One Georgie Orwell: The Songs

One Georgie Orwell: all lyrics by Peter Cordwell

Music: Carl Picton, except Tramps Nightclub, Bill Crow

Tramps Nightclub

Music by Bill Crow

We wait till six for the spike to open
Knackered souls all across the green
Careful mate don’t get too close
You never know where they have been

Cells measure eight by five
Beds a narrow wooden shelf
Cotton blankets against the cold
You can’t even abuse yourself

But Eric could have been at the Henley Regatta
Instead of thinking poor people matter
Eric could have been at the Hen-ley Regatta

Heading for the fields of Kent
‘Hopping’ with the Cockney crew
They call it a working holiday
Cheap labour to me and you!

Curtains flick from side to side
As they walk the leafy lanes
One or two will come to say
George Orwell once passed this way!

But Eric could have been at the Henley Regatta
Instead of thinking poor people matter
Eric could have been at the Hen-ley Regatta

Hop the train back to London Bridge
Eric, Scotty, Nobby and Ross
Too late for the Kennington kip
But there’s always somewhere else to doss

Broke in Trafalgar Square
Not a glance from passers-by
But there’s always a copper to move you on!
As Nelson turns his one good eye

But Eric could have been at the Henley Regatta
Instead of thinking poor people matter
Eric could have been at the Hen-ley Regatta

There’s really nothing left to say
Nothing to shout about
No woman gives you a second look
’Specially when you’re down and out

But Eric could have been at the Henley Regatta
Instead of thinking poor people matter
Eric could have been at the Hen-ley Regatta

Possible extra verse, early on…

Everyone was stripped and searched
‘Who d’you think you’re trying to kid?’
Says the burly tramp major, who’s standing there
With your very last coupla quid

Southwold Morning View

Music by Carl Picton

His name was Eric Blair
But the likeness stops right there
His words could all be trusted
And his mind was always fair

Oh-oh-oh… a Southwold morning view
I’d like to take a Southwold walk with you

While others kept their distance
He went down and out
He walked with tramps and drifters
In the depths of London town

Oh-oh-oh… Southwold morning view
I’d like to take a Southwold walk with you
And the truth is in the words
And the words speak stark and plain
And sometimes they are gorgeous
And they speak to heart and head

Don’t ask me what that truth is
‘Cause I can’t explain it here
I only know when it’s spoken
You can hear it crystal clear
Crystal clear…
He went to do his calling
In the Spanish Civil War
Fighting for his ideals
In the piss
And shit
And the cold

And later in the story the Eton boy went north
Where he made it to the coalface
And he joined them in their work

Then maybe 10 years later
He wrote Nineteen Eighty-Four
Well, I wonder what he’d write now
In this world full of hatred
This world full of war…

Oh-oh-oh Southwold morning view
I’d like to take a Southwold walk with you

Coming Up For Air

George Bowling got up and went
As far as his petrol tank
Searching for pastures clear
And lukewarm beer

He thinks as he drives alone
Where have my best years gone?
The world goes on passing by
And George carries on

Where’s it from?
This whim that drives us on?
And our hearts know when
Our soul is coming up for air

He heads for his childhood town
And wonders what it’s like now
He pulls in and drives along
To his secret pond

The town pond is now the dump
The fish and the newts are gone
He smiles as he turns around
To the war to come

Where’s it from?
This whim that drives us on
And our hearts know when
Our soul is coming up for air

The green trees and the wildflowers and the sky
And the churchyard and the spire
And the river runs nearby
And it takes you deep inside
Coming up for air

George had a sweet left foot
Could pick out a pass and shoot
But he passed on the call from Spurs
For the his and hers

Where’s it from?
This whim that drives us on
And our hearts know when
Our soul is coming up for air
Coming on up for air
Coming on up for air
Coming on up for air…

400 Hundred Yards Down

Four hundred yards down
It’s darker than we’ve ever seen
It’s deeper than we’ll ever be
So let’s sit here nice and warm
We’ll sit here by the fireside here
And watch the steel-bellied miners go

Four hundred yards down
And really that is just the start
There’s still another mile to go
And their works the idiot child
Thatcher will never know

It’s four hundred yards down
It’s four hundred yards down
It’s four hundred miles down

Boys followed dads down
They’re heading for the nearest shaft
They won’t get home till after dark
When they’ll kick a ball about
Hoping that there’s just a chance
They’ll make it to St. James’s park

Four hundred yards down
The heat and noise and dirt and dust
Is something they can never trust
Try working just one day
Mining the hardest vein

How could anybody ruin such people?
How could anybody run down their lives?
How could anyone destroy their communities?
How could they tell such lies?

