Disaster for Scotland

Disaster for Scotland

The Satirical Songs of Jim Malcolm

  1. Budgie
  2. The Prodigal Son
  3. Cleaning Out My Moat
  4. Fishing Song
  5. Grimsby
  6. Rambo
  7. Hurtin’ in Berlin
  8. The Party
  9. Death’s Sickle
  10. Scotch Whisky and German Beer
  11. Sixteen Buns
  12. Short and Fat
  13. Nights That I’ve Sat In
  14. Sweet Home Caledonia


Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS
(Cludgie is a Scots word for a toilet.)

Today I flushed my budgie down the cludgie,
I found him at the bottom of his cage,
My poor wee budgerigar died broken-hearted,
His plastic pal got out and flew away.

I left them both to go down to the chippie,
The Magic Roundabout was on TV,
His plastic pal was wibblin’ and a wobblin’,
But I guess he must have done a Zebedee.

I rushed out to the pet shop for a replacement,
There wasn’t that much difference old or new,
But when you’ve spent your life with just the one particular piece of plastic,
No other piece of plastic’s gonna do.

I’ll tell you why I flushed him down the cludgie,
There’s no gardens here on floor number twenty three,
The only place that I’ve got is my window box,
But that’s already a hamster cemetery.

So as I wracked my brain to search for something fitting,
The proper thing to do occurred to me,
Since he was willed to me from Davie in the navy,
I reckoned I should bury him at sea.

So today I flushed my budgie down the cludgie,
Wrapped in a Union Jack I’d saved since the Jubilee,
So if you see him floating on the water,
Salute the saddest little fellow next to me.

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The Prodigal Son
Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS

Well I’ve mooched around this country,
From shore to shining shore,
In a pair of brogues that are gien’ ma feet
regular jip,
And a tattoo saying ‘Leith Docks Nora’.

I’ve had my share of gainful employment,
I have worked for butcher and baker,
I’ve even dipped wicks for a hippy dippy,
Kirkintilloch candlestick maker.

But before all this I was a regular adolescent,
First son of a lottery winner from Strathblane,
But I fell for an older woman called Stella Geddes,
Who was looking for gold and a villa in Spain.

I met her at a mate of mine’s party,
She had a reputation as a tease queen,
She latched on to me, I was rich and gullible,
She was the best thing I had ever seen.

I lost all sense of foresight in her pitch black underwear,
In exchange for some education in my pants,
Whilst I was making love with premature
Her lawyer boyfriend was working like ants.
She was golddigging for my inheritance,
She hit the motherload but my faither wouldn’t pay,
He said: “If you wanna stay rich you’ve gotta give up chasing that bitch,
Find a rich girl or choose celibacy.”

But I was too green for advice of this quality,
And I was itching to do something real stupid,
So I stole my dad’s Audi, married Stella in Gretna,
Whilst Sam Cook on the radio played Cupid:

Cupid draw back your bow
And let your arrow flow,
Straight to my lover’s heart, For me.
Cupid, lend me a hand and let your arrow land
Straight through my lover’s heart, For me.

Well if our honeymoon was little more than a dirty weekend,
Our welcome home it sure did outshine,
Back home in my faither’s little empire,
I was no longer next in line.

I was gonna be rich just for popping first out of the womb,
But I was too stupid to be my faither’s favourite son,
He kicked me out on the street, pulled the silver spoon out my smile,
And where once I had all I now had none.

Well I was ready to live on love alone,
But for Stella this diet was way short on
She didn’t need a spoiled kid, whose prospects had just slid,
To the depths of her own grim ambition.
Realising I lacked the drive to be a self-made man,
She disappeared without even a ‘So long.’
And I was out on the street, 200-quid brogues on my feet,
Without even loose change to stick new soles on.
And for three long years I’ve travelled up and down this road,
And many things I have tried but never
Now I’m goin’ back to my folks to scrounge a few quid,
So I can go out and get myself plastered.

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Cleaning Out My Moat
Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS

I can’t fly to London,
Because I’m cleaning out my moat,
Can’t spend the day in St Tropez,
Too busy cleaning out my moat.

