron anvil of the
Amazon
BOTH
Cucumber
cool it’s not
In fact it’s too damn hot.
It’s so steamy I might expire
You won’t see me, lobbin’ a
log on the
old log fire
It’s so damn hot in this
piddly boat
You need not wear an
overcoat
You need not wear diddly-squat
A pidderly plot
By Ridderly Scott
Is coming to get you
Ready or not
DANCE
BREAK
It’s so steamy I might expire
EDITH
(God
help the babbies and the papas and the mammas on
A quest for a siesta in the
oven of the
Amazon)
ALL
And
I’m afraid
That we have strayed
Into a crazy cavalcade of
Celsius and Centigrade
Too damn hot in the Amazon
You need not put pyjamas on
Cucumber cool it’s not
In fact it’s too damn hot.
Too damn hot
Phew,
what a scorcher!
Too damn hot
What a day!
Too damn hot
And though the sun is quieter
now it’s
still
Damn hot!
The
Translucent Frogs of Quuup
See
separate page for the show: individual song titles for lyrics;
A
Moment in Time/ reprise
Braziuw
Eat the Frog
Love is like
an Aubergine/ Love is
Nothing like an Aubergine
M’pip
Too Damn Hot
Welcome to
Quuup/ Goodbye from Quuup
Yes
Yumamá
Trees
(Are Beautiful People Too)
Originally
from Road Rage, C4 sit-com festival, Riverside Studios 1999. It has student-slacker references, so
that when this was recycled for inclusion in On the Island
of Aars, to be sung by Dave Bladget, the
superannuated bass player out of Tungsten
Orkid, I rewrote the second half, to reflect his rock-star roots
Trees
Na
na na na
Have
leaves
Na
na na neh nih noh
nuh
Trees
don't go
to pubs or shops
Trees
don't live
in houses
Don't
get hassled
by the local cops
When
they forget
their trousers
They’re
trees
Na
na na na
They
got leaves
Na
na na neh nih noh
nuh
Trees
are green
and trees are brown
Their
outer bits
are barky
And
when the
snow is heavy on the ground
They
don't feel
parky
But
nevertheless
I believe it's true
Trees
are people
like me and you
Beautiful
people
through and through
Trees
are
beautiful people too.
*Trees
don't get
the answers right
In
school
examinations
Trees
don't stay
up every bleeding night
Playing
the
Playstation
Trees
don't
spend their college fees
On
cider to get
pissed with
Trees
don't
study sociology
At
Aberystwyth
But
nevertheless
I believe it's true
Trees
are people
with a point of view
Beautiful
people
through and through
Trees
are
beautiful people too.
Trees
Na
na na na
Have
leaves
Na
na na neh nih
noh nuh
*And Dave Bladget’s version;
Trees don’t
sign four-albums deals
With a major
label
Or celebrate
with largely liquid meals
Under the
table
Trees don’t
travel overseas
For
tax-evasion
Trees don’t
tend to pass on STDs
To half the
population
But
nevertheless, etc
Trudging
through the Foothills of Literature
From The
Remains of Foley and McColl, BBC radio 4, 2000.
A cowboy song.
Come
on let’s
get out of this book
Trudging
through
the foothills of literature
There’s
another
one over yonder we could take a look
And
trudge
through a valley not far from here
We’ve
been in
Hollywood Wives for far too long
Where
the
dialogue’s weak and the smell is strong
And
we’ll get
there quicker with a scene-change song
TRUDGING
THROUGH
THE FOOTHILLS OF LITERATURE
Come
on let’s
get out of this book
Trudging
through
the foothills of literature.
We’ll
camp for
the night by the babbling Rupert Brooke
That’s
trickling
through a valley that’s near to here.
We’ll
find a
sleepy-time story in a flower-bed
Where
the
duck-down duvet and the pages spread
My
feet are
aching ‘cos they’re too well-read
TRUDGING
THROUGH
THE FOOTHILLS OF LITERATURE
Unexpected
Tango
From Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, London
Bubble at Greenwich theatre, 2002. The
Dame and Commander Hosepipe Bann are surprised to find
chemistry
between them...
