Vivian Stanshall Side 2 Lyrics

Side II
Yeeaaaaayyyyy!!!
[Theme: 6/8 Hoodoo]
(Jim French (Terrier-man to the Costwold Hunt): holler & hunting-horn; Vivian: bass harmonica, euphonium & tuba; Julian Smedley: violin; Jim Cuomo: soprano sax; Pete Moss: banjo.)
Sir Henry: (Over band: ) "Pom pom pommmm, pom-pom pom pom, rrrromp pom pomp and circumindecision... Pomp pomp, bags of sweat, mmmmm mm-mm, brbwbwbw, mmmm uhhhmmccchh mmhmm... Urrgh, ahem..."
Narrator: The gutters leaked like secrets, and the rain rain-rained like rain at Rawlinson End. In the library, a log fire spat tracer over doomed Dresden, and Sir Henry, now of a more tranquil kidney with glass in hand and monocle at ease, having spent the afternoon chuckling over the obituaries in The Times, was in expansive mood - well tanked up, lolling in a c___pit leather armchair.
Narrator: He glanced with difficulty over his shoulder, most of his huge top half stiff with the wallop he'd received from the half-thawed chicken. He was quite alone.
(Jock, distraught: ) "Aye, sir - eh, it's the wee puppies, sir - during the blackout Jerry came over and... and the screaming, it went on, and..."
(WingCo: ) "Now, now then man, nrerrr, pull yourself to... here, have a piece of special chocolate, wurrr, and Professor... Professor Molebottom - where's he..."
(Jock, barely consoled: ) "In the laboratory sir - all night, bouncing his b____ across the tank..."
(WingCo: ) "Wirrr... um.. uuerr!"
[FX: clank of poker falling on stone floor of fireplace]
(Douglas Bader: ) "d___ this leg, by crikey! I'll make Corporal Carpet-Chewer choke for this night's doing! (Sniff) Dan dan... (sings) Who put the bounce in the bouncing bomb?... (Sniff) Molebottom did! dan dan..."
Narrator: Silent as a smelly one, Hubert entered the room.
Hubert: "Can I play too, Henry? I like taking orders."
Narrator: Henry exploded with shock:
Sir Henry: (Irate: ) "Don't camarade me, you quisling! You're not in uniform, and it's dark!"
Narrator: ..roared the Führer of Rawlinson.
Hubert: "But... I.. I'm in pyjamas, and I'm your brother!"
Sir Henry: "I'm afraid this is going to be an understandable mistake"
Narrator: shouted Henry, blowing strongly on a whistle, and with a nasty growl, he was over the top.
Poor Hubert received a terrific thrashing, plus a crippling kick in the fork, and disgraced, was condemned to his room.
(Beat)
To celebrate All Squids' Day, there was a face-jumping competition at the Fool and Bladder. This ancient amusement involved leaping onto volunteers' heads, lightly touching, then springing off. To draw blood or squash a nose meant instant disqualification, and this was the skill of it. Seth One-Tooth was unquestioned master of this unusual sport, and he lounged, huge and work-stained outside the old pub, explaining the rules to Reg Smeeton, newsagent and self-styled encyclopaedia.
A large red-faced farm worker with arms like tractors, stripped to the waist, paced out an enormous run-up, before turning to thunder down on his grinning partner lying on the green.
Seth: "Eeee... 'e's got no chance!" said Seth smugly. "Silly b_____'s wearing spiked running shoes!"
Narrator: Reg Smeeton, floccose red wig like a kipper nailed to his bonce, nodded with ill-feigned interest; but the b___erfly flexions of his face muscles argued the mental tumult within - urging fervid facts chattering in Stockhausen tongues.
Smeeton: "Drawing from my vast, though admittedly unresolved catalogue of general know-it-all, facts of interest etcetera, corroborated, corroboree: a sacred or warlike a__embly of aboriginals, may I.. remind you of the exploits of one William Barker of Manchester? In the 1890s, Billy cleared a canal thirty-five feet wide, making a running jump, jack-knifing into a second to land, perfectly dry, on the other side.
Seth: "I could clear a snooker table, full-length mind, from a standing jump before 'operation", grumbled Seth. "I could've made a mint, had I been a bit more shrewd."
Smeeton: "Did you know that the elephant shrew never closes its eyes."
