My friend, colleague and partner-in-musical-crime, Oliver, reminds me that while searching for hidden meanings in Wurzel songs, I have thus far neglected what the group are perhaps best known for - cider.
The Holy Trinity of Cider: Thatchers, Roger Wilkins and Hecks.
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritius Sancti. Amen.
I am attempting to put this right over the next few entries, were we dig deep into the holy trinity of Drink up thy zider, Drink drink thy zider up, and I'll never get a scrumpy 'ere.
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.
Nee-ee-igh!
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.
..sorry. Impotence.
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, pass us round the jug 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.
So, here's George. Celebrating the end of a hard working day with his mates down the pub - because obviously drinking home, alone would make him an alcoholic, and that's not very funny at all. George has dug up his garden, spread muck on his potatoes - and in the process, all over himself, and all is right with the world. So off we pop, down the pub to blow off some steam after a very successful night. George is perhaps one of many of us who has come to associate the taste of alcohol with the smug satisfaction of achievement, a job well done, and that warm, fuzzy feeling you get from being one of the gang. Good ol'd George. Drink up, lad.
Chorus:
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
Mmmm. Classy.
Hello. What? This is the grand plan? Get smashed, hunt down a few milkmaids and have your wicked way with them? You're drinking cider, not Stella, for goodness sake. These are simpler times, not the times of Bacardi Breezers and stumbling out of nightclubs with your chicken fillets clutched in one hand, your hair extensions in another and a Daily Mail photographer waiting to snap a photograph of you as the definition of all that is wrong with the world.
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.
The effects of the alcohol is already having an affect on poor old George - his cheeks are red, and..he's apparently putting on an alarming amount of weight - not a beer belly as much as a cider...er.. smile? All unfocused eyes and a nose that's starting to look like a tomato that's been left out in the sun too long. Along with his buzz, he's experienced that temporary high that a bit of dutch courage can give him. He's awesome. He can take on the world. He's a cool, funny guy. Everyone loves him. He's a star. And just think how much better he'll feel if he keeps drinking! Brilliant!
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.
Whoops. There goes George. Slipping gently off his stool, under the table to the sticky floor, where he can lie amongst a tangle of his friends feet and giggle hysterically. The cider is flowing, and the big ideas are coming. "Ohmigod, right. We should totally open our own pub. At the flat. And invite all our friends. It'll be brilliant!"
"I've never had a battered Mars bar."
"Are you..are you serious."
"Totally. Never!"
"This is a trave- ..traj- ..that's really bad. We're going to get one. Right now."
"What?"
"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!
..er..maybe not.
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.
Chorus, yo.
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.
Throw up on the pavement shortly afterwards? Maybe spend the night in a bush and wake up covered in your own vomit, with your wallet missing, one shoe on, a black eye you have no memory of getting, and your head feeling like it's been ran over by a naked rugby team.
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.
ZOMG. Zombieblog. Back from the dead, rising stinking from a muddy grave.
IT LIVES!
Alright. So. Been a while. A busy summer, festivals, life, personal criseseses and a few bits and pieces sort of got in the way of me writing here. Sorry.
But when I came back today.. well...there's over 2,000 hits.
It's pretty amazing. But..seriously.
What is WRONG with you people?
You either like the Wurzels as much as I do, which..obviously isn't beyond the realms of possibility as they are the best band who ever graced the planet, or you're into reading the deluded wafflings of someone who has a little too much time on her hands.
So..which is it? Leave a note, do.
Anyway. Now I've insulted you all, time to crack on.
Today's song, scientifically selected by a long and laborious process too complicated to mention is...
Fanfare please...
The Shepton Mallet Matador.
Wot no matadors?
Another one of Adge's, this was originally recorded at the Royal Oak in 1967 and appeared on the Adge Cutler Family Album. It was re-recorded in 1975, and a video was filmed, which featured the Wurzels dressed up as Matadors and dancing around the Market Cross in Shepton Mallet. Sadly, I have never seen this video, although after typing that, I can't TELL you how much I want to. The track was re-re-recorded in 2004 and appeared on A Taste of the West, because, well, if something is this much fun, why not record three different versions of it?
Adge's family album. And some pigs. And some Wurzels.
The song is a rather sweet little tale - a farmhand called Jacko who nipped off to Spain for a summer holiday and came back forever changed. Aaah, you know the types. You see them in the pub, skin the colour of mahogany, straw donkey tucked under one arm and ordering jugs of sangria and tapas from the bemused and impatient barman.
