(Words: David Senior, Tune: Supercalifragelisticexpiallydocious)
Chorus:
Socialiberaldemocraticexpiallydocious,
Even though the
sound of it is something quite atrocious,
Say it loud enough and you'll
really feel quite nauseous,
Socialiberaldemocraticexpiallydocious.
'Cos I was afraid to merge in Blackpool back that Jan.,
Paddy took me to
one side and told me: "Be a man."
He said, "You may not like the name or
ref'rence to NATO,
The constitution you can change when t'Conference next you
go."
Chorus
I travelled back to Blackpool then, that September week.
Constitution to
amend, that's all I did seek.
But all debate must be suppressed, in case it
rocks the boat -
So scrub it from the agenda, don't put it to the vote.
Chorus
So if your party's been hijacked by bunker app'ratchics,
Committees that
you cannot trust and other dirty tricks,
You'd better start planning how
you're going to win it back.
We'll start by closing Cowley Street and giving
Dee the sack!
Chorus
(Tune: Twelve Days of Christmas)
On the first day of merger
The soggies gave to me,
Well, not much
actually.
On the second day of merger
The soggies gave to me,
Absolutely
zilch,
Well, not much actually
3. Sweet F.A.
4. A very small amount.
5. BUGGER ALL.
6. Very little
really.
7. Nothing you would miss.
8. Just a meagre smidgen.
9. Nought
that they would miss.
10. Not a bleeding sausage.
11. Mere
peccadilloes.
12. Just a meagre helping.
(Words: Mark Taverner, Tune: Come down, O Love Divine)
Come down to Basildon,
See where the fight was won,
The Liberals, wets
and lefties all defeating.
Seat of the nation's choice,
This the authentic
voice
And here the heart of England proudly beating
Essex! O bold élite!
The country's at Liverpool Street
In search of
honest John who always delivers
Bargains on Romford stalls -
Cheap hairy
chests and balls -
Fresh out of bleeding hearts and lily livers.
Take up thy bed and walk,
Spare me the soft-tounged talk,
For those
that cry for help are only lying.
Under the naff white socks
One sodden
cardboard box,
Wherein lies gentle England, quietly dying.
Chingford skins on the piss!
Did we come here for this?
Is this what we
have sunk to, Sun-reliant?
Is Chigwell then to be
The end of
history?
Or do you faintly hear a voice defiant
O bugger Basildon!
O bugger Basildon!
O bugger Basildon, the nation's
arsehole!
O bugger Basildon!
O bugger Basildon!
O bugger Basildon, the
nation's arsehole!
(Words: Adrian Cruden, Tune: Keep the Home fires burning)
We'll keep the letters coming,
Tho' your subs expiring.
Raffle tickets
come to you
Tho' you last paid in '82.
We'll keep the letters
coming,
Computer printouts churning,
Though you died five years
ago,
We're writing to you.
(Words: Harriet Smith, Tune: Molly Malone)
In Glasgow's fair city,
Where the boys are so pretty,
I first set my
eyes on sweet Charles Kennedy;
As he hawked his ambition
From meeting to
meeting:
"I'm a bonnie wee laddie
From the new SDP,
I'm a bonnie wee
laddie.
I'm a bonnie wee laddie.
I'm a bonnie wee laddie
From the new
SDP."
He was but a tiddler
From North of the Border,
And so was his father a
fiddler before:
But he hawked his ambition
From meeting to
meeting:
"I'm a cannie wee laddie;
Oh. please vote for me.
I'm a cannie
wee laddie.
I'm a cannie wee laddie.
I'm a cannie wee laddie.
Oh please
vote for me."
He won in the summer,
Oh, God, what a bummer,
And that was the end of
sweet Charles Kennedy;
Now he drags his ambition
From station to
station:
"I'm a famous MP,
Let me be on TV.
I'm a famous MP.
I'm a
famous MP.
I'm a famous MP,
Let me be on TV.
Come down at Conference time,
Leave earthly cares behind;
Forgetteth
not to bring thy wallet with ye.
Six hundred thousand quid,
Or just the
nearest bid,
Will buy this slightly used and shop-soiled party.
When I survey this wondrous mess
In which my party finds itself,
I seek
release from my distress,
And take the Scotch from off the shelf
O Pad, out help in ages past,
Our hope for months to come.
Take thy
computer in both hands
And stick it up thy ...
(Words: Mark Taverner, Tune: Your baby has gone down the plughole)
A Leader was leading his party one night,
A ragbag collection: a pitiful
sight.
Its principles bare; its policies thin,
'T'was nought but a
skeleton covered with skin.
So Ashdown turned round
And cried "Woe and
alack!"
He was only a moment,
But when he turned back,
His party had
gone and in anguish, he cried,
"Oh, where has my party gone?" The voters
replied:
"Oh your party has gone down the plughole.
