|The Holy Trinity of Cider: Thatchers, Roger Wilkins and Hecks. |
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritius Sancti. Amen.
Drink up thy Zider was the song that launched the Wurzels to fame in 1966, when it stormed the charts and nestled at number 45 for a number of weeks - mostly on the strength of the single's B-side, Twice Daily, deemed too saucy for the airwaves by the Beeb. Drink up thy Zider appeared on the 1967 LP Adge Cutler And The Wurzels, nestling alongside Pill Pill, The Champion Dung Spreader and When the Common Market Comes to Stanton Drew.
Our song's hero is George, presumably a farmer, muckspreader - or just someone who likes to walk around covered in dung and wearing gaters, while quaffing a jug or two of scumpy and revelling in his drunken behaviour. The song itself is a cheerful number, with an unbeat tempo and a sing-along-wave-your-glasses-around chorus, and a clever way of warning in the links between binge-drinking, obesity and sexual importance.
|Hint for ladies: If he's having problems in that department, prop it up with a |
couple of lollipop sticks and have a good old laugh.
Drink up thy zider George, thy garden's well nigh dug
There's dung all o'er thy tater's, and half way up thy gater's
And there's still more zider in the jug
|He doesn't look THAT jolly. More...like he's brewing a fart.|
Drink up thy zider, drink up thy zider
For tonight we'll merry be
We'll knock the milkmaids over and roll 'em in the clover
The corns half cut and so are we
On top that, those milkmaids really should be getting to bed - they've got an early start in the morning. It's not like those cows will milk themselves.
Drink up thy zider George, thee's been going far
Drink up thy zider George, thee's getting quite a star
Thy cheeks are getting redder, from charterhouse to cheddar
And there's still more zider in the jar
Oh, yes. Here we go. Bit of peer pressure. "Nah, I really should go." "Oh, c'mon mate. What difference is one more gonna make?" and the next thing you know you've gone from a nice cosy pub to a terrible nightclub, paying a tenner for a luke-warm bottle of Becks and getting punched in the chops for staring at the bouncer's girlfriends boobies.
|Not a good look. For anyone.|
Chorus goes here.
Drink up thy zider George, get up off the mat
Drink up thy zider George, put on thy gurt big hat
We're going to Ballyverney, to see my brother Ernie
And there's still more zider in the vat
|If the Hoff can't make it cool, you know it sucks.|
"I've never had a battered Mars bar."
"Are you..are you serious."
"This is a trave- ..traj- ..that's really bad. We're going to get one. Right now."
"Now. 'Ere, Dave. Dave! 'e's never 'ad a battered Mars bar!"
So, poor old George is retrieved from the floor, his hat put upon his head, and off he's dragged to Balamory to hang out with Miss Hoolie, PC Plum and Archie and sing about their pro-
|Lets go here!|
But still. Lets go visit Ernie! In Ireland! At 2.37am! That's the best idea EVER! Forget the milkmaids! They have milkmaids in Ireland right? And Ernie's got this huge house and it's been ages since he's seen me, and his wife's sister is a bit of a hotty and...I bet she's got loads of hot mates.
Drink up thy zider George, get it off thy chest
Drink up thy zider George, it's time we had a rest
There's nothing like more zider to make thy smile grow wider
And there's still more zider in the west
You know how at the end of every party there's a girl in tears, being comforted by her friend? Well, there's also a guy with his shirt off, wearing only one trainer, telling some guy he's just met that he's NEVER liked you, but never had the guts to say it before, and why don't they take this outside?
|Hawt man on man action|
C'mon George, he ain't worf it.
Leave it George, just forget him. Come have another drink.
Bouncers wading in with a wary eye, crowds of drinkers parting like the Red Sea before Moses, eager to see blood spilled, or at least a little drama.
And he's out.
Whatever. It's a stupid nightclub, anyway. And they could totally have taken the bouncer if they wanted to, but they didn't want to. He wasn't worth it. Right?
Let's go to the Kebabby, right, George?
|No-one has ever eaten a kebab sober. Fact.|
Why naked? I don't know.
Do the walk of shame, eyed by strangers who pass you, stinking of stomach acid and garlic, wearing what looks like Big Soup down your chest.
And not a milkmaid in sight.
Binge drinking is no laughing matter, George. And your friends are jerks.
Sing the chorus again. Twice. But really quiet, because otherwise George's head will explode.