DON'T START FROM HERE Don’t start from here If you want to get there Find a place to begin that is closer to where You will end up if your destination is clear If you don’t want you don’t have to Don’t start from here… There’s a leaf on the line north of Watford This has come as a total surprise The network is rent in now From Scotland to Kent Disappearing before our very eyes There’s passengers running amok on the line And the trains are all standing in queues There’s a leaf on the line north of Watford And chaos will shortly ensue. Don’t start from here If you want to get there Find a place to begin that is closer to where You will end up if your destination is clear If you don’t want you don’t have to Don’t start from here… There’s a leaf on the line north of Watford And the nation is brought to a stand The army besides has now been mobilized There’s chaos across all the land Community singing, The church bells are ringing And Watford has now been blessed As a site of religious and secular interest The site where the leaf came to rest. Don’t start from here If you want to get there Find a place to begin that is closer to where You will end up if your destination is clear If you don’t want you don’t have to Don’t start from here… There's a leaf on the line north of Watford And parliament has now been recalled To a state of emergency, counter insurgency The queen says she’s simply appalled 24 hour TV will now shower us With all the news then you’ll see And now it would seem That’s a counselling team Has been sent there to comfort the tree. Don’t start from here If you want to get there Find a place to begin that is closer to where You will end up if your destination is clear If you don’t want you don’t have to Don’t start from here… There’s a leaf on the line north of Watford And research has been financed to prove What we should do when the odd leaf or two Makes the railways unable to move. At the cost of a very small fortune An old railway man now speaks up like a toff When there’s a leaf on the line north of Watford Go to Watford and take the leaf off... Don’t start from here If you want to get there Find a place to begin that is closer to where You will end up if your destination is clear If you don’t want you don’t have to Don’t start from here… JIM WOODLAND (c)

DON’T COME NEAR ME If you don’t like the place you live They probably built it wrong And though you try, it won’t come right On your own you’re not that strong Got no windows got no lights There’s a front door there but it’s sealed I see nobody goes out at night That’s just the way they feel They all say Don’t come near me Don’t come near me Don’t come near me Don’t come near me at all. You could be lonely all your life In a high-rise cemetery Write your memoirs with a knife come and hold it over me Write hello to all your friends put their faces out of joint Scratch your name right across your arm You want to make a point And you say Don’t come near me Don’t come near me Don’t come near me Don’t come near me at all Passing water pass the time You could pass away One day they’ll find your body sitting in the lift Going up and down all day Tablets for your lying eyes A little something for your health How you going to live with all these people When you can’t even live with yourself And you say Don’t come near me Don’t come near me Don’t come near me Don’t come near me at all If you don’t like the place you live They probably built it wrong And though you try, it won’t come right On your own you’re not that strong Got no windows got no lights There’s a front door there but it’s sealed I see nobody goes out at night That’s just the way they feel They all say Don’t come near me Don’t come near me Don’t come near me Don’t come near me at all… JIM WOODLAND (c)