HE
I’m
in shock!
To
find me biorhythms all to cock!
My
heart is beating like some hyperactive clock!
SHE
I
know.
And
so,
Let’s
chill the vibe
And
thus perhaps
Avoid
the possibility
Of
cardiac collapse...
BOTH
And
dance a tango ov
Surprising
Lov
Surprising
Luv
We’ll
dance a tango uv
We’ll
cut a light sashay
Like
they do Buenos Aires way
And
thus display
Our love.
Like
the cactus
They
said our love would never blossom!
But
we’ll silence our detractors
With
a love that’s truly ossom!
And
‘neath the desert skies
We’ll
register our surprise
By
dancing an unexpected tango
HE
Let
loose those startled feet
To
the languor of a Latin beat
O
that satin beat
Liquid
and bittersweet
SHE
We’ve
been in quarantine
And
our dancing from the Argentine
Was
unforeseen
Like love
BOTH
We
declare
We’re
feeling fruitier than mango!
Let
them stop us if they dare
As
Vera and commander Bann go
A tango
And
‘neath the desert skies
We’ll
find we’re in paradise
By
dancing an unexpected tango
Very
Happy Memories of Holland
From On the Island of Aars, music by MS,
Pleasance Edinburgh 2008/ London 2009. Dave
Bladget learns that Puupiline van den Blouws is Dutch
DAVE
I've
very happy memories of Holland
Of summer days beside the
Zuyder Zee
Man, I knew where I was at
there
And in fact, I bought a flat
there
By the water, by the water,
least I think
that it was me
Very happy memories of Holland
PUUP
I
go now, goodbye
DAVE
I've
very happy memories of Holland
The triumphs
and the tantrums and the tours
PUUP
Please
stop singing
DAVE
The
dog-shit and the herrings
Where you kinds
lose you bearings
Cos the shops
display a window-dressing largely made of whores.
And I've very
Happy Memories of Holland.
PUUP
What's
that smell?
DAVE
Very
Happy Memories of Holland.
PUUP Go
away
Stop singing
Something's minging
There's a really noxious smell
It's barely human
Christ, it's you man
I have died and gone to Hell
Stop singing
Gosh forsaken
You are makin'
Me feel ill
With your smelling
And your telling me
Your quite annoying
BOTH
Very
happy memories of Holland
Very happy
memories of Holland
PUUP
Goodbye.
Wash.
Puupiline
makes to go,
but Dave lets slip that he made a lot of money in metal and she
mistakes,
believing that the foul-smelling tramp has some secret regarding
lucrative
mineral rights on the island, and suddenly she’s interested...
DAVE
I've
very Happy
PUUP
No!
DAVE
Memories
of Holland
PUUP
Not
mem'ries, don't mean your mem'ries
DAVE
Happy
memories indeed
PUUP
Tell
me more about the metal, the money
DAVE
Though
now, upon reflection
It appears my
recollection
Is of temporary
blindness caused by large amounts of weed
But I've happy
memories of somewhere
PUUP
I
do not care
DAVE
And
I think it might have been Sebastopol
No better lands....
PUUP
I 've guessed it: than
de Nederlands...
DAVE
Than
Denmark
Lithuania's
nice and Finland
And the rainier
bits of inland
France but really
I think dearly-est of Holl...
...And
Here we go again
Those madeleines
Of mem'ry burpin' through me
brain
Do you remember
That September?
Nor do I but mem'ry lane!
I know this much, man
That your Dutchman
Is your quintessential dude
And you're from Zealand
Keep it real and
Thanks for sharing all my
BOTH
Very
happy memories of Holland
Very happy
memories of Holland
Very happy
memories of
DAVE
Nice
to have a sing song, eh?
PUUP
No.
War
From The Scarecrow and his Servant, by
Philip Pullman, adapted by Simon Reade, Southwark Playhouse 2008. The recruiting sergeant sings the
Act Two opener…
I
'opes as 'ow
your interval was jolly
I
'opes as your
interval was nice
I
'opes as you
had ice-cream and a lolly
I
'opes you
guzzled fizzy drinks wiv ice..