Your party is gone, every
bit.
It has been rather low for a year or so,
And now it's face-first in
the s***.
Your Party is totally knackered,
Your leadership's right down
the drain.
Still no need to feel blue,
There's just one thing to
do:
Bring back the Liberals again."
(Words: Simon Titley, Tune: Green Grow the Rushes-Oh!)
I'll sing you one-oh!
Red grow the deficits-oh.
What is your
one-oh?
One is our bureaucracy
Absorbing all our cash-oh!
First time:
Two for the parties we replaced
That were less in
debt than we are.
Two, two, the parties-oh
That were less in debt than we are.
First time:
Three for the staff redundancies
We order every
month-oh!
Three - more - redundancies
Four for the major clearing banks
Who turned down our account-oh.
Five for the times Sir Anthony
Has bailed the party out-oh!
First time:
Six for the months it took HQ
To work out it was in
debt-oh!
And six for the months it took them
First time
Seven for the temps that Ellis hired
To cook the
party's books-oh!
Seven for the temps to cook the books
Eight for the direct junk mailshots
It took to raise a pound-oh!
Nine for the High Court Bailiffs men
Who've been through Doocey's
drawers-oh
Ten more years of Tory rule
Unless we sort this out-oh!
(Tune: Little boxes, Words: Simon Titley)
Green papers, by the truck-load,
Green papers made of glossy
paper,
Green papers, Green papers,
Green papers, all the same.
They're on housing and on transport,
And there's one on
prostitution,
And they're all a bit wishy-washy,
And they all look just
the same.
And the experts come to Cowley Street,
And plead their special
interests,
And it all gets put in papers,
Green papers, just the same.
And there's MPs and there's lawyers,
And business executives,
And
they're all a bit wishy-washy,
And they all sound just the same.
And the printers print the papers
and send the back to Cowley
Street.
And they all get put in boxes,
Little boxes just the same.
And no-one wants to buy them,
And no-one wants to read them;
So they're
all put in the basement,
And they all end up just the same.
And the dustmen come to Cowley Street,
And collect the green
papers,
And they all get put in dustcarts,
Little dustcarts just the
same.
They're on housing and on transport,
And there's one on
prostitution,
And they're all a bit wishy-washy,
And they all look just
the same.
(Words: Chris Young, Tune: Little Boxes)
Letterboxes on the doorfronts,
Letterboxes going
snippy-snappy;
Letterboxes on the doorfronts -
Letterboxes hurt and
maim.
There's a high one and a low one,
And a small one and a narrow
one;
And they all stick or go snipy-snappy,
And they all hurt just the
same.
And the Focus for the houses
Was written by the candidate;
But he won't
touch letterboxes:
Letterboxes hurts and maim.
So I take them and I fold
then,
And I try to deliver them;
But they all scrape or go
snippy-snappy,
And they all hurt just the same.
Now the front flap on the letterbox
Is stiff or goes flippy-flappy
And
it bruises all my fingers
And it traps them in the frame -
Which is filled
with rows of bristles
Which crumple the leaflet up.
And they all jam or go
scritchy-scratchy,
And they all hurt just the same.
As I bleed upon the leaflet,
It stops at the inner flap,
And I have to
wedge it open
With my fingers in the frame.
Then a dog jumps at the
doorfront
And tries to bite my fingers off.
And they all growl or go
yippy-yappy,
And they all hurt just the same.
So the leaflet turns to dogfood
Or gets snagged in silly
curtaining,
And get tangled, further mangled:
It is all part of the
game.
When the owner gets the leaflet,
It must be half-illegible;
And
they'll never vote Libby-Labby.
But it all hurts just the same.
Letterboxes on the doorfronts
Should be subject to regulations;
Never
sideways, all at waist height,
Letterboxes just the same.
And the dogs
should be sedated,
And the hinges lubricated fully.
They'd be simple and
not knicky-knacky,
And they'd all work just the same.
(Words: Simon Titley, Tune: Right said Fred)
Right, said Beith, economic spokesman
This Green Paper'll bring the voters
in,
Esoteric
To punters up in Berwick,
He was getting nowhere
And
so, we, had a cup of tea.
And right, said Beith, give a job to Charlie,
Up goes Charlie to the
studio.
Not one soundbite
On Channel 4 or Newsnight.
We was getting
nowhere
And so, we, had a cup of tea.
So Alan had a think, and he thought we ought
To free the Bank of England
-
It'll go down well in Richmond.
But it did no good,
Well I never
thought it would.
Alright said Beith, monetary system,
To join that system wouldn't take a
mo.
Joined the system -
Economic bedlam -
Should have got us somewhere,
but no
So Beith said, let's have another cup of tea
And we said,
Righto.
Alright, said Beith, central bank of Europe -
That there bank is the end
of all our woes.