USING UP ALL THE SUNLIGHT See them buggers with Solar Power They’re using up all the sunlight But what will they do when the Sun is gone Then they’ll be singing a different song They say the coal in the ground won’t last They say we’re destroying the atmosphere fast But when the coal has all gone, you just order a ton. And the coal-man comes, what’s more You can open the windows and open the doors If you need atmosphere we’ve got loads of it here The draft in our house on its own could provide Enough atmosphere for a for a planet besides Renewable powers an illusion a lie and I will tell you why… It’s all them buggers with solar power Using up all the sunlight. What will they do when there’s none of it left? They’ll be sat in darkness and feeling bereft When they’ve used up the sun And the moonlight has gone Then they’ll be happy. That’ll be fun Sat in the dark with no telly on… So much for renewable power… So much for renewable power… They say there’s a hole in the northern sky They say we’re melting what’s left of the polar ice The say that what we need is windmills and such We don’t need any more windmills we’ve got wind enough It makes no sense making more of the stuff We’ll be blown out the window if the weather gets rough And water they tell us could power a lamp! What’s the point of power if it makes you damp! I blame them buggers with solar power Using up all the sunlight. What will they do when the Sun goes flat? Lost in the darkness that’ll be that When they’ve used up the sun And the moonlight has gone The Sun explodes the sky turns black Brian Cox knows nothing. Even he knows that So much for renewable power So much for renewable power And fracking of course is a brilliant idea Dig a hole in the floor You could do it right here Pump chemicals down. The Earth won’t mind. That’s where chemicals come from. It’ll be fine. Just don’t tell the neighbours in case they object They’re probably Luddites or French I expect. Or they might be buggers with solar power using up all the sunlight. What will they do when the Sun goes dead? Sitting in the dark in the garden shed When they’ve used up the sun And the moonlight has gone Then they’ll be happy. That’ll be right Gripped in the gripper of a Groundhog night So much for renewable power So much for renewable power Call me stupid! I’ve just had an idea. Solar panels in a sun-bed. I’ve got one somewhere. The sun-bed will power the panels and then the panels will power the sun-bed. So when you plug it in and turn it on you get power forever You don’t need the sun! And though I can’t speak for anybody else singing this song I’ve just convinced myself! About… Beautiful renewable power Beautiful renewable power!!!! JIM WOODLAND (c)

WORK DOESN’T WORK Work doesn’t work, When pay doesn’t pay. Hours are not ours, Days are not days Care doesn’t care in the old-fashioned way. When work doesn’t work, pay doesn’t pay!... Shares are not shared. And Freedom isn’t free. Rules are not rules & leaders don’t lead us. Benefits don’t, and the only guarantee is that guarantees won’t The powerless can’t and the powerful wont. When… Work doesn’t work, When pay doesn’t pay. Hours are not ours, Days are not days Care doesn’t care in the old-fashioned way. When work doesn’t work, pay doesn’t pay!... Lies are not lies, & News isn’t new, Fake isn’t fake and the truth is truth is never true When words never say what words never say When leave doesn’t leave and stay doesn’t stay! When Work doesn’t work, When pay doesn’t pay. Hours are not ours, Days are not days Care doesn’t care in the old-fashioned way. When work doesn’t work, pay doesn’t pay!... Streets are not streets When houses are not there. Towns are not towns when Streets disappear Roads are not roads When they’re going nowhere When here isn’t here, and there isn’t there… Shares aren’t shared and fair isn’t fair, and Work doesn’t work, When pay doesn’t pay. Hours are not ours, Days are not days Care doesn’t care in the old-fashioned way. What can you do and what can you say Work doesn’t work, pay doesn’t pay!... Work doesn’t work, pay doesn’t pay!... JIM WOODLAND (c)

THE WORDS I’D CHOOSE I love you isn't the words I'd choose when words hang around like men in queues. Words without work are like men with no hearts. I love you wouldn't get a start. I need you isn’t the words I'd paint on a factory yard or a factory gate. Words that love and words that hate. I need you would just have to wait. So who do you think you're talking to? how dare you whisper I love you? How dare you treat my heart this way? How dare you keep what I gave away? I want you isn’t the words I'd write when words fall around like a Saturday night. Words that kiss and words that bite... I want you doesn't last all night. So who do you think you're talking to? how dare you whisper I love you? How dare you treat my heart this way? How dare you keep what I gave away? How dare you light my favourite light? How dare you fight my favourite fight? How dare you say the things I say? How dare you play the games I play? How dare you know the things I know? How dare you go the way I go? How dare you do the things I do? How dare you do the things you do? And who do you think you're talking to? I love you isn’t the words I'd say when words can drive the dark away. Like bonfires waiting in the park, I love you doesn't set the spark. So who do you think you're talking to? how dare you whisper I love you? How dare you treat my heart this way? How dare you keep what I gave away? How dare you whisper I love you? How dare you treat my heart this way? How dare you keep what I gave away? How dare you keep what I gave away? How dare you keep what I gave away? JIM WOODLAND (c)