A
Scarecrow and
his Servant
Might
give minor
satisfaction
But
now we've
got the army
And
some proper,
manly action
We
got a war!
We
got a war!
War
is wonderful
War
is glorious
War
is all of
this and more
Peacetime's
pitiful
Pointless
and
laborious
Gimme,
gimme a
good war
War
is elegant
War
is
honourable
War
is
fashionable and fun
If
you're
feeling all
Wobbly,
weak and
vulnerable
You'd
better get
yourself a gun
Man
is highest
of the creatures
Capable
of
anything at all
Beasts
have nothing
they can teach us
About
the tooth
and claw
Of
whatever it
is we're fighting for
Stand
up
straight, m'boys and
Perpendicular
Brace
your
shoulder and aim thus
Who
we're firing
at
We're
really not
particular
's
long as it's
them and not us
There,
a village
lies in tatters
Yonder
is a man
has lost his arm, and
Here,
is nothing
much that matters
Just
the
populace
Who
till everso
recently owned the place
War
is natural
War
is beautiful
War
is
everything and how!
If
you're
breathing...
(And
many of you
are breathing...)
You're
half-way
close to suitable
To
stand up and
fight!
Learn
how to
kill!
Sign
up and join
the war now!
We’re Both
Dead
From Do
You Come Here Often, The Right Size 1997. This
song started life as a things-could-be-worse song,
but
the overtones of Death were present in the situation of
two-men-stuck-for-eternity-and-for-reasons-they-never-fathom-in-a
pastel-coloured-bathroom, and this is what came out.
The chorus grows each time it returns, reminiscent
of many
sing-along folk songs, such as “One Man Went to Mow”.
I am particularly pleased with the exponential
growth of
the
horror, and with the half-rhymes, and masculine/feminine relationship
of the
couplets at the ends of lines one and three of the verses: “bus/from
us”; “garden/Canada”;
“beach/damage”. So ner.
If
one day we’re reading on the bus
And
the man behind asks
If
he can borrow the newspaper from us
And
if on returning it, he’s folded it all wrong
We’ll
turn to him immediately and scream this song;
We’re
both dead but we came back
We
don’t know what your game is but we don’t intend to crack
And
you can try to mess with us
When
we’re on the bus
And
you can even fold our paper till it’s less than flat
But
we’re both dead and you’ll not compete with that!
If
one day, we’re walking in a garden
And
a girl comes up with
A
mallet she says was a present from Canada
If
she’s a psychopath and smacks us in the jaw
Will
sing this song discretely as we hit the floor;
We’re
both dead but we’re still here
We’ve been
kippered like a
chicken and
the marinade was fear!
And
you can punch me in the face
That’s
a painful place
Try
to mess with us
When
we’re on the bus
And
you can even fold our paper till it’s less than flat
But
we’re both dead and you’ll not compete with that!
If
we’re ever of here we’ll be inclined to say
That
we thought we’d never see again the limpid light of day
Our
hearts are made of helium; our heads are full of hay
And
Life will be quite different now we’ve
Both
of us tragic’ly passed away. . .
And
if one day, we’re strolling on a beach
And
a war breaks out with
The
likely result of collateral damage
And
if we’re the targets as the missiles start to rain
We’ll
quickly hit the chorus in the seconds that remain;
We’re
both dead but we don’t care
Our
breakfast was dejection and elevenses, despair
And
you can shoot me in the knee
Painful
as can be
March
me into camp
Stampy-stampy-stamp
Starve
me till I’m thin
Flopsy-flapsy
skin
Strip
me of my name
Both
of us the same
Make
me dig a pit
That’s
nasty bit
Punch
me in the face
That’s
a painful place
Try
to mess with us
When
we’re on the bus
And
you can even fold our paper till it’s less than flat
But
we’re both dead
We’re
both dead
We’re
both dead
Welcome Home
from the Wars
From Much
Ado About Nothing Duke’s theatre, Lancaster;
Promenade-in-Williamson-Park season. 1987. This
was sung by a large choir of local volunteers, at the
start of the play when the lads return from the war – obviously –
and the thing of which I am most proud about this song (other than my
pitiful
smugness at having milked the “ane” rhymes) was that I got the whole
choir to
do a comedy ending. Two
“Welcome Home From The Wars” as final cadences, but with enough pause
between so
that the characters could think it was all over, and be interrupted, and then a third suggested but never
happening, by getting the whole choir to do an in-breath, going nowhere. Much jollity
Welcome
home
from the wars!