Loads of Germans,
Economic sermons,
And it got us
nowhere
And so, we, had a cup of tea
And Paddy had a think and he said, Look Beith
You're causing an imbroglio
-
I'm changing your portfolio
In a month or two
I will think what you
can do.
Alright said Beith, home affairs is better;
Family values is what I will
suggest.
But video nasties
Featuring pederasty
Landed on top of his
desk,
So Paddy and me had another cup of tea
And then we went home.
(Words: Simon Titley, Tune: Don't jump off the Roof, Dad)
John Major came home from work tired;
The House had been driving him
mad.
The kids started fighting,
The wife hit him too;
To win back his
voters he hadn't a clue
I guess it was then he decided
Up to the roof-top he'd go.
He was about
to jump off, when
His cabinet shouted below.
Oh.....
Don't jump off the roof, John.
You'll make a hole in the
yard.
Heseltine's a disaster
And Clarke is a big tub of lard - tub of
lard
If you must end it all John,
Won't you please give us a break
-
Just take a walk to the park, John,
And then you can jump in the
lake
[Repeat last verse until bored]
(Words: Adrian Slade, Tune: Bangor)
Didn't we have a lovely time
The week we went to Brighton -
Voting for
policy options that
Upset the Parliamentary Party.
Wasn't it fun seeing
Alex Carlisle
Standing at the rostrum,
Venting his rage
On the minimum
wage
To no avail.
Didn't we have a lovely time
Debating equidistance,
All being surprised
at the Guardian do
When Ming and Russel favoured Labour.
Set in a whirl by
Bill Roy and Shirl,
Who think the mould is broken,
We stood on our
head
Not to jump into bed
With Tony Blair.
Didn't we have a lovely time
Electing Bob Maclennan,
Saying good-bye to
Charlie Boy,
And not electing Martin Thomas;
Or giving much to poor young
Don,
Who'd collected all those names up -
Maybe because
He was lively
and new
And we can't risk that.
Didn't we have a lovely time
Discussing all out tax plans;
Changing our
mind on 60 per cent
And probably changing them back again.
Because they
let loose poor Malcolm Bruce
To give us a presentation.
Creating a budget
in quarter'f'an'hour
Is a brave thing to do.
Didn't we have a lovely time
Upsetting Paddy Ashdown:
Making him hot at
the thought of pot
Available at sweetie counters.
"No, not at all," he was
able to call,
"We'll have a Royal Commission."
So wasn't he lucky
We
didn't go on
To abolish the Queen!
(Words: Mark Taverner, Tune Strangers in the Night)
Plonkers on the Right
All Dicks and Boyson,
Festering in the night
A
foetid poison,
Free to run its course
The 1980s through.
Nothing was too strong,
Or would deter them.
Nothing we did
wrong
Seemed to bestir them.
Dreams we've had so long
Felt like might
come true.
Plonkers on the Right,
Mad Tory people,
We were plonkers on the
Right
Up to that moment on that
Night in '92.
Bound to lose, we
knew,
But when it came to judgement day
They voted for us anyway;
And . . .
Now it seems that night
Will be our ruin,
The voters knew all
right,
What they were doin'.
A lasting end's in sight
For plonkers on
the right.
(Words: Janice Turner, Tune: Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud)
A bold Liberal Democrat was drinking one day,
With his thoughts on
elections afar.
Then a bottle of Bollinger he sent with great speed
To the
socialist clique at the bar.
He said, "You've been buggered since '79,
And
my party's still stuck at square one.
You can't lose again for that's five in
a row
And I will be out on my bum."
Pact, pact, give him a pact,
He says it's the way to get Major the
sack.
"I'm not being sinister, now don't be a ninny, sir,
You can make me
Prime Minister
With a glorious pact."
Now Labour was rudderless 'cos Kinnock had gone,
Smith and Beckett didn't
know what to do.
They said, "Darling Paddy, we can't say yes out loud"
So
they whispered "Perhaps" in the loo.
The Labour dilemma was easy to
see,
It was heresy to say they might lose.
But maybe with Paddy they could
go further right
And drink better quality booze.
Pact, pact, give 'em a pact,
It's the last chance they've got to give
Major the sack
We'll do it quite deftly, so don't be too hefty,
We'll make
Paddy a leftie,
With a glorious pact.
Paddy turned to the Liberals, saying: "It sure is the thing,
An alliance
is just what we need.
I'm fed up of yomping to third place again,
If you
can't beat 'em join and succeed."
Big Cyril went purple, the earth shook with
rage,
The right of the party went blue.
Destruction of Labour was their
lifelong aim,
But Paddy went pink and said, "Poo".
Pact, pact, give him a pact
It's a last ditch attempt to get Major the
sack.
So follow him follow, your pride you must swallow,
And there let us
wallow
With a glorious pact.