Cleaning out my moat
It really gets my goat,
Wish I was an MP like Douglas Hogg,
When he got the taxman to pay for the job,
While I’m just standing here up to my arse in frogs,
Cleaning out my moat.

Can’t go shooting with Sir Fred Goodwin,
Cause I’m cleaning out my moat,
Too much scum when the algae’s blooming
Cleaning out my moat.

Can’t send flowers to Margaret Thatcher,
Cause I’m cleaning out my moat,
When David got in she was filled with rapture,
Cleaning out my moat.

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Fishing song
Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS

Well I love to go fishing, though I don’t like to carp,
My hooks they are wriggly and my worms they are sharp,
But don’t go expecting some fish for your tea,
Cause I think there’s a curse that hangs over me:

Sometimes too early, sometimes too late,
Sometimes no water, sometimes in spate,
Sometimes too dirty, sometimes too clear,

There’s aye something wrong, when I’m fishing here

Well I like to go fishing, it’s good for the sole,
Give me a river and a big fishing pole,
But don’t go out buying a salmon mousse mould,
Cause the only thing I ever catch is a cold.

Well I quite like going fishing,
Though I’m starting to flounder,
I dream every night of a big thirty pounder,
Though I’m down at the river every hour I can steal
It’s still the fishmonger that fills up my creel.

Well I’ve given up fishing, I fair lost the plaice,
Coming home empty-handed no more could I face,
But I’m not that excited with my new sporting role,
Cause the stupid wee golf ball won’t drop down the hole.

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Words Penman & Malcolm; Music Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS

Didn’t find it very clever,
Living on the never never,
I reached the end of my short tether,
Headed out like hell for leather,
Got a map out, stuck a pin,
Just my luck I landed in

Stole aboard a fishin’ boat,
Swam ashore at John O’Groats,
Sold a tramp my sodden coat,
Caught the bus back down the road,
But cupid he was bad to me,
I fell in love with Jenny Lee
In Dundee.

She told me that her dad was rich,
The lying little East coast bitch,
A dirty trick to get me hitched,
I found out soon and she was ditched,
But she kicked up a song and dance,
I headed off to Paris, France,
Paris, France.

One day whilst walking by the Seine
A light came on in my dull brain,
I robbed a tug of its morphine,
Sold the junk and caught a train,
Began to think my luck was changing,
Road first class to Munich station.

There I stole a Panzer tank,
And drove it through the Bundesbank,
I took the money, said my thanks,
In celebration drank and drank.

But now I’m in a hellish mess,
I’m doing more time than Rudolph Hess,
Cause I was picked up in the docks,
Wearing just a pair of socks,

And I wish I was in Grimsby
Take me back to Grimsby,
Lovely old Grimsby,
Sun, sea, sand, seagulls, seagull shit

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Music: Anderson, Andersson & Ulvaeus; Words Penman & Malcolm

Well I’ve just been clocked by Rambo,
He smacked me in the larynx with four feet of green bamboo,
I’ve just been clocked by Rambo,
He seems to have a nasty grudge against CCCP,
But with several thousand million commies in the world,
Why did he have to go and pick on me?

Well I hate those yankee heroes,
They’re forever turning up in places we get forced to be,
I said “It’s quiet tonight, eh Boris?
In a thousand miles around there is no sign of enemy,”
Well that’s just the sort of stupid thing to say,
To guarantee that Rambo would appear.

There was something in the air that night,
That smelt not right, John Rambo,
He came creeping up on poor old me, so
John Rambo,
It’s enough to turn a comrade to booze, just to forget,
That he’s still creeping around out there, and god knows where,
John Rambo.
We’d just polished off some sausage,
Some high percentage vodka of the finest
You see it was my birthday,
My comrades passed the cap round and
purchased me Wrangler jeans,
I was dancing on the table tops and thinking of those,
Fiddler on the Roof type dancing scenes.

Like Ronald Reagan with an IQ of three,
Who drops from trees,
John Rambo.