From
Death’s
fell jaws victorious!
Welcome
home
from the wars!
O,
sing your
song euphorious!
When
the
grim-fac’d foe came in marshal vein
Thru’
the
tedious plain
And
the pouring
rain
With
a sword
profane
Having
Honour
slain
Off
ye went for the cause!
Just
like the
ancient Dane
Or
the bold Charlemagne
On
a fierce
campaign
In
a strange
terrain
Ye
did fight in
disdain
Of
a painful
pain
Neither
did
complain
Nor
remain in
vain
But
did strain
To
regain
For
the Duke’s
demesne
Honour
(slain)
To
Her feet
again
Hark
to the cheers and applause!
Welcome
home from the wars!
Welcome
home from the wars!
Welcome
to Quuup
From The Translucent Frogs of Quuup. Edith
and Anthony awake in a
village, mid-jungle. The locals
sing loudly at them
TRIBE
Sound
the gong!
Ow!
Sound
the gong! Sound the gong!
Welcome
to Quuup
Welcome
to Quuup
I’d
like to form’lly
Announce
on be-
-half
of the group
Welcome
to Quuup
Welcome
to Quuup
It’s
super-doop
Brothers
and sisters
Got
vis’tors
And
we’re cock-a-hoop
To
see you in Quuup
Anthony and
Edith
realise they have arrived at their destination;
ANTHONY
We’re
here in Quuup.
Among
the Quu-uuup
Who
would have dreamt fundament’ly
That
Marigold-Bentley
Would
be showin’ his face in
Unpackin’
his case in
The
Amazon basin...
Edith
excitedly has
noticed that everyone is naked
EDITH
We’re
here in breasts
I
mean Quuup...
Where
Life is bouncy
Who
would have dreamt that we’d make it
To
somewhere so naked
And
I’d be showing my face in
Unpacking
my case in
Undoing
my stays in
This
rather amazin’
Magical
place
Majestical
place
Magnificent
place in
The
Amazon basin...
ALL
Welcome
to Quuup
(We’re
here in Quuup!)
Welcome
to Quuup
(We’re
here in Quuu-uup!)
Now
that we’ve metcha
You
betcha
We’re
looping the loop
And
at the end of the day
It’s
balls in the net
A
game of two halves
And
too many cooks
When
all’s said and done it’s
Welcome
to Quuup!
And, after
the adventure
is over...
Goodbye
from Quuup
Goodbye
from
Quuup!
Our
spirits
droop!
