TACK-IN O’ TIN-TACKS

Now I went to get my shoes back from a funny little shop
Where two old cobblers sit and work and never never stop
The say their work is dangerous although they’re very keen
When I said to one, “Why dangerous?” he said, “This is what I mean:-
I’m a tacker in of tin-tacks in a shoe-shop
I’m a tic-tack tapper-inner from the South
And I have to earn me supper, so I’m tacking on an upper
And I’m holding all me tin-tacks in me mouth
And all day you’ll see me sitting in the window
With a hammer hitting tin-tacks on the knob
And if I miss I mustn’t hollar or a load of tacks I’ll swallar
And that’s the danger in a tic-tack tapper’s job.”



PAINTER O’ STICKY HUMBUGS

Now there’s a fellow down our street who’s like an artist in a way
And his hands get stained with yellow, green, and red paint very day
And all day long with brushes he puts colour in a job
Which keeps him very busy earning many an honest bob;
‘Cos he’s a painter on of stripes on sticky humbugs
He’s a sticky humbug striper, that’s his trade
As they pass along the benches from confectionary wenches
He paints on stripes that aren’t supposed to fade
But what’s the use of painting silly stripes on
With this I’m sure you’ll everyone agree
That the nipper’s like to try ‘em so they nip in shops and buy ‘em
And they wipe the stripes by sucking ‘em, to see.



AUNTIE WINNIE IN A TUPPENNY WEEKLY

Now since I’m back in civvy-street I’ve met a lot of men
Who were also in the Forces, now they’re back at work again
Some told me of the jobs they’d got but the strangest one I’ll wager
Is the one I’ve heard that’s been conferred on our old Sergeant Major,
He’s Auntie Winnie in the women’s tuppenny weekly
He’s the lady with the understanding heart
And the Sarg as Auntie Winnie reads a sad appeal from Minnie
For advice about her romance torn apart
So he gazes at his size eleven slippers
Drinks a tot of rum then sends her this reply
“I will help you never fear, with men, just do as I do, dear
Be kind and gentle and perhaps a little shy.”



SHOVELLER-UP O’ SHATTERED SHELTERS

Now although the war’s been over just a year ago last May
There are quite a lot of buildings that are eye-sores as they say
Well, a pal of mine has got a job that really is a treat
You can see him working hard where there are shelters in the street,
He’s a shoveller up of shattered shamble shelters
He’s a shattered shelter shoveller-up and yet
When he’s sees those cracks and fisures he comes over all ambitious
For another little job he’d like to get
And it’s a well paid job that calls for lots of courage
For to enter those dark shelters takes some pluck
And before he starts the bashing he warns courting couples mashing
‘Cos he don’t like damaged lovers on his truck.



TRUSSER-UP O’ TURKEYS

I’m what they calls a Trusserupperturkeys
A Turkeytrusserupperer, I be
I works late in December, an’ I’m a paid up member
Of the Turkeytrussers Union, you see
I never picks no fevvers - I should worry
That’s a different branch of industry, not arf
Of course, I ‘as a mate, provided by the State
(‘E’s wot they calls a ‘Supplimentary Starf’)
‘Is job is to ‘old the string. an’ pass the skewers
Nah an’ then ‘e makes a cuppa tea
By workin’ night an’ day, ‘E ‘opes to be, one day
A Turkeytrusserupperer, like me.



CUTTER-UP O’ CATSMEAT

I’m a Cutteruppercatsmeat in a cafe
Where they serve a “Special Lunch” fer two-an’-free
I cuts up chunks of ‘orse fer “Curried Beef” o’ course
An’ ‘Shepherds Pie” an’ “Sossige Meat” yer see
I started at the bottom cuttin’ rabbits
An’ arter years o’ study, got to pork
I sat fer me exams, an’ passed in cuttin’ ‘ams
An’ won a silver-’andled knife-an’-fork
I claims to be the King of Cutteruppers
An’ when that big new whalin’ vessel sails
I’ll be right there on board, bein’ treated like a lord
The Super-Champion Cutterupper Whales.



