THE CHARABANC TRIP by Ivor Biggun Accompanied by Robin Langridge, aged 14, at the pianoforte. Music maestro please!
On the map of North Notts you'll find Worksop, Where I lived when I was a lad, In a house with me Mam, Two sisters and Gran, One brother, a budgie, and Dad.
At the end of our street was a boozer, Black as stout, uninviting and glum, A den of depravity. It stank like a lavat'ry Where me Dad went to hide from me Mum.
At the end of the bar in a bottle Every week half a dollar he'd slip For the annual treat When the kids in the street Went to coast on a charabanc trip.
We'd set off in t'morning from Worksop En route for Sutton-on-Sea With the Holiday Club, Them as paid up their sub, Half the street and my brother and me.
There was old Mrs. Brough from the tripe shop, Big soft Doris, her two little lasses, And her sister Helen With a bust like two melons And a face like an arse'ole with glasses.
There was Perfumed Gordon the hairdresser And nobody did make it clear Why a rude boy called Tailor Cried out 'Hello, sailor' And something about ginger beer.
There was Desperate Derek, His brother Big Eric, And Basher and Masher and Butch, And Lil who was willing For only a shilling, Which was still about tenpence too much.
There was Mavis who wouldn't 'Cos her mum said she shouldn't, There was Neville who wished that he could, And then there was Heather Who said that she'd never, But looked like she probably would!
Well my Dad took a crate of ale with him Intending to travel in style. Charabanc did 25 miles to the gallon. My Dad did half pint to the mile!
Rain were chucking it down leaving Worksop. Through North Notts it did not desist. There were cows with bronchitis And wet sheep to invite us When Lincolnshire loomed up through t'mist.
Rain slacked off soon to a medium monsoon And the day didn't look such a black 'un, When the driver called Reg Pulled up by a hedge And we all made a dash for the bracken.
Dad rushed to a tree and he said 'Excuse me' And right there one penny he spent it. He said, 'Ain't it queer? One thing about beer: You don't really buy it, you rent it!'
Well this idyllic scene 'Mid the nettles and steam Was soon torn by my brother's plaintive cries. The poor little nipper Caught his dong in his zipper. He was dancing with tears in his eyes.
Then back on t'coach off to Sutton. We got there. Ee! Weather was grand! And we gazed on the sea, Cold, the colour of tea And smelt candy floss, dodgems and sand.
There were shops full of rock. There were hats with rude slogans. There was music and cries of hilarity. There were games on the sands. There were jellied-eel stands, And souvenir shops packed with vulgarity.
My brother ran down to the ocean, His intention the water to reach, For his foot he just thrust in Something disgusting A donkey had left on the beach.
The sea was as cold as a polar bear's dick. We watched Punch kill the crocodile dead, And after throwing some sand At t'Salvation Army band, We went off to the funfair instead.
There was a ride called a comet Made you scream, faint and vomit. Half deafening you, hung upside down, And the last bit, a spinner, Brought up t'rest of yer dinner. Not bad, you know, for just half a crown!
There were post cards with fat women, Nudists and Scotsmen, Honeymooners and dirty weekenders, And in a machine 'What the Butler Had Seen' Dimly flickered about in suspenders.
We ate cockles and whelks and big winkles, Soggy chips, toffee apples like glue. The hot dogs were funions Like something rude wrapped in onions, But we ate them and pease pudding too.
Then we went on to dodgems and waltzer, And Big Dipper that rises and falls. It was on this machine That my brother turned green And his eyes stood out like bulldog's balls.
The poor little chap, He was sick in his cap. It was his best 'un, he started to cry, So not wishing to spoil it, We swilled it in t'toilet And he wore it until it was dry!
Then t'driver found us And said 'Back to the bus'. Through the dark we ran back the whole way, Candy floss in our hair, But we didn't care. Ee! we'd had such a wonderful day.
And with charabanc firing on several cylinders, We set off for Worksop and home, Rattling down the highway, Singing songs of Max Bygraves, Accompanied on paper and comb.
In the dim orange glow Of the coach light, so low Courting couples were billing and cooin', Hoping perhaps That the coats in their laps Would conceal the rude things they were doin'!
We pulled up in our street about half past eleven There was Mam; there was Granny and all, They gazed in admiration At the plaster Alsatian We'd won for 'em at t'coconut stall.
I drank up my cocoa, I ate up my sandwich And soon up in bed I was curled. I was dreaming a dream I was leading the team On first charabanc trip around t'world.
Ee! those things that I did When I was a kid! Although they were simple and small, Now I've grown up I find I look back in my mind I'm sure they were best times of all.
'Cos I've been to Majorca, And b'y, that's a corker! I've been to Pompeii and Herico-Unalium, The French Riviera, Were the ladies are barer. I've even paddled in Meditteranium.
I've drunk various vinos In Torremolinos But of all these I'll tell you for free: There's none can compete With that Charabanc treat With me brother to Sutton-on-Sea!!