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Hurtin’ in Berlin
Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS

I’ve been right round the football world,
Wherever Pele’s hailed as king,
I’ve been deep down in Argentina,
Maradona made them sing,
I crossed over to Cameroon,
And Roger Miller made me smile,
I saw eight goals in Tokyo ,
When Ronaldo put on the style.

But now I’m over in Germany,
But I don’t know for how long,
The boys are playing so bad,
It seems like everything’s gone wrong.
Sure is pretty in Germany,
I’ve got a nice hotel in town,
The flowers are blooming in Brandenburg,
But oh no, we’re two nil down.
And I’m hurtin’ in Berlin.

I love Berlin,

It’s a beautiful city,
But you don’t get to stay
When your passing is schisa,
I love Berlin,
Das freulines ich liebe
But you don’t get to stay,
When your sweeper has a weeper.

And I’m hurtin’ in Berlin.

I’ve been over in Munich,
Where they toast to Kaiser Franz,
I broke free up in Gay Paris,
Brother Zidane made them dance.
I slipped over to Barcelona,
The Azzurri stole the show,
In London they love Sir Bobby Moore,
In Glasgow, Kenny of course.

Now I’m over in Germany,
But I’m running out of time,
The boys are three nil down,
And it’s a mountain they can’t climb.
Sure is pretty in Germany,
Wherever through Deutschland I roam,
The birds are singing in Brandenberg
But I’m the one flying home,

And I’m hurtin’ in Berlin.

I love Berlin,
There are wonderful sights there,
But you don’t get to stay,
When your strike pair has a nightmare,
I love Berlin,
Next time you can show me,
Cause you don’t get to stay,
When your goalie’s lost controlly,

And I’m hurtin in Berlin.

The crowd are invading the pitch,
They think it’s all over.
It is now.

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The Party
Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS

Well I tanned my faither’s whisky,
When he went away on holiday,
Oatcakes, my mother’s sherry,
She got frae Jean in Broughty Ferry,
And then I threw a party,
But you should have seen the carpet,
Knew my ma would have a hairy fit,
Time for a sharp exit.

I thought I’d join the Foreign Legion,

Just to get me oot the region,
But I didn’t have a passport,
And my sister wouldn’t hold the fort.

Why did I throw another party?

I was the victim of flattery,
My mates said my party was the best,
Could they come back and drink the
booze that’s left?

Word spread around the neighbourhood,

Soon every room was full of drunken youths,

Along came the local skinheads,
Docs bouncing up on my ma’s Slumberland bed.

The gay abandon of the mindless few,
Put courage in the others too,

Soon all the things they wouldn’t do at home,
Surged over like the brimy, brimy foam.

Thank goodness for the boys in blue,

My sister phoned them when they smashed the loo,

Soon all the underage drinkers,

Were diving oot the kitchen windows.

And very soon I found I was alone,
In the middle of a battlezone,
My sister’s picking through the rubble,

Calculating my trouble.

I filled a trolly full at B&Q,

But the mess was beyond paint and glue,

The lovely home that was my mother’s pride,
I had damaged more than I could possibly hide.
My sister’s sitting in her bedroom,

Waiting for the folks to come home,
She wants to see me getting slaughtered,

She is the goody goody daughter.

She says I’ll have to face the music,
I wasn’t worried about the music,
I was feart to get a doing,
My faither’s size 10 shoe in.
I even phoned up the Samaritans
But they just told me:
“Tell it as it stands.”

So now I brace myself for aggro,
From my suntanned daddio.

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Death’s Sickle
Words: Stephen Penman; Music:Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS

I was half awake, half asleep,
Cupped in a rusty dawn,
When the telltale smell of hob from hell,
Oozed through the waving corn.

I tried to move but a cloven hoof,
Pinned me to the leaf-strewn ground,
And his good friend Death, through stinking breath,
Cried: “Look what Beebob’s found.”

I had two things I could fight them with,
That I hoped might save my life,
One was the thorn Androclese hard torn,
The other was a magical knife.