Narrator: Through the intestinal smoke of Seth's pipe, Smeeton's sweat-spangled face, eyes straining with mad intensity behind glasses the shape of Ford Cortinas, shuddered with the ungovernable maelstrom of information, inessential, infantry and endless, that constituted the grotesque furniture of his mind. Filing cabinets unlocked; thesauri fell agape; data danced in strict formation, quick, quick, quick-quick quick... puzzles fitted - it all added up: niggling, self-edited, tumbling with clicking impatience, cross-reference and erupting gathered beserk-fierce, heedless and torrential, howling for outlet from his springboard lips.
Seth adjusted the strings about his knees, and unnoticed, a passing wood-pigeon vacated onto Smeeton's Ploughman's Coypu-burger.
Seth: "I ent so nimble now", said Seth, "but I used to jump in and out o' t' barrels of eggs, wi'out cracking a shell."
Song: Smeeton: (Vivian: vocal, guitar, melodicas, euphonium, baconium, sarrusophone & jabbamok; Pete Moss: cello; Steve Winwood: mini-moog & organ.)
(Smeeton - interior dialogue for left and right brains)
I find that - truly engrossing, Seth...
Barrels
Barrels
Coopering
Staves
James Fenimore...
Cleft... padlocks [?]
A.D. 79, no... 1889
Bastille...
1851...
Storming of.
Mohicans, Last Of
Bastinado, Chinese torture
Nasty b__po [?]
(sings) Who's solly now?
Prints b__per [?]
Quoting, boating, jolly boating weather
Printed in Bembo
Ink; found in 1440 by Henry VI
Serif...
Eton
Sans-serif.
First catch your hare
Sherriff...

Without John Wayne.
Mrs. Beeton
Wain-check [?]
Isabella, or the pot thousand [?]
Strain-check [?]
Keats, Shelley, Percy Bysshe
Chevis Rover [?]
Mrs. Mary
The Bartered Bride
Frankenstein
Smetana
Monster ego, Id, I?
Smeeton
Myself... amigo
Reg
Me?
Regiment
Me
Means
Oneself
Me!
Me?
One?
Mimi...
Mimic
"One?"
Eh?
Zero!
Me?
Zero!
I?
One?
Zero.
Zero?
Zero??
Aahh...
Aahh...
Aahh...
Narrator: In the bitter cold, Old s______ had repaired the barbed wire about Sir Henry's small but daunting prisoner-of-war camp, and having no more duties till the evening, had slogged it across the fields in time for the finals, and to down a couple of pints, or five.
s______: "Aahhh - waste of good drinkin' time! I 'ad to go up and see if the old girl 'ad finished 'er bloomin' breakfast!"
Narrator: puffed s______. The old girl was Sir Henry's mother, once a great beauty, but now, unknown to Florrie, bedridden in a remote chamber at Rawlinson End.
Seth: "Well, ehhhh... 'a-a-ad she then? Finished it, like?"
s______: "'Course not; nice bit of smoked 'addock been there by the side of the bed gettin' cold for the last three years", said s______, taking a loud slurp.
Seth: "By 'eck - three years? D-does she do 'owt?"
s______: "'Course not - she'm just lyin' there, never sayin' nothin', with 'er gob wide open catching flies and playin' with rats. Sir 'Enry says, she'm not gettin' no more grub til she'm eaten the last lot."
Narrator: Reg Smeeton, smelling strongly of newspapers, patted down the back of his wig.
Smeeton: "Did you know, there is no proper name for the back of the knees."
Narrator: (Over band intro: ) What was left standing of the village band slurred into voice, and Old s______, now flushed and enlivened with his seventh mug of scrumpy, needed small press to clamber onto a bench, for a lively, if crack-throated rendition:
Song: The Fool and Bladder
(Vivian: vocal, banjolele, euphonium, tuba & percussion; Julian Smedley: violin; Pete Moss: banjo & accordian; Steve Winwood: mandolin; Jim Cuomo: clarinet.)
(s______)
Acchahwrhhh....
Out in the fields they farmers' boys are workin' 'ard, Sir,
Old Sol scorches b__pkin leather necks.
Our Rosie's pullin' pints down at the Fool and Bladder
Where rustics will relieve themselves of aches.
Last night drippin' custard on our rhubarb crumble,
Now we'm drippin' sweat upon the soil.
Wake up six and sevens, still we mustn't grumble:
Weekends we forget about it all. Singing:
Lay down yer spade, draw up yer will, tomorrow comes too quickly,
Whistlin' Mad'moiselle from Armentieres,
A wise man knows his onions are strong and pickly:
Swill 'em down with dear old Rosie's beer,
Prrrrrchhurrrr...
UhHuch...