THE LUDDITE See George Mellor. A cropper in the weaving trade. In Marsden Village in the Valley of the Colne where the warp and the weft were made. Took up Enoch’s hammer and the midnight bell was rung, marched over the hills to Huddersfield to do what must be done… People said he was a Luddite. but do they know what it means To take all you can from the hands of a man and give it to a bloody machine. The valley still remembers where people sit and talk 13 men from the valley of the Colne were hanged in the Vale of York… And the road from York to Huddersfield is a road as hard as stone Light the light tonight they’re coming home. The road from York to Huddersfield will chill you to the bone Light the light tonight they’re coming home. George Mellor’s journey to York would be his last. but in 15 years his darkest fears for the factory came to pass The owners stood united the children stood alone, 12 hours or more on the factory floor while their parents wept at home… So the parents walked from Huddersfield to York in the teeth of a gathering storm When hammers fail let hope prevail with arrows of reform. From sunset to sunset they walk from dawn to dawn on the road from York to Huddersfield and now they’re coming home And the road from York to Huddersfield is a road as hard as stone Light the light tonight they’re coming home. The road from York to Huddersfield will chill you to the bone Light the light tonight they’re coming home. They linked hands with one thought to save the children so they walked the road from Huddersfield to York and now they’re coming home. Their bodies ached their feet were torn they walked till dusk from early dawn for the souls of children still unborn and now they’re coming home. But the road from York to Huddersfield is a road as hard as stone Light the light tonight they’re coming home. The road from York to Huddersfield will chill you to the bone Light the light tonight they’re coming home. Light the light tonight they’re coming Light the light tonight they’re coming Light the light tonight they’re coming home. JIM WOODLAND (c)

PHOEBE WEBBER St Peter's fields in Manchester On a day we need not name Soldiers waiting in the sunshine one by one the people came and the women were dressed in white wearing leaves of laurel green St Peter's field in Manchester 1819... And you would think reform was a baby that must be born and you would democracy would give us hopes of liberty but do you think that’s true and have you heard the news... Phoebe Webber has been slaughtered on the fields of Peterloo and the red upon the green grass sparkles like the morning dew. May the tears flow down like water and wash the bloodstains from you. Phoebe Webber has been slaughtered on the fields of Peterloo... Somebody tell me how it happened I know even less than you. Their swords were out and sharpened a hundred thousand pushing through. We were standing in the front line still I can't believe it's true. I saw her eyes and then she saw mine. She was dead before she knew... Phoebe Webber has been slaughtered on the fields of Peterloo and the red upon the green grass sparkles like the morning dew. May the tears flow down like water and wash the bloodstains from you. Phoebe Webber has been slaughtered on the fields of Peterloo... And when you wake up in the morning thank the star that shines on you that the likes of Phoebe Webber always do the things they do. From the bloody streets of Moscow. To the ghettos of the U.S.A. From the haunted squares of China to the graveyards of the Cape She will die again tomorrow As she died yesterday . She will die until the sorrow and the chains are swept away Now the green leaves of the laurel turn a red and deadly hue Phoebe Webber has been slaughtered on the fields of Peterloo Now the green leaves of the laurel turn a red and deadly hue Phoebe Webber has been slaughtered on a street not far from you JIM WOODLAND (c)

