Stacks Image 34
Acoustic Guitar – Paul Roland
Artwork By – Harvey S. Williams
Balalaika – Pete Ridley
Bass – Brian Heffernan, Brian Marshall
Cello – Nick Payne
Drums – Matt Vinyl, Paul Madden
Engineer – Chris Ashman, Paul Madden
Keyboards – Brian Gould
Mandolin – Pete Ridley
Mixed By – Brian Marshall
Organ – Brian Marshall
Percussion – Paul Madden
Recorder – Jeremy Mortimer, Pete Ridley
Viola – Piers Mortimer
Violin – Pete Ridley
Vocals – Paul Roland

Recorded 1987
Label: Bam-Caruso, Pastell

The Curate Of Cheltenham
Journey To The Pole
Nursery Crimes
Cousin Emilia
Builder Of Follys
The Best Years Of Our Lives
Animal Crackers
Extra Tracks
Beau Brummel
Go Down Your Murderers
I Can't Control Myself
Captain Blood

The Curate Of Cheltenham
(In which the fool of the familiy enters the Church, a time honoured tradition)
The Curate of Cheltenham, the Reverend Weir,Believed that his mission in life was quite clear,To bring God to the natives, the heathenous hordes,Whilst imbuing the stimulating waters abroad.He bought a cheap passage in a Tramp Steamer's hold,And wrapped in the 'War Cry' to stave off the coldhe lived on a diet of cod liver oil,With fish on a Friday brought plain to the boil.Alighting at Cape Town and raring to goHe charted a boat and some natives to row,Standing proud and erect in the narrow canoeLike a coxwain at Cambridge he rallied his crew.'Oh tell me, dear mama, what good work could I do,I know I've been a bitter disappointment to father and you.'Three days on the river with provisions for four,'twas with some relief that they made for the shore,Where the natives proved friendly and ready to feedThe curious cleric with a trunk full of beads.He ran them up trousers to save them from shame,He taught all their women how to entertain,Which knife went with fish and which went with meat,Good manners at table, not to talk when you eat.He taught all their children to spell and to read,To gather their jumble for those who are in need,He read them the lessons and prayed for the sinner,Whilst they fed him on mangos to fatten him for dinner.
(note: ‘War Cry = the newspaper published by the Salvation Army)
Journey To The Pole
(Uncle Bertie's last expedition)
A traveller of great renown, a theorist of repute, Planned a novel exploration by a most unusual route,He maintained the Earth was hollow,
that his theory was quite soundAnd that another world was waiting
in the darkness underground.The sun he said was filtered,
light streamed in through a hole, Through which he planned to descend
at the apex of the Pole,A Galleon he'd charter
with provision for the tripAnd one hundred men of stout resolve
to navigate the ship.Sponsors queued and so accrued
more funds than were requiredAnd all agreed he was indeed
the man they most admiredAnd so at last the date was set
and they cast off from the quayThe Mayor wept and a brass band played
"For Those In Peril On The Sea".Well five months on and not a word
was heard of ship nor men,And all forgot or ceased to care
what had become of them, Until at last a traveller past
a solitary soul,And found a rusty anchor chain
frozen at the Pole.

Nursery Crimes
(Nanny, where are you now?)
When I was young I didn't have too many little friends,Only one, and she was three score years and ten,A nanny with a most peculiar pedigree,A former felon, but she was always good to me.And when they came for her she shimmied down the drain,Made off with Mummy's jewels, we'll not see her again.She taught me how to forge a fiver from a stolen plate,How to do my time if made a guest if the state,She gave me lessons on the blowing of a strongroom door,Too much 'jelly' and the Nursery went through the floor.I learnt the rackets and the value of a good disguise,How to case a joint and how to fence the merchandise,And now I'm older and they ask me what I want to be,A life of crime is sure to be the life for me.
(note: Plate = metal mould for printing bank note; ‘jelly’ = gelignite)