The village populace is jumpin' on faces, catchin' the javelin,
Headin' the shot.
[FX: wet thud - "Oooo.."]
Narrator: Florrie had spent a long time checking the bathroom and family necks for tide marks, and when she'd done, it was evening. There was a screech of tortured wheels, a b__p, a loud splash, and a bubbling:
Florrie: "That sounds like Phillipa and Tarquin now", said Florrie.
Sir Henry: "s______! Get the net - fish 'em out of the ornamental pond and hang 'em over the radiators."
Narrator: All was pregnant expectancy as the sopping Lord and Lady Portly entered the house.
Tarquin: "Oh yelp!", he yelped as he b__ped his head on the portcullis.
Phillipa: "Great sporrans!"
Narrator: said Phillipa, tripping over the attractive boot-cleaner and getting a warm coconut-matting welcome stamped indelibly on her face.
To see Phillipa was always a pleasure until she opened her mouth. Those ivory dentures needed daily attention with a dilution of nitric acid.
By nine-thirty, dinner was finished, and the Rawlinsons and their guests lallygagged over the syllabub, or sprawled back, blown out, picking their teeth.
Song: Endroar
(Vivian: vocals, flageolets, ukulele, dum-dum and sarrusophone; Steve Winwood: accordian & mandolin; Pete Moss: banjo.)
(Round: Tarquin, Sir Henry, Phillipa, Florrie, s______)
Bash the tables, fill the glass, stuff the pheasant right,
P: steam the haggis right
F: fill the clock, stop the past year right [?]
S: go stuff yerself, you old s___e
Sod yer neighbours: sing out strong, tonight we all get tight.
Bright the room with red festoon, green the bile to flow,
Overland or undersea, O Rawlinsons, What 'O.
H: Rawlinsons alone
S: Rawlinsons 'allo
Logs must crack when fire burns, Rawlinsons all roar
Sing upstanding while you can, or bellow from the floor.
Dress the trees with village rogues, let 'em smell the meat,
Now bring in the village maids, while we're still on our feet.
Break the wind & loose your stays: Ladies first to start,
Gentlemen together, really let us hear you shart!
(Encore)
Sir Henry: (Under the last few bars: ) "That was inedible muck, and there wasn't enough of it - blurgh!"
Narrator: The curry lay heavy on Sir Henry's stomach like a royal corgi.
[FX: slowed-down belch]
Tarquin: "I say, how dare you belch in fwont of my wife!"
Narrator: squeaked Lord Portly. Henry yawned:
Sir Henry: "Sorry old man, I... (sniff) I didn't realise it was her turn."
Narrator: This ungracious rejoinder left Lord Portly stupefied as Dr. Watson, and to cover his befuddlement, he helped himself to a liberal glass of Chateau Colostomy.
Sir Henry: "If I had all the money I'd spent on drink... I'd spend it on drink."
Narrator: Lady Phillipa, herself nicely irrigated with horizontal lubricant, leered appreciatively across at her host. Henry glanced meaningfully at Florrie and put his finger to his lips. Florrie, understanding immediately, went "brrbwbwbwbwbwbwbwbwbw", and Henry addressed his goblet.
Song: The Beasht Inshide
(Vivian: vocal, ukulele, kazoo, trombone, mouth trumpet, talking-drum & tuba; Julian Smedley: violin; Pete Moss: violin; Jim Cuomo : bass sax & clarinet.)
(Sir Henry over band intro: )
I love you... (sniff) Ah, yes I love you! Strong heady fluid essence - I remember the first time we met, paradisical enchantress: a close warm star-pimpled night; with one fur-tongued sip, transmogrification! I wanted to... needed to quaff enough to soak a dart board.
Avec a fizzy... gin and tonic, I become somewhat schitzophronic,
Then I've... half a mind to shtop... and half a mind to have another;
But the brute-force beasht inshide un...leashes Mr. Hyde,
So I... seek and find more liquid substitute for the teats of sainted Mother.
God's teeth, I've struggled gamely to resist:
Gargled... pints of tea, and hailed myself Sir Vivor,
But people re-pewt me as a nissed.
Namely, I'm... Sir Rhosis of the Liver.
With a maelstrom stomach I rise;
But the doppelgänger Beasht Inshide
Shakes me and won't be exorcised,
So I greedy, needy grasp the old Aristotle; got to!
There's nothing quite like: a morning... cap, to start and end your day,
Lights my way to fright. The Rawlinson motto - Omnes Blotto.
(Snort) - Aahh!
Narrator: After port, they retired to the smoking room, and settled round the card table.