SELF MADE MAN My grandad wasn’t a religious man His life was the music hall stage Doing impersonations of farmyard beasts Well at least just the noises they made. He started when he was a little kid Doing impersonations of the family cat But the cat got stuffed He said that’s enough I think we’ll leave it at that He was a self-made man My grandad knew all the tricks He cut himself out from the back Of a packet of Wheatabix One day Grandad ran into trouble like a record that gets stuck As a matter of fact he’d do nothing but quack Possessed by the soul of a demon duck Now Satan takes many disguises In opposing the almighty’s law But to see the foul fiend as a fiendish fowl Is something we’d not bargained for He was a self-made man My grandad knew all the tricks He cut himself out from the back Of a packet of Wheatabix And the audience sat there stunned, silent, shocked and cold as a corpse. But when all’s said and done the show must go on and they can be a bit like that in Cleethorpes, And though Grandad was clearly now damned, demented, possessed and deranged, if you didn’t know him well it was quite hard to tell because very little had changed. He was a self-made man My grandad knew all the tricks He cut himself out from the back Of a packet of Wheatabix So we called a family conference To try and save the old sinner We could call in a priest to exorcise the beast Or just fatten Grandad up for Christmas dinner The priest said what we need is bread That’s the stuff to tempt out a duck. And you’re losing nothing Cause it makes good stuffing If you give the old boy to the cook He was a self-made man My grandad knew all the tricks He cut himself out from the back Of a packet of Wheatabix So we splashed holy water all over the floor Just like a pond in the park And the priest then spread communion bread On the surface and waited till dark If it goes as it aughter, the bread and the water Should soon draw a demon duck out But by midnight we’d trapped Three dogs and a cat Two poachers, four pigs, and a trout. He was a self-made man My grandad knew all the tricks He cut himself out from the back Of a packet of Wheatabix Then Grandad reached up to heaven above Shouting ‘Save me, your prodigal son’. And God’s voice said ‘But you don’t believe in me do you? We mentioned that back in verse one’. And then Grandad flew out the window Singing hosannas in praise And he dropped like a stone And broke every bone Still God moves in mysterious ways. He was a self-made man My Grandad knew all the tricks He cut himself out from the back Of a packet of Wheatabix JIMWOODLAND (c)

DO MY EYES DECEIVE ME? Do my eyes deceive me Could this really be the day When they leave you stood here standing in the rain. Are they really leaving Could this really be the way They leave you stood here standing in the rain. Once you were the working kind You worked from 9 to 5 And as time went by You worked your life away Now they give you nothing it’s a problem to survive In a cardboard box You while away your days When you’re in the rain You can hide your feelings In the rain You can cry forever In the rain You can let the tears flow down And nobody sees the pain The lights the lights They shine so brightly Lighting up your fears You can see your whole life Sliding down the drain Tonight, the night may find you crying After all these years When they leave you stood here standing in the rain. When you’re in the rain People looking through you In the rain No one ever knew you In the rain You become invisible Nobody seems to mind That it’s raining, it’s pouring, The old man is snoring. It’s raining, it’s pouring, The old man is snoring. It’s raining, it’s pouring, The old man is snoring. It’s raining, it’s pouring, The old man is snoring… JIM WOODLAND (c)

BETTER THAN BEFORE I’ve got to this terminal condition It’s called a chronic lack of wealth I feel I’m dying far beyond my means I’m sicker, sicker, sicker, sicker, sicker, than the National Health. And now they say they’ve got the answer to my problems. Today is going to be my lucky day. If I’m not on my feet in just ten minutes A big black car will come and take me away. They say I’ll feel better than before, They’re telling me I’m going to feel a lot better that I ever really did before. I’ll feel better one of these days I will feel better. That’s what they say. First they check up your insurance They check your disease in Grey’s anatomy While the Doctor. looks you up and down and sideways The nurse looks in who’s who for your pedigree You can’t afford to see this Doctor I think we really can’t afford to be so ill Now they say if your disease don’t kill you Just wait till you get a look at the bill They say I’ll feel better than before, They’re telling me I’m going to feel a lot better that I ever really did before. I’ll feel better one of these days I will feel better. That’s what they say. Then they say Well, you won’t make the effort will you They tell you you’re as lazy as can be They say well a good day’s work won’t kill you and that may be true. But a bad day’s work will keep you on your knees Broke my back at British Leyland Broke my body at British Steel Broke my heart on British Railways Broken promises underneath the wheels. And the papers say ‘Give a little Give a little Give a little bit more’. And the banks all say ‘Give a little Give a little Give a little bit more’. Politicians say ‘Give a little Give a little Give a little bit more’. But I know… the last cut is the deepest cut of all… So I’m rising from this sick bed And I’m headed for the door. Holding hands, singing songs we’re racing through the town Feeling better, better than we did before, We will feel better than before Better than before Better than we ever really did before Better… One of these days Better That’s what they say. We will feel better One of these days JIM WOODLAND (c)