Now
that you’re
leaving
Our
tears fall
Like
some kind
of soup…
Welcome
to the Cottage – see
Cottage
What a Pair
From Cinderella,
Lewisham 1996, and
for Improbable theatre, 1998. In
1996 I had for a couple of years, been writing songs for, and had
played Dame
in, the Bubble panto, and was looking to do so for the third year
running. The Bubble pantos – a left-field
alternative variant – were at the time ensconced in the charming
hostel-for-rats that was the Albany Empire (now revamped, before you
sue), in
Deptford, South-East London. Down
the road at the Lewisham theatre was the big, commercial
panto-with-TV-stars-and-sports-personalities, on which we at the Bubble
rather
sniffily looked down. In
spring 1996 I got the job of being Clingfilm in
London’s Burning, and for some reason Peter Duncan (who
was dong the
pantos at Lewisham) thought I might be already a TV name to put on the
poster
for the panto at the Lewisham theatre. In
this he was wrong, and when autograph hunters were
hugging the stage
door for the thrill of an X from the likes of Tessa Sanderson, Cheryl
Baker,
Brian Hibbard out-of-the-Flying-Pickets and Bodger and Badger, I got
little
more than a puzzled enquiry of who the
fuck are you? Anyway, Duncan
poached me. Peth, who ran the
Bubble, wrote and directed the pantos, tempted me back with the
timeless
negotiation, “whatever Duncan is paying you, I’ll halve it!” I appreciated the offer, but didn’t
take it, and went to Lewisham, which felt at the time like a betrayal
of
principles for the promise of Lucre. Which,
incidentally, was seven-hundred quid a week, I
recall. Anyway, there I was off to do
panto
with the above-mentioned stars, to be an Ugly sister with Brian H the
other
one. Well, I thinks to meself,
well, I’d better write a song. I
want something funny to sing, and not just rehashed versions of Buck’s
Fizz. So I wrote the following,
innuendo-heavy piece of smut and told Peter Duncan I had done so. He said he’d put me in touch with his
MD, a man called Mark Stevens, who came round to my kitchen one
Saturday
morning and I showed him this song. That
was the first time I met Mark and, like many times in
the years to
come, he took my careful manuscript of chords and melody, sat
thoughtfully at
the piano for a few minutes, before playing a better version and saying
to me,
“is this what you meant?” So,
this song has especial memories for
me, being the first thing out of many which Mark and I worked on
together. I miss him a lot.
UGLY
1 Out
of me ‘n’ her
I’m
the one what’s cleverer
I’m
famous for me brilliance and brain
Not
bragging,
UGLY
2
No…
UGLY
1 No. Not bragging
UGLY
2
No…
UGLY
1 No.
not bragging but I read a book
UGLY
2
Once.
UGLY
1 I
suspect you’ll
Have
spotted the intelleckchool)
And
the Handsome Prince will very soon find
He’s
gob-smacked by the size of me mind.
Whereas...
UGLY
2. I'm
more gorgeous-er
I'm
bog-off drop-dead gorgeous-er
One
glimpse has driven grown men insane / to
drink
Not
bragging,
UGLY
1
No…
UGLY
2 No. Not bragging
UGLY
1
No…
UGLY
2 No.
not bragging but I got the look
UGLY
1
Innit
UGLY
2 I
see me as
Sort
of Twiggy meets Cam’ron Diaz
And
the handsome Prince will be thrilled to bits
And
gob-smacked
UGLY
1
Yeah
UGLY
2 By
the size of me personality
UGLY
1 You're
the prettiest
UGLY
2 You're
the cleverest
BOTH
But
together we're the very, very, very best
We'll
get a standing ovulation
When
they set their eyes upon this cataclysmic combination
What
a pair! We'll be there,
We'll
be absolutely fab
When
we turn up, posh, in a minicab,
And
cor,
When
we walk through the door it'll be
Woarr! Phwoarr! Gimme more!
We'll
be adored
And
applaud-
-ed
for being so glam
As
we knock back another Babycham/ a pint of Babycham
And
the prince will be heard to declare,
Blow
me! What a beautiful pair!
What
a pair! And the heir
To
the throne will agree
That to marry me (me!)
me (me!) will be his destiny,
And Jeez,
He'll
be down on his knees givin’ it
Please! Don’t
tease! Give us a squeeze!
And we’re so class it’d be
absurd
For him to snog up any another
bird
And
the prince will be heard to declare,
Blow me! What
a lovely set of circumstances
Blow
me! What a beautiful pair!