It’s four hundred yards down
The shift last seven hours or more
Half naked in the dirt and soil
There’s no time to sit and rest
Ten minutes p’haps for tea and scram
By the feeble light of a Davy Lamp

Four hundred yards above
The rumours spreading thick and fast
The boys are trapped by a pithead blast
Press cameras snap their souls
Eyes open but head held low

How could anybody ruin such people?
How could anybody run down their lives?
How could anyone destroy their communities?
How could they tell such lies?
How could anybody ruin such people?
How could anybody run down their lives?
How could anyone destroy their communities?
How could they tell such lies?

Some things are not right
Some things are not right
Some things are not right

Roadsweeper

Roadsweeper!
Roadsweeper!
Roadsweeper!
Oi! Oi!

Do you get what you are worth, roadsweeper?
For cleaning your piece of earth, do they pay ya?
Enough for your Sunday best? Or retrain ya?
Give you a new name, new job, more road
Less wedge!

Oh, night nurse!
Oh, night nurse!
Oh, night nurse!
Oi! Oi!

They call you “angel”, oh night nurse
But it’s all just an angle to keep ya
Tending the sick n lame for peanuts
Sayin’ it aint our fault, it’s the market force to blame

Oh teacher!
Oh teacher!
Oh teacher!
Oi! Oi!

Will they ever learn, oh teacher?
Take on a nation’s kids in a million schools
Toe the old Ofsted line and keep ‘em down!
You’re still slaving for a system run by fools

Oh fireman!
Oh fireman!
Oh fireman!
Oi! Oi!

You can go to blazes, oh fireman?
Keep you up at night do they call ya
A hero of the flames and then mug ya
Saying it’s a job worth more than the pay!

Oh miners!
Oh miners!
Oh miners!
Oi! Oi!

Where the hell have you gone, oh miners?
What the fuck’s going on?
Do they see ya as dignified and brave then erase ya
Like a stain on their green and pleasant land!

Oh bankers!
Oh bankers!
Oh bankers!
Oi! Oi!

Don’t you ever say, oh bankers
That you’re the people’s friends, ‘cause we see ya, we know ya,
We know where it all ends and we despise ya
‘Cause you’re the lowest form of human being today!

Roadsweeper!
Roadsweeper!
Roadsweeper!
Oi oi oi!

Gordon Comstock

Dusty bookshop, Orwell sets the scene
Gordon Comstock, adrift without a bean
Our copy writer thinks it’s all beneath him
Just a scheme

Takes on serious money, counts the cost
The money god v. Our little boy lost
Gordon fought but somehow knew
They’d always take the lot

But the mundane life, it’s not for Gordon
All the petty lies, the waste, the boredom
A life spent on nothing more than their
Precious aspidistras

Gordon found a way out of his pain
A lovely girl, Rosemary was her name
But Gordon made a mess of that
He didn’t know when to wait

But the mundane life, it’s not for Gordon
All the petty lies, the waste, the boredom
A life spent on nothing more than their
Precious aspidistras

Come on gordon, move on, don’t stop
There’s no time to waste
The lovely Rosemary’s
Waiting for her mate!

Still the mundane life was not for Gordon
All the petty lies, the waste, the boredom
A life spent on nothing more than their
Precious aspidistras

Gordon finally got the things he needs
He married Rosemary on Albion Street
And soon they’ll hear the lovely sound
Of tiny, tiny feet!