FLIPPER-UP O’ FLAP-JACKS

I’m a Flipperupper Flap-Jacks in a factory
I flips the flippin’ flap-jacks in the air
The workers all agree there ain’t no bloke like me
For flippin’, flippin’ flap-jacks, anywhere
I flipped a flap-jack in the air this mornin’
It went up ‘igher than the eye can see
It went so flippin’ ‘igh, it stayed up in the sky
An’ only just come dahn in time fer tea
There ain’t no easy road to flippin’ flap-jacks
I studied ‘ard fer firty flippn’ years
By ‘ook, or flippin’ crook, I’m gonna write a book
Called “Flippin’, Flippin’ Flap-Jacks Wivout Tears.”



FUNNY (Necessary) OCCUPATIONS

I’m a member of a family that’s got some funny jobs
Tho’ they’re jobs that must be done right on the spot
Well, take my cousin Charlie, now ‘e works hard if yer like
Shall I tell yer all abaht the job ‘e’s got
Well, ‘e’s a bloke wot cuts up apples in a fruit shop
‘E’s a apple-cutter-up for makin’ jam
When I say ‘e cuts up apples
I don’t mean ‘e cuts up onions
‘Cause they never ever make that kind of jam
It’s a good job ‘e doesn’t cut up onions
‘Cause all day long yer see ‘e’d be in tears
But all the time there’s apples
There’ll be cutters-up of apples
So it looks as though ‘e’s gotta job for years.

An’ then o’ course yer see there’s my young cousin Agnis’is Jane
Some call ‘er Ag for short. She’s long and thin
And the sorta job she’s doin’, well, it reely is a tear up
I’ll tell yer jes’ wot kind o’ job she’s in
She’s a gal wot tears orf buttons in a laundry
She’s a button-ripper-orf, see wot I mean?
She rips the buttone orf before the shirts go in the copper
And sews them on when once the shirts is clean
She says she likes the job, It’s nice and healthy
Tho’ I think the steam ‘as given ‘er sunken cheeks
Still, all the time there’s buttons there’ll be a ripper-orf of buttons
So she looks as though she’s got a job for weeks.



A PROLIFIC PENNER OF POETRY
by
John Bilsborough

People used to say that Bungers-up of Ratholes
was about as odd as occupations got,
and that jobs involving rissoles
or the peas in p'licemen's whistles
were eccentric - well now, next to us, they're not!

Cos we practice a peculiar profession,
that would numb the nerves of any normal nerd,
one that reconciles a recondite obsession
with a talent and a taste for the absurd...

We're the Snappers-up of senseless situations,
we're the Chroniclers of cracker-barrel craft,
we're Observers of life's obscure occupations,
donnish devotees of dilettant and daft,

We expatiate on egregious enterprises,
recording rare and raffish recreations,
jotting jingles about jobsworths, in all guises,
we're the Mappers-out of mystic machinations...

And although we're quite devoted to our mission,
it's so strange to think, whatever might befall,
that in spite of all our zeal and erudition,
it is us who have the oddest job of all.



A SONG OF THE GPO
by
Gerry Hamill (1919)

I’m the bloke that’s trained to sit behind the public stamp machines
When you come to post a letter in the rain
‘Ow I laugh to ‘ear the curses
As they fiddle in their purses
For a 10p piece that won’t pop out again.

It’s me job to put the rolls of stamps behind the little slot
So you get one when you pokes your money through.
‘Ow I giggle at the slangin’
And the nasty tempered bangin’
If it don’t come out when it’s supposed to do.

If the stamp machines gets busy I put up me ‘empty’ signs,
Then I makes me tea and ‘as a little snack,
But the stream of filthy language
Doesn’t put me off me sangwidge
‘Cause I’m taught to smile and never answer back.

Now, the proper way to buy a stamp is from the counter clerk,
Who provides a queue where you can ‘ang about;
If you don’t know any better
Than to write your flippin’ letter
After five, then you deserve to go without.