Tapas. And the point of this is...?
But, as we are increasingly learning with Wurzels songs, behind the jolly facade is a story of an overworked man suffering a complete mental collapse. It bravely tackles the stigma surrounding mental illness in rural areas, and a lack of provision for those who suffer.
Let's go in a little deeper, shall we?
Now Jacko was so happy, just workin' on the farm, With the cows and the chickens, he couldn't do no harm. For years and years he worked and he scraped and he saved, To take one day the holiday he craved. But now he'll never be the same again, Since he took that holiday in Spain....
A Wur- ..uh, an actual farmer, apparently.
So, here we have it. Jacko, our protagonist. Hard-working, but apparently not high-earning. A lifetime of supermarkets driving prices down, rising veterinary bills, subsidies running out and attemps at diversification simply to stay afloat and provide for himself. As a farmer, he's battling recession, falling incomes, foot and mouth disease and declining prices for agricultural commodities. He's up against a succession of problems including BSE, swine fever, bovine tuberculosis and foot and mouth hampering the industries ability to export with consequent pressure on prices, which have dropped by 40% in recent years alone.
No wonder the poor guy needed a break.
But poor Jacko. Those long hours. Those years without any down time, scrimping and saving every penny have clearly taken a toll. While sunning himself on the beaches of Malaga or Benidorm, something in his brain just..pops.
You're looking for a topless sunbather in this photo, aren't you? Dirty boy.
Sing-along for the chorus, folks.
Oh-ho, make way for that Timsbury torero,
..wait. What? Timsbury? That's bloody 13 miles away from Shepton Mallet.
Now the boys in the village all think it's very queer, The way that Jacko drinks wine instead of beer; And they say he swapped his favourite cider jar For a bottle of sherry and a thirty-bob guitar!
Geetar.
So here's Jacko. Back home in the mud and sludge and grey skies of Shepton Mallet, a place best known for it's beautiful Market Cross, being the place where Babycham was born and the fact that it's residents spent much of the 18th century rioting, for one reason or another.
The first signs of his fractured mind are already beginning to show - wine instead of beer, well, ok. Probably not that big a clue, plenty of men of a certain age suddenly make the switch from Hobgoblin and Carling to a lovely Vega Sicilia and talking about "good acidity that blends well with the tannins", whatever that's supposed to mean.
Yes. It's..definitely wine. Red wine, in fact.
As well as his drinking preferences changing, he's also picked up a guitar. Not the end of the world if you're a teenager, probably, but if you haven't touched a guitar much before the age of thirty, and then suddenly do..it sort of screams 'mid-life crisis'. Does Jacko feel his life has passed him by? Is he looking desperately to do all those things he missed out on in his youth, while he was mucking out cows and wringing the necks of chickens?
It's possible.
His friends reaction?
"Very queer."
Nice one, "friends".
Chorus goes here.
Now the pigs and chickens are diggin' up the dirt, When Jacko comes wavin' his old red flannel shirt; And he's always chasin' round the old red cow, 'Cos he thinks that he's a real bullfighter now!
Ah. Alright. So now Jacko, was previously reasonably well-adjusted farmer who has spent much of his life doing normal farmer-y things. Now, all of a sudden he's standing in his fields waving a red shirt around and trying to coax the animals into a bullfight - even going as far as to chase around after a cow. Which, by the way, isn't the same as a bull.
For the love of.. look. Do you SEE horns on my head? I'm a cow. Now go away.
Clearly, this is not the behaviour of a normal person. Even the most liberal of us would probably have problems classing this as the behaviour of a sane man. Perhaps he's had enough - perhaps he's going for suicide by cow. Perhaps he genuinely believes himself to be toreador. Perhaps someone needs to get him to his GP pronto, and get some drugs into the poor guy.
All stand for the chorus.
Now on the farm when you hear hoots and howls, It's Jacko playin' Flamenco with the fowls And every time he clicks those castanets, Instead of eggs, the hens lay omelettes!
An omelette. Looking like something you'd find on the pavement outside your local 'spoons on a Friday night.