When
all the World’s a Supermarket
From Mother Goose and the Wolf, London
Bubble at Greenwich theatre, 2003. This
was sung by the incomparable Linda Dobell, who died
in 2009,
leaving the world noticeably a poorer place
When
all the world’s a supermarket
For
every cart a place to park it
What a crowd
What a crowd
Makes you
proud
To
catch such a crowd
And
no other shops will be allowed
When
all the World’s a supermarket
Even
when days are cold and dark it
Will be light
And at night
Twice as
bright
As
the brightest day
And
all other shops will fade away
When
all the World’s a supermarket
Everyone
will pay
Just
to be in the supermarket
To
dream their lives away
Twenty-four
hours a day
If
I’ve correctly judged my target
Everyone
loves a supermarket
Can’t deny
You adore
Buying more
More
and more and more
With
luxury lino on the floor
A
big happy face above the door
The
people enthralled for evermore
Wiggery Wack
Woo (The Suicidal Fish song)
From Bewilderness,
The Right Size, 2001. At
a point in the show where Sean and Hamish, wandering in
their strange purgatory, sit by a camp-fire, looking for comfort. They decide to sing a song to cheer
themselves up, but the song somehow turns tragically in on itself and,
when
it’s over, leaves everyone much more depressed than they started. Another cosy reference to 1950s
life-story-with-a-moral songs (See No Room for Dickie and Life’s Like a
Bicycle
for others)
Wiggery
wack woo
Walk
in the
wiggery wood
Pingy
pong poo
I
bet I could
Once
there was a
fish in a big fish pond
Who
thought to
walk in the wood beyond
Out
in the
wiggery-wack waggery-wack wood
And
he said to
his mum
I
bet I could (It can’t be difficult just to)
Wiggery
wack woo
Walk
in the
wiggery wood
Pingy
pong poo
I
bet I could
His
mummy said son
that’s a damn fine plan
But you’re
a
fish, and frankly, I doubt that you can
(Y’know
that)
Dreams are fine in the middle of the night
But in the
cold light of day
They’re
shite (you
might as
well be singing)
Wiggery
wack woo
Walk
in the
wiggery wood
Pingy
pong poo
I
bet I could
The
little fish
frowned
And
his face
grew long
At
the
fatalistic message
Of
the
matriarchal song
There must
be
more to Life
Than a
stagnant pond
I
must abscond
And
take a
Wiggery
wack woo
Walk
in the
wiggery wood
Pingy
pong poo
And
so the fishy
kissed his
Mamma
goodbye
and he said take care
I’m doing
this for pond-life everywhere
He
wiggery-wack
walked till the ground grew dry
And
all that was
above him was a biggery-blue sky
The
beauty of
the world made him gasp and cry
And
a bird flew
down from a tree nearby
And
pecked,
pecked, pecked, pecked out his eye
And
a badger
came along and ripped out his innards
And
that was the
end of the brave little fish
William
T G Moreton
From Penny Dreadful’s Etherdome, 2011. William
Moreton was the first,
successfully to anaesthetize a patient for surgery.
He borrowed the idea of using Ether; then attempted
to
disguise the stuff with orange-oil, and patent it as a substance called
Lethion. He failed in those
aspirations, but nevertheless, goes down in history as the father of
anaesthesia
EVERYONE
Hand out the laurel crown of fame
Hand out the
laurel crown of
fame
(oh won’tcha)
Hand out the
laurel crown
of fame
And sing his
name!
PATIENT
William
T G Moreton held ma nose
I’m comatose
Total oblivion
Didn’t feel
the
knife
I owe my life
To that there
Lethion
MORETON
Yes, I guess it’s true
I’ve writ a
new
Chapter in
history
Doin’ jes’ ma
bit
To benefit
Suff’rin’
humanity
ALL
Moreton! William T G
Moreton!
My hero!
MORETON Moreton: me! Say
it again
ALL
Moreton! William T G
Moreton!
Kiss ma baby!
MORETON Moreton: me! Remember
the name
ALL
Moreton! William T G
Moreton!
Kiss ma baby! Kiss ma
baby! Kiss ma baby! Kiss
ma baby!
ALL
Moreton,
raise your glass
You betcha
****
Be gone the
woebegone
Carnival the
street
We’re proud
to
meet
The man of
Lethion
Cast
the man in bronze!
Place him
upon
s-
-ome kind of
plinthery
This American
This noble man
Has come to
set
us free
Free
from ouch!