Phillipa: "Do you mind if I smoke?"
Narrator: asked Lady Phillipa, plucking an immense Meerschaum pipe and pouch from her crocodile handbag.
Sir Henry: "Not if y'don't mind my wife throwing up."
Narrator: grunted Henry. Nonetheless, her ladyship stuffed the bowl with a nauseous rum-soaked s___ called Périque, and lit up. Henry was half-cut and being important:
[Theme: Junglebunny]
(Vivian: talking-drum, bean, thumb-piano, clay drums, baconium & wooden cornet.)
Sir Henry: "Mind you, those jungle bunnies aren't without their own peculiar brand of decency... (sniff) Give you an example: they wouldn't kill a chap while he was asleep; had to wake him up, because one of 'em, charming fella, lips like inner tubes, told me - under torture, naturally - that should the victim's spirit be out of his body at the time of death, it would, on its return, be so outraged it would pursue and torment the a__assin for eternity - mmm.. like the Greek... Harpics of mythology. Understandable if you... believe that sort of guff."
Narrator: Lady Phillipa yawned behind her hand, and her dentures, ancient, yellowed and imperfect, locked.
With her cavernous mouth wide open, she could only "Huhh! uh! uh!", and Sir Henry, savvying she was gaping with wonderment at his yarn, gave her a boozy wink. She was too polite to leave the room, and Henry, now refuelled with several great gulps of Southampton Red Rum, a brainstorming c___tail involving a large port, vodka, rum and horseradish sauce, continued.
Sir Henry: "These're the only spirits I want tormenting my body... (sniff) Personally, when you're dead you're gorn. Afterlife, aftershave, blugh! Don't hold with any of it."
Narrator: He glared at Great Aunt Florrie, who was of quite a different opinion, an almost chandelier with pisces, St. Christopher, crucifix, rabbit's foot and lucky whale's teeth about her neck.
Sir Henry: "I don't give a toss what you've done with me when I've shrugged off m' mortal coil... Shove a bit of flex up m' back passage, stick a lightbulb in m' mouth and stand me in the hall. (sniff) Mind you, if you're using electricity you'll have to dry me out first!"
Narrator: Florrie had once mentioned instant karma to Henry, but he thought it was some kind of tranquilliser. There was really little point now, he was too far gone.
Sir Henry: "Consulting a book called Itching before she goes to the bog... God's teeth, what did I marry?"
Narrator: Florrie smoothed the now-greying hairs back from her temples, and tucked them neatly under her flying b___resses. Thank Clapton, she thought, that John's early death precluded him from knowing what kind of swine his father really was. She recalled the affair of the rubbers, but there had been happier times...
[Theme: soft elaboration of the Rawlinson End theme, as at the end]
She sighed deeply, and her mind strode back some thirty years on sensible brogue feet: Henry, in uniform, the blink of brass b___ons, then, after, to dance the night away. What foolishness now it seemed to a woman already in the twilight of her autumn.
Yet, what a kind man he'd always been: she recalled the time Mr. c__berpatch, the gardener, sweet old chap, hated wasps, always wore bicycle clips when mowing the lawn, had fallen badly in the orchard, and broken his leg. Why, Henry fairly raced back to the house for his pistol: he couldn't bear to see even the lowliest of creatures in pain.
Again she heard the Black and Decker two-speed drill start horribly up in the downstairs bathroom, and the high-pitched screams of Sir Henry doing his own fillings. Curious how the Rawlinson family distrusted dentists: she remembered the night of Arbuthnot's honeymoon in Vienna. He knew he could never face his new wife without a huge and immediate extraction, and so, he fastened a length of string about the tooth that pained him, and the other end to the door of the cage-like lift, and waited. But to no effect: the lift ascended, nothing happened. Tearing open the iron door, Arbuthnot immediately threw himself down the shaft. Few men would have had the intelligence to do that.
Florrie: "You know, Ralph could play billiards on horseback before he was fourteen."
Sir Henry: "Well I could play blow-football with m'bottom when I was a youngster. Now, about these chaps [FX: drums etc.] (sniff) They put a hand on your chest to wake you up. One c____ of reality - you're gone. Slit your throat, gouge your eyes out, no compunction. I remember, I was alone in m'tent when I felt it; I was enjoying.. a... fitful rest when suddenly... I felt it. The nuisance was, I was so full of cold mackerel pie, I knew I'd have to blow off! Huhh, imagine the fix, I was at bursting point when the thing yurped into m' face. Turned out I'd been lying there with a b_____ great frog on m' chest for an hour. (sniff) Didn't have the heart to kill it, but I twisted its arm something rotten. (sniff)"
Tarquin: "I was in Afwica", began Tarquin Maynard Portly. "Don't want to talk gibbewish, but I spent some time in the land of the Gibber, and believe me, those Gibbwoes could get a budgewigar to phone Hawwods."