Is our Jacko displaying hitherto unknown traits of being a lay psychologist? Pretty much everyone has heard of Pavlov, that Russian guy who liked to make dogs dribble by ringing bells at them and not feeding them. Sounds as if, in his (apparently brilliant) madness, Jacko has taken it upon himself to train his chickens to lay when he clicks a pair of castanets.
..except they're not laying eggs. They're laying omelettes. Which are, by the way, disgusting things. All rubbery and floppy and eggy. Vile.
Presuming that they aren't actually laying omelettes, which would take some doing (unless the chickens are roosting above frying pans on a hotplate, and have also been taught how to lay peppers and mushrooms. Or, I suppose Jacko could have genetically modified the hens so they were able to lay a number of traditional omelette fillings, such as ham, cheese, onions, prawns and herbs, by cross-breeding the chickens with mutant strains of cows, fish and plants in a secret laboratory in hi- .. Alright, look, the omelette is definitely a metaphor, ok?), I'm guessing this means the eggs the chicks are laying are abnormal.
Abnormal eggs: The Phantom Menace
Why would a hen lay an abnormal egg?
Well, according to a website I just looked at, problems with eggs can be caused by anything from sudden shocks to the hens to illness, malnutrition, infection diseases and a lack of vaccination. So while Jacko's busy trying to goad his cow into a fight, he's neglecting his hens. Let's hope someones got the RSPCA on speed dial.
Heeere's the chorus. Twice.
Now the farmer's missus went wild with delight When Jacko serenaded her last night, And the farmer stopped him singin' Ceilito Lindo With a bucket of summat he threw from a bedroom window!
And here's Jacko, roaming the streets in the middle of the night, trespassing on other people's homes and making a clearly inappropriate play for a married woman.
Dressed as a matador.
While singing a 19th century Mexican love song. Clearly he's not only suffering from some extreme identity issues, his musical history knowledge isn't that great, either.
In her home.
In the middle of the night.
While her husband is in bed.
With her.
She might've gone wild with delight, but if the only thing that Jacko got out of that was a 'bucket of summat', he was a lucky man. Most farmers have guns, for goodness sake.
Bucket of summat. Still preferable to a shotgun to the face, though.
There is, of course, an alternative theory that this entire last verse is a metaphor - the farmers missus representing women in general, expected by society to be receptive to any and all approaches by men. The farmer represents society as a whole, who, confronted by someone clearly in need of assistance, unwell and acting inappropriately feels the need to..well..throw things at him, mock him - fearful and aware of it's own fragile sanity.
And rather than face the sickness in our own society, we throw both metaphorical, and literal - crap at it, and hope it'll just go away.
Ladies and gentlemen, to play us out as you digest the majesty of this blog entry, I give you...
London has Margate, and Bristol has Weston-super-Mare, a Victorian seaside resort that still brings in high-profile tourists, including Rich and Eddie from Bottom who famously holidayed there.
Weston-super-M-a-a-a-re!
Richie: Weston-super-mare, eh? Weston-super-mare. [forearm gesture]
Eddie: No, you've lost me there.
Richie: Come on... Weston-super-ma-a-a-are! [forearm gesture, pelvic thrust] Hey, I'll tell you what me old pal, I had some bloody narrow squeaks in Weston-super-mare.
In 1988 the Wurzels released ‘Sunny Weston-Super-Mare’ as a vinyl single on the ‘Far End’ record label. The title track was written and arranged by Pete Budd and it was produced as a promotional item for the Weston-Super-Mare tourist board - not that Weston needs any promotion, of course.
The tune was taken from a little-known German folk song (‘Das Humbta Tatara’) It came in a picture sleeve showing a cartoon seaside scene with donkeys on the beach, sandcastles and the pier. The reverse of the sleeve has the lyrics to the song – allowing fans to sing along as they listened to the instrumental version of the song which appeared on the ‘b' side. A sort of fore-runner to Karaoke, but better, since the Wurzels are involved, and therefore it is awesome.
But while on the surface, this is a song about a lovely seaside resort full of fish n' chips, piers, buckets, spades and arcades, as with all Wurzel songs there is a deeper meaning behind the lyrics, highlighting the plight of Britain's hard-working farmers, and the pressures facing the industry. As always, the lyrics are as relevant today as they were then.
Farming is srs bsns.
So, let's take a closer look, shall we?
I packed me bags and left the farm/I packed it up for sure/I swore I’d never drive/A tractor anymore.