Free from
grief!
Free from
squealing
As they pull
your teef!
Imagine the
pain of Dentistry is
Gone!
MORETON And yours for a very small fee
ALL
Moreton
leads the way
Startin’ today
Life’s gotten
easier
Moreton’s
Lethion
Ushers a dawn
Of anaesthesia
Moreton gets
the vote
He floats the
boat
He’s in the
pantheon
Moreton is
the
man
He’s got the
plan
Headline the
Lethion
We can’t
overstate
The huge
importance
Of this
invention of
William
Moreton’s
Someone’s
making history
MORETON And it’s me!
ALL
And
it’s Me!
Me!
Yes
From The Translucent Frogs of Quuup, music
by MS. Anthony asks Edith to marry
him…This song led onto Braziuw, and
has the same chorus. Yes and
Braziuw acted as a musical continuum which
took
our story from the
marriage proposal directly to them being in a canoe in South America. Mark and I were smug about that.
EDITH: Yes!
I could say no, but no
I
sooner go with yes!
And
when step out in a pale pink dress
I’ll
look divine
And
thus the bottom line is yes.
ANTH Yes!
You’ve made a chap
An apogee of happiness
And
you won’t mind if darling I confess
Had
it been no
I’d
be a melancholy mess
They get
married
VICAR Brethren,
what do you say
To
honour and obey till death?
E & ANTH
I do, do, be do
VICAR And
thou, wilt thou
In
summer sun
Or
rainy weather
Nonetheless?
Here’s
your certificate.
E & ANTH Too, too, too and ever so
now we’re
wedded
Plot
a course for matrimonial bliss
VICAR See
you at the Christening!
E & ANTH Do, do, do, I can’t
believe that I
said it
Smoochy
hugs and coochy-coo kiss, kiss, kiss
All
at once we’re suddenly rather growed up
All
at once we’re suddenly ten feet tall
Aged
aunts and uncles that somehow showed up
For
our big day they came to hip-hooray
All
the way they came to hear us say
Yes
Edith
suggests a
honeymoon in Brazil
ANTH Yes!
I could say no, but no
I’d
sooner go with yes!
And
for my paperclips I couldn’t care less
Me
and my bride
We’re
going for a ride South-West!
You’re
a Cow, I’m a Boy
–
see I’m a Boy, You’re a Cow
You’re Nice
From The Barber of Seville, by
Beaumarchais, adapted by Lee Hall, Theatre Royal, Bristol, 2006. In this song, Figaro is encouraging the
Count to invent a song with which to serenade Rosine, who is on a
balcony. The Count is rubbish at it, so
Figaro
has to help: a sort of musical Cyrano moment
COUNT You’re
nice, you’re nice
You’re
nice, you’re nice
You
are nice.
FIG
(SPOKEN)
You’re nice? Is that it?
COUNT (SPOKEN)
Pretty good, huh?
FIG
(SPOKEN)
It’s a great start.
COUNT (SPOKEN)
There’s more!
I
think you’re nice
So much so I’ll say it twice
You are nice.
FIG
(SPOKEN)
Tell
her you love
her.
COUNT I
love you
FIG
That’s
good.
COUNT Or
at least I think I do
Actually
I probably do
You
and me and me and you
Could
possibly rendezvous
Take
a walk around the zoo
To
marvel at the kangaroo
Eat a plate of Irish stew
‘s
amongst the things that we could do…
FIG
(SPOKEN)
Enough of the oo rhymes.
FIG
and BAND And
all of this
Could be ours, sweet miss
And a solit’ry kiss
Would suffice
COUNT
Cos
you’re nice
(SPOKEN)
What a team
FIG
(SPOKEN)
Verse two. You’ve got your
theme. Develop it like a sonnet...
COUNT I’m
no fool
And
actually it’s pretty cool
To
stand beside a swimming pool
Instead
of in a vestibule
Singing
of all the things that you’ll
FIG
Do
To make me happy
COUNT You
could change my nappy
ROSINE (SPOKEN)
Eh?
