Linguistic

A treat on a weekly basis on UK digital radio are the broadcasts of Round the Horne, a much loved series from the 1960's. 

Amongst the great characters is Rumbling Syd Rumpo, a country bumpkin folk singer with many a tale to tell of goings on amongst the meadows and byres of rural England. The perfect delivery of the comic songs written by the main writers of RTH, Marty Feldman and Barry Took is from Kenneth Williams, the master of different voices and innuendo. 

Undoubtedly Williams will have added to the classic material in his unique ad-lib style as well as being credited as creator.

 Here are just three of his back catalogue from which you should get the themes and ideas of Syd's vocal and lyrical monologues. 

                                            The Ballad of the Wogglers Mooly

Joe, he was a young cordwangler, Munging greebles he did go, And he loved a bogler's daughter By the name of Chiswick Flo. Vain she was and like a grusset Though her gander parts were fine, But she sneered at his cordwangle As it hung upon the line. So he stole a woggler's mooly For to make a wedding ring, But the Bow Street Runners caught him And the judge said "He will swing." Oh, they hung him by the postern, Nailed his mooly to the fence For to warn all young cordwanglers That it was a grave offence. There's a moral to this story, Though your cordwangle be poor, Keep your hands off other's moolies, For it is against the law.

Green Grow my nadgers, oh

 I'll sing you one O,
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your one O?
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.

I'll sing you two O,
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your two O?
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.

I'll sing you three O,
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your three oh?
Three are the times I've lunged my groats,
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.

I'll sing you four O,
Green grow my nadgers O!
Audience: What is your four O?
Four's my wurdler's bent O,
Three are the times I've lunged my groats,
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, masking my cordwangle.

I'll sing you five O,
Green grow my nadgers O!

Audience: What is your five O?
Five are the woglers up my spong,
Four for my wurdler's bent O,
Three are the times I've lunged my groats,
Two are me loominthrumbs, see how they jangle,
One's the grunge upon my splod, it's ruined my cordwangle:
Wa-a-angle

THE BLACK GRUNGER OF HOUNSLOW [Spoken] The mood changes as I sing you an eery song, so spine-chilling that it'll make the bogles on your posset stand on end. It is the story of a bold highwayman called the Black Grunger of Hounslow and his exploits. Oh, list while I sing of a highwayman bold; His feats were remarkable, so we are told: He'd wurdle the ladies and scrope all the men, Then he'd straddle his nadger and ride off again. Prooraloo, prooralay, Singing, fiddle me grummets and scrumple me plume. They caught him and hung him from Old Tyburn Tree, But ere the note screebled, his gherka quoth he: "If I had my time to live over again, I'd scrope all the ladies and wurdle the men." Prooraloo, prooralay, Singing, fiddle me grummets and scrumple me plume. [Spoken] However, they strung him and his horse up, and they do say as how his ghost rides abroad even to this day, haunting the place where he once straddled his nadger so gaily. Only unfortunately they built a supermarket on the site, and on early-closing day his wraith can be seen a-gallopin', gallopin' along the bacon counter... and... and manifestin' itself... behind the crystallized fruits... And as he gallops, he sings: My tale it is ended, my song it is sung, As me and my horse, we have both been well hung; And as I'm a phantom my only recourse Is to scrope by myself and to wurdle my horse. Prooralay, prooralah, Singing, fiddle me grummets and scrumple me plu-u-ume.