I stuck the barb in the devil’s hoof,
He screamed like a pig being slayed,
Then a quick sword fight through the morning light,
Death’s sickle and my Merlin’s blade.

Death’s sickle goes …
Merlin’s blade goes …

Well I won that fight in the morning light,
I tell you it’s the truth,
Underneath my vest, tattooed to my chest,
Is the imprint of a cloven hoof.

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Scotch Whisky and German Beer
Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS

I come from the Isle of Skye,
But life hasn’t passed me by,
I’ve travelled the world of booze,
But this is the booze I choose.

Scotch whisky and German beer,
Your comfort has cost me dear,
But from you I’ll never veer,
Scotch whisky and German beer.

I come from the Isle of Mull,
But life it has not been dull,
Around the whole world I’d trek,
But only for Haake Beck.

I come from the Isle of Rhum,
But rum is for pirate scum,
Scotch whisky will cure all ills,
Washed down with good German Pils.

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Sixteen Buns
Music: Merle Travis; Words: Penman & Malcolm MCPS/PRS

I’m an elephant I live in Edinburgh Zoo,
It’s a busy place a lot of hullaballoo,
I’m the star attraction, people bring me food,
But what these folks are giving me ain’t doing me good,

You eat sixteen buns and what do you get,
Chronic indigestion and a trip to the vet,
Zookeeper won’t you help me cause I can’t go,
Cause sixteen buns is far too much dough.

Well I’m a hippopotamus, I know how he feels,
Cause I’ve got a passion for orange peels,
People throw them at me just to see what I’ll do,
But all I can do is chew, chew, chew.

I’m a sealion and I like fish,
People throw them at me in a polythene dish,
I can’t get them open cause I’ve got no hands,
The haddock was tasty but the plastic was bland.

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Short and fat
Music: Antonio Carlos Jobim; Words: Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS

Short and fat wi’ a big beer belly,
The HP man’s just been to repossess ma telly,
And he’s comin’ back tomorrow,
For my three-piece suite and coffee table.

I’ve got half a dozen bar bills at the local boozer,
A debt wi the bookies cause I keep backin’ losers,
An’ the taxman’s gonna take me to the cleaners,
Just as soon as he is able.

Oh, and I owe a loan shark a lot of money,
Oh, he said “You’d better find it sonny,
Or I’ll cut your head open,
And make you all runny.”
And I’ve been done for drink driving too,
Then tryin’ to bribe an officer wi’ an IOU.

Lookin smug in his bonnet and his corporation tie
The gas man’s just been to disconnect my supply,
And he’s looking to get paid
For the heatin’ I was havin’ last year.

Oh, and I would like to flee the country,
But I flogged my passport to an on-the-run
convict from Fintry,
Then I blew every penny on the 3:15 at Aintree
And now the rent is six months overdue,
And the milkman’s gettin’ ready to sue.

In his big black Daimler and his Savile Row suit,
The loan shark and his gorilla came an’ geid me a cloot,
And now I’m havin’ a bed bath,
And the nurse says six months before I’m oot.

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Nights That I’ve Sat In
Composer: Justin Hayward ; Words: Penman & Malcolm

Nights that I’ve sat in
No’ goin’ oot tae the pub,
No’ havin’ the readies,
Is like a smack in the gub.
Wish I was richer,
I’d be out every night,
Womanising and drinking,
Getting into a fight.

Cause I’m pissed off …

Cashed this week’s dole check,
Got nothing left,
I’m bloody starvin’
But the cupboard’s bereft.
There’s nothing on tv,
I’m bored oot ma brains,
I’m nearly reduced to,
Goin’ out spottin’ trains.

Cause I’m pissed off …

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Sweet Home Caledonia
Music: Rossington, King and VanZant; Words: Jim Malcolm MCPS/PRS;

Big wheels keep on turning,
Carry me back to my blood,
Sweet home Caledonia,
Home of MacNoah since the flood.


Where the sun keeps on shining,
Even through the pissin’ rain,
If you don’t like the Scottish weather,
Why don’t you just fly off to Spain.

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