Well, 'yer 'tis - bear in mind it was written/adapted in the very late 60s or early 70s and is quite regional - Fred used to sing in a West Country/Bristolian accent which got worse or better depending on what he was singing!


I was driving down the old M4
Doing a ton or maybe more
Come to a sign said Bristol town
Thought I'd better slow it down
I was aquaplaning, developing transverse thrust in my epicyclic overdrive, torque condensor units,
An' me 'orse was knackered

Well I stopped outside the nearest pub
Sign outside said folking club
There was a load of scruffbums round the door
Like a fashion parade for a surplus store
Big notice outside said 'Special tonight
Zelda will perform the dance of the 7 Army blankets'
Special Cabaret, Lady Mimi and her performing dogs
And her bucket of water.

Well it was so dim and smokey there
I went a purler down the stairs
Bloke said 'Miss a step then son?'
'No, I said, I hit every bloody one'

I went to the room at the top of the stairs
There was lots of spaced out cats in there
They was laying it down and freakin it out
I said to one, 'Man, what's this all about?'
He said 'We'm protestin' baby
Kill the warmongers! Smash violence!
Meet you Saturday man, we'n havin a Peace Riot!'
Yeah, wow.

Then a bloke called Stephan Dylavonborne
Played a epic about the 'ang ups he'd known
'E played 'is guitar in a very strange way
Every string was tuned to A . . . nearly
When 'e'd finished, there was thunderous applause
I thought, blimey, that's rare!
I looked round, everyone was slapping their faces to stay awake

His guitar was Japanese I'd wager
With overdrive in E flat major
Fuel injected racing pegs
And an 'ole for slicing hard boiled eggs
Nice to see a guitar with a really natural finish
I mean I'd expect the knot 'oles were useful for all sorts of things
The maker was very proud of 'is 'andiwork
'Cos he'd stencilled his name all the way across the front
I'd never seen a Jaffa before . . .

Well up come the next bloke lurching a bit
With a funny little badge like a psychedelic tit
He said 'I sing my songs quite free of restrictions
Like lyrics, time and key . . . an' interest
He said 'I learnt all my songs from me old dad
An' my dad, he taught me one thing
He said, lad he said, always know when you've had enough to drink
I do, . . . I spew all over the microphone

Well at the fortieth verse, I looked about
It was so crowded, I couldn't get out
Bloke behind give a plaintive moan
He said 'I died just now, but I can't fall down'
Oh dammit.

Well back at the bar, there was plenty of action
From the public speaking and rhythm section
The in-scene crowd was cutting loose
With a mass unaccompanied talking blues
There was the barman doing his bit for culture
Should have heard how he accompanied 'Highland Fairy Lullaby'
On Smoky Bacon maracas and an E flat cash register

Then I seen this groupie standin' there
All bosom, bum and long blonde hair
In a backless, topless boiler suit
And high heeled, hobnailed army boots
I said, 'What you drinkin' kiddo?'
She said 'Sommat, long and cool man'
I said 'Beer or Scrumpy?'
She said, 'Cider, cider, the distillation of the forbidden fruit of Paradise
Full of the true, the blushfull hippocrene, with beaded bubble winking at the brim and purple stained mouth.
Cider, loosens my libido, transports me into realms of ethereal delights and blows my cosmic mind - Yeah, wow, too much
I said, 'Bloody hell,' said, 'How do you rate beer then?'
She said, 'Ah beer's a drag man, makes me fart'.

'Now' said the bloke, 'our star's tonight
Steelportcampbellpigsonwhite
Up they ponced all silk and lace
An' sequins flashing all over the place
An' the girls looked quite nice as well
I looked at the bloke and thought, 'That's it baby, that's IT
Get yerself a Tom Jones shirt like that
Pair of falsetto trousers an' you're in man, y'er in'.

So I thought I'd join this folksy clique
Got some gear at Butch Boutique
Asked for a T shirt off the peg
An' the fella measured me inside leg . . . nice fella
Rather keen I thought, name of Julian
I thought he was a bit funny 'til I met his brother Mary

I bought a record called 'Learn 'e self Folk'
By some smooth talking character called Fried Wetleg or sommat
Cut out all the rude words and worked hard on the quarter that was left
Played it to an agent, he got me a booking . . . Salisbury . . . Rhodesia
Touring, with the Black and White Minstrel Show
This folk music might be rubbish . . . but by jingo . . . it's BRITISH rubbish!