Well done, Gordon! You moved on, didn’t stop
There’s no time to waste
Now the aspidistra’s standing in its space
Taking pride of place

Boxer’s Blues

Snowball took in every word
To succeed the dying Major
While the pigs plotted exile in shame
With vicious gossip and rumour

Napoleon it was who led the evil way
Promising more of the same
But all the time he always meant
To play that political game

He didn’t own the Daily Mail
So he left all the lies to Squealer
Funny how there’s always a faithful friend
For every double dealer

Boxer worked as hard as a horse
He knew no other way
He didn’t know the knackers yard
Was the price he’d have to pay

And it’s all for one
and one for all
come all ye sisters and brothers
But look out for the ones
The ones who will always be
a little bit more equal than you or me!!

Winter came and stayed
With failed crops and blocked up drains
There was never enough food to eat
But always Snowball to blame

Boxer worked on the windmill
When he received the fatal blow
The pigs took him to a secret place
But knew exactly where to go

He loved to work as hard as a horse
He knew no other way
He didn’t know the knackers yard
Was the price he’d have to pay

Spying the pigs with Farmer Jones
They could hardly believe their eyes
They all stood in shock ‘n’ awe
Then, at last, they realised…

It’s all for one
And one for all
come all ye sisters and brothers
But look out for the ones
The ones who will always be…
…a little bit more equal than you or me!

Grouchy Marxist

Well, you ponder this and you ponder that
You always love to pontificate
And it’s funny how you’re never there
When there’s other ideas in the air

You say okay, so they practised torture
But you’ve got to see the wider picture

Well, you looked and listened but never believed
When Kruschev finally spilled the beans
You told yourself and everyone else
How you only had to justify the means

You say, okay so they paid informers
But sometimes you gotta cut some corners

You grouchy Marxist
Don’t you love to discuss
As long as no-one mentions truth
As long as no-one turns up
To introduce the truth to you

Well, Stalin murdered like Hitler did
And the bodies of the brave were hid
And the trials that followed were just for show
Yet still you call him “Uncle Joe”

You say okay so we hired liars
And sometimes you gotta just fetch the pliers!

You grouchy Marxist
Don’t you love to discuss
As long as no-one mentions truth
As long as no-one turns up
To introduce the truth to you

Well, you called a quorum in a comrade’s room
And you all agreed to agree too soon
And by five past nine you found the line
And laughed at the same line every time

You grouchy Marxist
Don’t you love to discuss
As long as no-one mentions truth
As long as no-one turns up
To introduce the truth to you

(slowly)
Well, even now you’d make the case
For secrets kept in a secret place
And raise your hand for pain and fear
And making people disappear

You say okay so they practised torture
But you’ve got to see the wider picture
And if i might be allowed to say
We could always meet at……Guantanamo Bay.

Nineteen Eighty-Four

It was there at St. Cyprians
And he saw it in the Public Schools
And he saw it in the eyes of people
Where the British empire ruled

He saw it and he learned it
Like two and two make four
He saw it and he saved it
For Nineteen Eighty-Four

And it was there
In the towns up north
And he saw it in the East End slums
And he saw it on the country roads
That he walked along
With the tramps and the hobos

He saw it and he learned it
Like two and two make four
He saw it and he saved it
For Nineteen Eighty-Four

And it was there in the Spanish War
And he saw it in the miners’ eyes
And he saw it in the poorest
He saw through Stalin’s lies

He saw it and he learned it
Like two and two make four
He saw it and he saved it
For Nineteen Eighty-Four

And it was there
In the towns up north
And he saw it in the east end slums
And he saw it on the country roads
That he walked along
With the tramps and the hobos

He saw it and he learned it
Like two and two make four
He saw it and he saved it
For Nineteen Eighty-Four

One Georgie Orwell
One Georgie Orwell
There’s only one Georgie Orwell!

One Georgie Orwell

Lyrics by Peter Cordwell

Music by Carl Picton and Bill Crow

Book by Peter Cordwell

Photographs of the original performance of One Georgie Orwell at the Greenwich Theatre by Peter Cordwell and Bill Crow. Our thanks to them.

Peter Cordwell grants permission to anyone wishing to perform or otherwise make use of the songs he wrote and composed for One Georgie Orwell in all media worldwide free of charge provided they include an acknowledgement that he originated the material in their performance or work.

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The script to One Georgie Orwell is available from Peter directly, free of charge, at pcordwell08@gmail.com.