Phillipa: "Och, canny as a Campbell Maynard"
Narrator: said Phillipa Portly, née Maynard.
Sir Henry: "Maynards? So much incest in that family, even the bulldog's got a club foot."
Phillipa: "Aye, but the flash of the clay pipes, the skirl of the morays!..."
Narrator: Profoundly moved, serpent shaquwa [?] shivering, speed, bonnie boa, Phillipa gave tongue:
Song: Rawlinsons and Maynards
(Vivian: vocal, banjolele, percussion, jabbamok & cacaphone; Steve Winwood: mini-moog & banjolin.)
(Phillipa)
We're Rawlinsons and Maynards, completely self-containards,
'Tis said we're bulletheads; but we're a much much nicer class,
We're Maynards, sons of Rawlin. Inter-bred: our chins are fallin',
We're no moribund, we're smarty-boots. Here Dodos dinne roost.
Where Rawlin throbs: we swollen k___s, effete, wee,
Caterwaulin' snobs say: stuff your telephones and stuff,
We live aloof and boast.
Narrator: For a leisurely few hours, they cheated at c___-can, Snap, Bezique, b_____ Your Neighbour, and Pope Joan - each five minutes pleasingly punctuated with refills of embalming fluid.
Florrie: "You know, if filthy fingers were trumps", nibbled Florrie "why Henry, dear, what a splendid hand you'd have."
Narrator: At this totally unexpected raspberry, Sir Henry took umbrage, and, with a snort, staggered over to the majestic log fire, where he swayed before the blaze pulling fearsome bulldog Churchillian scowls in the mirror, when Lady Staines, an incorrigible gamester, proposed a hand of Quadrille.
Phillipa: "Sir Henry", she burred, "would you like to be the fourth man?"
Narrator: Henry glared with dragon-nostrilled distaste at her wattled neck, gorgonzola legs, and grotesque tumescent udders.
Sir Henry: "My dear lady", he intoned, crossing the room, and leaning close, "I wouldn't even've liked to've been the first man."
Narrator: Sir Henry set down his drink, and whistled to the great hound stretched on the rug, chewing at an old gout bandage. Tail wagging, Bonzo padded over and placed his huge grey head on the felt table. Henry chose, then dealt the animal three cards face down.
Sir Henry: "Good lad, now... find the lady."
Narrator: The dog snuffled wetly at Phillipa Portly, shook its head sadly, then without hesitation returned to his bandage.
There was a scuffling at the door, a sound, as though a hot water bottle were stifling a yawn, and at that instant, Hubert, shamefaced, ventured into the room. Henry glowered at his brother; Florrie turned a cold eye towards him. Normally, he didn't enjoy Arabic food, but he was so excited, he managed to swallow it. Hubert announced that to make up for his past behaviour, he would
Hubert: "Like to entertain everybody with a bird impression."
Narrator: To lend excitement and colour to his performance, Hubert, with all the a__urance of a sleepwalker, crossed to the wind-up gramophone and put on some old papadums Henry had brought back from India.
[FX: needle on fried dough]
[Theme: (red flock wallpaper!) Papadumb]
(Vivian: balaliaka, phonofiddle, bina, percussion & Th'at; Steve Winwood: balaliaka; Julian Smedley: mandolin.)]
Turning it up full volume, he began hopping about on one leg.
Hubert: "Chirrup... chirrup... Chirrup!"
Narrator: he mimicked, winking at the ladies. He then produced a handful of worms from his trouser pocket, and, with apparent relish, stuffed them into his mouth. Pop-eyed, chewing furiously, and flapping his arms, with the pinky tentacles writhing horribly about his chin, he advanced
Hubert: "Chirrup! Chirrup!"
Narrator: to the table. Lady Phillipa opened her handbag, and, with heaving shoulders, buried her head in it.
[Theme: Rawlinson End, somewhat elaborated, accordion prominent.]
Narrator: (Over playout): Next time, Hubert, ever the gentleman, offers his seat to a lady in a public lavatory. There is considerable misunderstanding.
[Theme: improv. continues, then finally gives it a relatively straight run through, the solo violin coming in to take us to...]
The End