Cousin Emilia
(The eccentric entomologist)
Miss Emilia St. John spent innumerable hoursin pursuit of butterflies, bugs and wild flowersShe cared not a fig what the villagers thoughtof her pith helmet, net and large khaki shorts.Tired of Trowbridge and sedate village lifeAnd never content to be any man's wifeshe embarked on a voyage to India by shipBid her father, the Rector, 'So long' and 'Pip, pip'.In Baghdad a young boy of Sepoy descentAccompanied the Memsahib wherever she wentInto the mountains west of ZanzibarIn search for rare species for her killing jar.In Rangoon the Sultan of diminutive size,Made improper suggestions over jellied sheep’s eyes,In China the Viceroy gave her cause for concernWhen the tattle at tiffin took an unsavoury turn.So on through the swamplands and regions unknown,Where the crocodile backs served as their stepping stones,The intrepid Emilia with her butterfly net,Last seen on a cycle en route to Tibet.
(note: tiffin = tea and scones)

Builder Of Follys
(Great Uncle Benjamin goes underground)
A builder of Follys set out to astoundWith a network of tunnels and rooms underground,He had the carpets rolled up and the floorboards away,And his workmen were digging by night and by day.Rubble and topsoil they piled in the hall,The servants knew not what to make of it all,Molehills of dark earth appeared on the lawn,With an interminable racket from midnight 'til dawn.He descended by lift at the foot of the stairs,Conveyed thence by rail in a converted bathchair,To a hallway which stretched two thirds of a mile,And a dozen fine bedrooms in the Italian style.He had a Regency ballroom to tempt the smart set,Bathed in the blue of one hundred gas jets,He invited all those he considered his friendsTo a Grand Opening Ball, but not one would attend.

The Best Years Of Our Lives

[Music: Traditional, Lyrics: Roland](My own school days recalled)
Broughton fags for Cunningham, Mayhew's fag has fled,I don't fag for either for daddy knows the Head,Crabtree runs the Prefect's bath, Dawlish brings him tea,Me, I added to the fun, milk spiced with LSD.Three Cheers for King's and Houghton House,Three more for Master's wives,Another for cold showersAnd the best years of our lives.Curfew here is sacrosanct, the town is out of bounds,So keep an eye for Matron returning from her rounds.Chaplin takes confession, he says we're steeped in sin,The Lower Fourth's ungodly thoughts bring dribbles to his chin.Who'll cheer our first eleven and damn the vanquished foe?Why, the earnest, eager Freshmen will, 'cause we're too drunk to go.
(note: fag = servant, Head = headmaster)

Aunty lacks the social graces,
she pulls the most peculiar facesin the most public of places, she really is a scream.Her voice is loud, her manners too,
her dresses green and her jokes quite blue,But you should see her dance the Hoochie Coo,
the Lindy or the Frug.Everyone says aunty's thrifty,
but they don't know her hidden gifts,She seldom pays but goes 'shoplifty'.
She's mastered slight of hand.She favours all the better stores.
shoplifting from floor to floor,And always one step from the Law.Her friends are bores or frightful smarties.
They're really not the type for aunty.Still, she give the most outrageous parties
and everybody comes.A nuisance everywhere she goes,
an embarrassment to those she knows,But I know where her money goes. She's left it all to me.

Animal Crackers
His taste was odd to say the least,
he sampled every form of beast,A patron of the London Zoo
he savoured birds and insects too,Ate garnished beetles fried on rye
and baked a crusty Rhino pie,For birthdays or a special treat
he'd cook the dodo's tender feet.A slight eccentric in his ways
he boiled an elephant's trunk for days,And when it proved too tough to slice
he turned his gourmet skills to mice.Invited guests for Sunday roast
were served white mice on buttered toast,Followed by a steaming stew
of wild colonial kangaroo.Of course he had his share of flops,
like smoked giraffe and panther chops,But all in all he cooked good fare,
the best, said he, was polar bear,A delicacy of the rarest kind for it
was still quite hard to find,Grilled and turned from time to time
and all washed down with dry white wine.Eccentrics, all on his father's side
begun with frogs in formaldehyde,So who would have thought he'd come
to be a genuine celebrity,A friend of swells and royalty
who were treated to a splendid tea,Who politely nibbled, but never scoffed
for they were brought up to be toffs