NO MORE ILLUSIONS I’m Waiting for the all clear But I don’t understand Why I feel as bad as I do Just look at my shaking hands. I listen to the outside world I don’t hear a single sound The banging on the door stopped days ago The day I felt the ground Shaking like a fever in my brain I’m taking my time for a number of things I know will never be the same… Sitting in a hole in the ground I know I will survive Been pre packed pickled and preserved More protected than alive I read my bible fifty times till it became absurd Memorised the dictionary But I just can’t find the words ‘Cause Oh I’ve heard it all before And now I know, I know I’ll never Never open up the door No more illusions No more ideals No more confusion And no more dreams No more looking for Another way to be No more you and no more me If there’s no more If there’s no more… But isn’t it quiet sitting in the dark You should try it Hiding underneath the park Isn’t it lonely? Down here on your own When you know you’re the only, the only one. If there’s no more If there’s no more… No more illusions No more ideals No more confusion And no more dreams No more looking for Another way to be No more you and no more me If there’s no more If there’s no more… JIM WOODLAND (c)

HAPPY HOUR Happy Hour it’s happy hour Its happy hour and then I want to go home But I can’t go home. Cause its happy hour again We’ve been in here since half past four. We like a little drink Charlie’s lying on the floor. He’s thrown up in the sink. Happy Hour it’s happy hour Its happy hour and then I want to go home But I can’t go home. Cause its happy hour again Charlie had twelve pints of beer And eighteen double gins A gallon of guinness and a bag of crisps It’s the crisps that done him in. Happy Hour it’s happy hour Its happy hour and then I want to go home But I can’t go home. Cause its happy hour again Charlie said “You get em in” That’s the last things what he said. He hasn’t moved in half an hour. I wonder if he’s dead. Happy Hour it’s happy hour Its happy hour and then I want to go home But I can’t go home. Cause its happy hour again The manager says to me…. That Charlie get him out of here he's not well. I said 'Lets not beat about the bush! I'll tell you what Charlie is... He's Bevvied, Jarred, Jugged and Bottled, Pickled, Steaming, Plonked... Smashed and Blutered, Tanked, High, Mortal, Steam boats, Tiddly and zonked... Sozzled, flushed groggy top heavy Overcome and screwed Tight, primed, oiled, muddled Bosky, obfuscated And off his food. Happy Hour it’s happy hour Its happy hour and then I want to go home But I can’t go home. Cause its happy hour again He is foxed, Flustered, He is subtle, He hath seen the French King... He hath swallowed a tavern Token He hath whipped the cat, he hath chuckethed up his ring... He hath been at the scriveners He is bit by a barm Weasel, His back teeth are afloat, He's addled... He has had a thump over the head with Samson's jaw bone, he's up the creek without a paddle... Happy Hour it’s happy hour Its happy hour and then I want to go home But I can’t go home. Cause its happy hour again His head is on backwards, he knows not the way home he is lit up like a Christmas tree... He is put to bed with a shovel He has sniffed the bar maid's apron, he's sloshed, He's on his knees... Isle of Wight, Tight, Palactic Paralytic, Legless, Plonkered... Blotto, Plastered, Entre Deux Vins, Fowl, Rotten, Shickered,and Stonkered... Langoured, Stoned, Stewed, Zonked, Blathered, Pie eyed, Sozzled and Slashed... Tight as drum, Drunk as a Sack, His data base has crashed... Somebody’s stolen his rudder George, He’s Elephants Trunk, Mozart and List... Brahms and List, Chopin and List, Solo Whist, Elbows and Wrist, And in short... Inebriated… On top of which he was once arrested in Manchester and accused of being Intoxicated and refusing to fight... But you can’t chuck him out! Why Not? He said! Cause It’s his bloody round that’s why not And its…. Happy Hour it’s happy hour Its happy hour and then I want to go home But I can’t go home. Cause its happy hour again… JIM WOODLAND (c)