If you're not from a rural area, it's doubtful you've ever looked a farmer in the face. Farms are huge parcels of land that have generally been in families for generation after generation. There is huge pressure on those families to keep the farms in the family - no-one wants to be the one who breaks hundreds of years of family history and many young people are find themselves pressured into a career, and taking on the huge responsibility of running and owning the land, while secretly harbouring desires to open up a shop selling jewelery made out of macaroni and beads to people with more money than sense.
Why not accessorise with something that could also be your lunch?
But those who are strong enough to turn their backs on the family farm often find themselves shunned, or held in contempt:
Old Mother said ”Thee’se must be mad”/As I walked out the door/And Father shouted – “Lazy lout!/Don’t come back no more”.
In this song, our brave individual has successfully ignored family pressure, turned his back on farmer and headed:
Off to sunny Weston-Super-Mare, Super-Mare, Super-Mare/I’m off to sunny Weston-Super-Mare/They say you’ll always find a welcome way down there.
Sunny Weston-Super-Mare
Our brave hero arrives at his chosen location, musing on what he's left behind and still struggling to justify his decision to walk away from farming. Studies have shown that many farmers who give up their farms fear losing power, control and their identities.
A typical West Country farmer
A farmer’s life is very good/As people often say/Lots of clean fresh air/And cider every day
And yet, he knows farming isn't for him:
But when the harvest time comes around/The sun it dries your lips/I’d sooner lay upon the beach/And eat me fish and chips.
Mmm. Yummy.
Having wrestled with his conscious a little further, the former-farmer's resolve strengthens and he begins to compare his knew life, with what he has left behind - the hard life of the farmer in a role he has never wanted.
I’d longed to walk a golden beach/Where shady palm trees grow/Forget that muckin’ out/And no more fields to mow
..clearly, the long hours working in the field and the stress of his decision has affected his mind, as Weston-super-Mare is not particularly well-known for it's shady palm trees, nor it's golden beach, as much as it's pier and grey water.
Palm trees and golden sands at Weston
The icy cold at winter time/That makes you freeze and shake/I’ve left it all behind me/I’ve really made the break.
Ah, thankfully, the breakdown is only temporary, as he compares his new life to winter on the farm. When temperatures are dipping into the minuses, the last place you want to be is outdoors. And farmers are outdoors pretty much /all/ of the time, chasing animals and crops around a field, driving tractors and...ploughing and things. Probably. Look, I'm not a farmer, ok?
Another typical West Country farmer
If paradise is half as nice/Then, this is where I’ll stay/The farmyard’s far away/From this lovely sandy bay. I’ll walk along the promenade/Forget that country lane/Just write and tell the folks back home/I won’t be back again.
Ah, and there we go. The last doubt is finally cast from his mind, as head held high, our hero heads into the future. He knows what his decision will cost him, that he will most likely be excommunicated from his family, written out of the will and forever spoken about in hushed tones by the family who do dare to acknowledge he was once a part of his family.
For our hero however, the future is as exciting, bright and vibrant as the night-life in sunny Weston-super-Mare.
The Wurzels. I suggest you just accept them as your overlords and get on with it.
The Wurzels. Four cheeky chappies from Somerset. A novelty act. Scrumpy and Western Legends who like to crowbar animal noises and references to zider into every song.
But is there more to the west country warblers?
I am an unabashed Wurzel fan, and in listening to their songs over the years, I've come to the conclusion that beneath the laughter are darker observations of every day life in the West Country.
Their music tackles the thorny issues of immigration, mental illness, the cult of celebrity, bestiality, our failing educational system, and the collapse of family - in short, everything that a string of newspapers insist on calling 'Broken Britain'. Yet their wisdom has been largely ignored by more fashionable musical political commentators, like Billy '£1.5 million house' Bragg, 'really annoying' Bono and Bob Marley. (Yeah, I got nothing on him.)
No more.
In a career spanning more than 40 years, the 'farmyard four', as they are known by their legion of screaming fans, have used novelty songs to shine a spotlight on the darkest parts of society and been wrongly dismissed as a harmless novelty act.
The group has used music to tell stories of the social injustices carried out on rural societies across the UK and I intend to use this blog to celebrate it.
The Wisdom of the Wurzels has been ignored for too long. I intend to put that right, or die trying.
I noticed something some time back and I have been thinking about it quite
a lot lately. You know how the first time you go somewhere when the path is
new ...
