Shammy, taken straight from a 25 year old cassette tape with no processing, editing etc.

Shammy - Original

Silliness from August 2011. Rasputin on an acoustic with a kazoo, as you do.

Rasputin - August 2011

I didn't really mind too much, when last Sunday over lunch,
You told me tales of stirring up bees' nests,
Right next to a baby's cot, although I should have lost the plot,
It didn't bother me but I confess,
I felt a bit uneasy, in fact I felt quite queasy,
When you told me you'd been feeding me my cat,
But things had to get gory, when you said you voted Tory,
There's no way that I could ever live with that.

And I'd never have known, just how far I would go,
Until you told me the truth,
You were happy to say, that back in the day,
You were a proud member of Thatcher's Youth.

You told me I should never look, inside your little private book,
Because I wouldn't like what I found there,
It must have been about a week, before I had to take a peek,
And found your dirty dealings all laid bare,
A list of infidelities, backstabbings and atrocities
That would have made Lucrecia Borgia blush,
But still it wasn't 'til I read, you'd like to have Boris in bed,
The need to take you out became too much

And I'd never have guessed, that I'd feel such distress,
Reading your fantasies,
But I'm feeling OK, now you're out of the way,
Underneath the Conservatory.

Looking back, I should have know,
The clues were in your mobile phone,
You had a Cilla Black ringtone,
The wallpaper's Jim Davidson.

Though they caught up with me, I'm still quite happy
Locked away for poisoning the pepper sauce,
Coz' as I do my time, one thought eases my mind,
That's one less Tory cross going in the ballot box.

But there's something I should say, though crime shouldn't pay
And capitalism is a whore,
I must admit as I pace my cell, I know full well,
I'm profiting ironically from your shares in Securicor.

Incompatibility

Sitting in another gay bar, as I do occasionally,
Listening to Lady Ga Ga, once again being inflicted on me,
Don't get me wrong, Ga-Ga's OK,
But not in every single gay bar in which I happen to stray.

Contemplating getting another, overpriced lager or short,
Thinking of a move to the dance floor, When the music changes and I am caught,
In another euro-pop nightmare,
I'm feeling like busting some moves but not busting them here.

Coz' I like the cock but I like to rock,
I like mens' buns but I like real drums,
A bit of rockin' meat wrapped around the beat,
To me is a lot more fun, than hearing this week's number one,
Please tell me I'm not alone.

Anyway, I have to boogie, the urge becomes too great,
While I'm being stupidly groovy, I catch the eye of an old mate,
'What brings you here, I didn't know you were gay?'
He says he comes here often but the music always drives him away.

He says,

I like the cock but I like to rock,
I like mens' buns but I like real drums,
A bit of rockin' meat wrapped around the beat,
To me is a lot more fun, than hearing this week's number one,
Please tell me I'm not alone.
And can I take you home.

So I find myself back at his place, mooching through his MP3s,
Guitars, guitars and more guitars, and not a trace of any Kylie,
Could he be the one, could he be the man,
To skip into the sunset with, stopping only for a headbang?
And maybe some other stuff.

It probably won't surprise you, to learn that yes, he was the one,
Several months later we're getting hitched, but the DJ's gone horribly wrong,
We break our embrace and storm the stage,
And for the rest of the night he is Robert Plant to my Jimmy Page,
'Cept when we play a little Rage.

Coz' we like the cock but we like to rock,
We like mens' buns but we like real drums,
A bit of rockin' meat wrapped around the beat,
Is enough to keep us headbanging in to next week,

Coz' we like the cock but we like to rock,
We like mens' buns but we like real drums,
A bit of rockin' meat wrapped around the beat,
To us is a lot more fun, than hearing this week's number one,
Please tell us we're not alone.
And we might take you home.

Going Ga-Ga

Internet - Bitch - Ropey

This is a rough draft recorded after several G&Ts.

These lyrics are by Primeval Mudd, Andria Britton and Dave Wylie:

I read that Scotland's got more pandas than Tory MPs,
They've got no time for folk who line their sporrans with bawbees.
I'll tell you a secret if you promise not to clype,
I'll watch them blow up Parliament while I blow on their pipes. 

One day I'd like to say I'm feeling Scottish to the core,
The quarter Scot in me is proud but I'd like a little more.

The Iron Lady washed her hands of those behind the wall,
It's gonna' be like Hogmanay when the witch does fall,
Not even Thatcher had the balls to sell off Holyrood,
Only a twat would privatise that but Andy Burnham would,

One day I'd like to say I'm feeling Scottish to the core,
The quarter Scot in me is proud but I'd like a little more.

Bawbag bawbag och its oot again!
But if the nuts are ginger you should share them with your friends.

I had a Scottish grandfather but I never knew him,
It turns out that my grandmother enjoyed a highland fling,
My genes are genes which right off jeans in favour of a kilt
There's nothing like a highland man to make me never wilt.

One day I'd like to say I'm feeling Scottish to the core,
The quarter Scot in me is proud but I'd like a little more.

Pandas

Yet another bit of drunken silliness, written with Andria Fag hag during drunken sillies a few months back, recorded during drunken sillies this afternoon.

Not in any way political. Really! I know it's hard to believe.

A very old song (2006) full of in jokes from a website.

If you're still reading: a chap called Paul left the BBC online folk, specifically the wonderful H2G2, to go and fulfil his fanboi dream of working on Doctor Who.

There's much in here which will make little sense to anybody. There's some in here which will make some sense to some. There's a lot which will mean a lot to a few.

Don Paulione

Chilham

Giz' a Fiver

I've trod a familiar musical path: piano as a kid, electric guitar as a teen, bands in my early twenties, (bad) electronic music in my mid twenties-thirties, lost interest for a bit, recently regained interest thanks to playing silly songs to mates around festival campfires and on the internet.
I work in the UK Civil Service but, more relevantly, am also a rep for the Public and Commercial Services (PCS) union and a bit of a leftie, which has led to much of the stuff I've written of late. I try to keep things light and flippant rather than full on preachy though. A joke sticks in the mind better than a lecture.

All of this stuff's recorded in a north London bedsit, mostly using Reaper, a tascam US-144, an SM58 and a Rode M3. Cheapskate chic.


Primeval Mudd

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