FIG
(SPOKEN) Nappy not good. Nappy
not
good
COUNT (SPOKEN)
It’s all I could think of.
FIG
(SPOKEN)
Leave
it to me
FIG
and
BAND
I only sing of babies
For my Love is like a child
COUNT Like
a rabid dog with rabies
FIG
and
BAND I’m impassioned and I’m wild
COUNT Like
an episode of Neighbis
FIG
What?
COUNT In
that it’s pretty dramatic actually
COUNT You’re
nice!
FIG
& BAND You’re so nice that a solitary glance
Has
made my whole world dance
In a different way
Even
the stars in the seen-it-all skies
Are
full of surprise
FIG
And
they seem to be declaring
COUNT You’re
nice
FIG
and BAND
You
took my heart and a solitary smile
Has
made my life worthwhile
Singing hip hooray
The
angels all are envious in so-called paradise
COUNT Cos
you’re absolutely a thing of beauty
And probably really…
(SPOKEN)
N...oh, there’s one
more thing……
My
name is Lindor
And
I am of the masculine gindor
I
believe I’ll love you till I die
Yours
sincerely
Thanking
you
And
could you please reply
ROSINE Oh
Linda,
Linda,
What a strange name for a man
But
I can hear you singing
Fanks
Your
singing and your lyrics
Have
put me in hystirics
But
from the deep-down in my torso
I
should like to say that orso (also!)
You’re
nice!
FIG
&BAND You’re so nice that a solitary
glance
Has
made my whole world dance
In a different way
Even
the stars in the seen-it-all skies
Agree
COUNT/ROSINE You’re nice
FIG
and BAND
You’re so nice, you’re nice, you’re nice!
FIG
Nice!
Yumamá
From The Translucent Frogs of Quuup, music
by MS. Starving in the jungle,
Anthony and Edith eat the forbidden fruit of the Yumamá, which sends
them
tripping. Edith realises with
horror that she is part of a narrated play. Mark
had the idea that the further we got into the territory
of the Quuup tribe, the funkier the
music should get. This, on the
borders, was a Jobim-inspired bossa,
ALL
We’re
in the wild wonky world of Yumamá
Where
there’s a mild sense of something gone too far
And
there’s a song that’s in the air
And
it’s coming out of anywhere.
And
Yumamá
You
and me and the Yumamá
You
and me and the Yumamá
Whilst
EDITH
We’re
in the wild
Can you hear that ?
ANTH
What?
EDITH
Wonky
world of Yumamá
Singing.
ANTH
What?
EDITH
Where
there’s a mild
There’s singing and a sense o’
something
I dunno what it is but there’s
a song
There’s a song that’s in the
air
Can you hear it?
Can you hear it?
Can you hear the song?
ALL
We’ve
run aground on the banks of Yumamá
We’re
lost and found in the don’t know where we are
We’re
like the dodgems at the fair
And
the pedals made of Camembert
And
Yumamá.
Whilst
ANTH
I
hear nothing but the bubbling blue
CHRIS
Said
Anthony
ANTH
Of
the blue canoe.
I see nothing but loving you
CHRIS
Said
Anthony
ANTH
How
soft the air is
I’m like the dodgems at the
fair
Of Camembert
And Yu-
EDITH Can’t
stand it
ANTH
ma-
EDITH
Fact
I
hate it
ANTH
ma..
EDITH
Got
a feeling that I’m being narrated.
CHRIS
Said
Edith.
ALL
You
and me and the Yumamá
You
and me and the Yumamá
Edith
searches the
canoe, determined to find the stowaway who is narrating her. As she does so, she is narrated
It’s
all absurd in a song of Yumamá
Where
every word is a bunch of blah, blah, blah.
It’s
gonna drive you round the bend
And
you never know when it will end.
Whilst
CHRIS
&
EDITH This
isn’t happening this really can’t be happening
Really, really, really can’t
be happening
When every word, every
syllable of the
song is just a
Blah, blah, blah.
It’s gonna drive me round the
bend
And when’s it gonna end?
|
