I absolutely love this song, it describes how the railwaymen actually lived. I was considering becoming a train driver on the Bergen line but now I’m having second thoughts. Lol But that’s electric so it’s probably a bit bearable than this.
I remember a documentary that was on youtube, go now but the way-back machine found it, it was on the crews on the footplate during ww2. Fascinating stuff, and plenty of stories from the blitz and just day-to-day.
@@Spaceman33393 clearly during both world wars the loco crews went through a lot. we went through a lot living in France during the first lock down in 2020 if you went out for a walk you had to be back home before 6 otherwise the local police would be knocking on the front door. because someone had a party down by the lake the Police closed the road down to it. with so many out of work I was happy with my cleaning job
Lyrics: It's not all beer and skittles this blooming job of mine, And it's not a bed of roses, cause the fire is on the line. They don't give you much money, but a lot of slack instead, And they said you had to work at night to earn your daily bread. Just fancy being knocked off in the middle of the night, With the noise enough to wake the dead and give the neighbours fright. You leave your bed with sad regrets prepared to work a train, And they tell you that job is capped and it's back to bed again. When you get down to the shed that's when the "fun" begins, You find that someone's pinched your lamp and tools, another thing. Of course it's all against the rules but still you do the same, Go and pinch someone's else's or it will be you who get's the blame. You often get an engine that is very shy of steam, It's then you start to realise that it isn't all a dream. Your mate sits in the corner doing nothing else but moan, Till you wished to Christ he shut up, get off, or stay at home And when the pegs are danger, just as sure as your alive, There is a rule made by some fool, they call it 55. You have to tramp back half a mile through hail, or snow, or rain, To sign a book, then sling your hook and tramp it back again. And when the journeys' ended and the foreman says sign off, Miles from home you've landed without money, backet, or scoff. Lodge over at the barracks, built inside the station yard, Where the engines sing you lullabies, and the beds are bleeding hard. Or perhaps it's private's digging, that's another lively hole, It's ten to one the fire's gone out, and to find the bloody coal. You go to bed half famished, and it's pretend it's for the best, It's said when your belly's empty, then your brains will get a rest. It's really aggravating, and it chills you to the bone, When they call you up and tell you to work the diner home. On the homeward trip the shovel seems to weight at least at tonne, But you've still got a couple of tonnes to shift before your done. For the umpteenth time you swear you'll jump the job and do no more, Reach home and then book in nine hours and the game starts as before. I very often wonder, if I'll get to driver's job, But sick and tired of fighting 60 hours for thirty pound. Drivers don't retire, on the footplate they take root, As a fireman I must wait until I fill up dead men's boots. I'll be swinging shovels till I die, and then to heaven go, Or perhaps I'll still be firing for the old lad down below.
sounds like your standard workers' overnight lodgings and in a big industrial business in 1910 as the railways were, small bunkhouses with rock hard beds and leaky roofs, paraffin lamps that sort of thing would make sense. pre-WW1 it wouldnt have been barracks but they wouldve functioned as such because youd wake up when called, make your bed then on the job in 20 minutes or its your head on the block i should think, given that its before proper workers rights and all
Here's what I could gather - anything with a question mark I'm not sure what he says :) It's not all beer and skittles this bloomin' job of mine For its not a bed of roses a-firing on the line They don't give you much money, but lots of slag instead And they teach you how to work at night to earn your daily bread Just fancy being knocked up in the middle of the night With the noise enough to wake the dead and give the neighbors fright You leave your bed with sad regrets, prepared to work a train Then they tell ya that the job is caked and it's back to bed again (Guitar) When you get down to the shed that's when the fun begins You'll find that someone's pinched your lamps and tools and other things Of course it's all against the rules but still you do the same, Go and pinch someone else's or it's you who'll get the blame You often get an engine that is very shy for steam It's then you start to realize it isn't all a dream Your mate sits in the corner, doing nothing else but moan 'Til you wish to Christ he'd shut up, or get off, or stay at home And when the peg's at danger, just as sure as you're alive There is a rule made by some fool they call it fifty-five You'll have to tramp tracks half a mile through hail or snow or rain To sign the book then sling your hook and tramp it back again (Guitar) And when the journey's ended and the foreman says sign off Miles from home you're landed without money (beckett or scoff?) Lodge over at the barracks built inside the station yard Where the engines sing ya lullabies and the beds are bleeding hard Or perhaps its (private piggings?) that's another lively hole It's 10 to 1, the fire's gone out to find the bloody coal Ya go to bed half famished and pretend it's for the best It's said when your Belly's empty then your brains will better rest It's really aggravating and it chills ya to the bone When they call you up and tell ya you've to work the diner home On the homeward trip the shovel seems to weigh at least a ton But you've still got a couple of tons to shift before you're done (Guitar) For the umpteenth time you swear you'll jump the job and do no more Reach home then book on in 9 hours and the game starts as before I very often wonder if I'll get the driver's job For I'm sick and tired of firing 60 hours for 30 (bum?) Drivers don't retire on the footplate they took root As a fireman I must wait until I fill up dead men's boots I'll be swinging shovels 'til I die and then to heaven go... Or perhaps I'll still be firing For the old lad down below
@@nicholmansgarage3501 Thank you for writing down the lyrics. Very accurate! Regarding this line: For I'm sick and tired of firing 60 hours for 30 "bob". Bob is a slang word for shilling and this gentleman earns considerable more than the gaffer of the squad that makes "the hot asphalt". He only earns 19 bob.
I love how this is pre grouping eight freight blues
yea lol
0:48 song starts
I absolutely love this song, it describes how the railwaymen actually lived.
I was considering becoming a train driver on the Bergen line but now I’m having second thoughts. Lol
But that’s electric so it’s probably a bit bearable than this.
it certainly shows what a hard working life footplate crews lived during around the 1914-1918 war
I remember a documentary that was on youtube, go now but the way-back machine found it, it was on the crews on the footplate during ww2. Fascinating stuff, and plenty of stories from the blitz and just day-to-day.
@@Spaceman33393 clearly during both world wars the loco crews went through a lot. we went through a lot living in France during the first lock down in 2020 if you went out for a walk you had to be back home before 6 otherwise the local police would be knocking on the front door. because someone had a party down by the lake the Police closed the road down to it.
with so many out of work I was happy with my cleaning job
Lyrics:
It's not all beer and skittles this blooming job of mine,
And it's not a bed of roses, cause the fire is on the line.
They don't give you much money, but a lot of slack instead,
And they said you had to work at night to earn your daily bread.
Just fancy being knocked off in the middle of the night,
With the noise enough to wake the dead and give the neighbours fright.
You leave your bed with sad regrets prepared to work a train,
And they tell you that job is capped and it's back to bed again.
When you get down to the shed that's when the "fun" begins,
You find that someone's pinched your lamp and tools, another thing.
Of course it's all against the rules but still you do the same,
Go and pinch someone's else's or it will be you who get's the blame.
You often get an engine that is very shy of steam,
It's then you start to realise that it isn't all a dream.
Your mate sits in the corner doing nothing else but moan,
Till you wished to Christ he shut up, get off, or stay at home
And when the pegs are danger, just as sure as your alive,
There is a rule made by some fool, they call it 55.
You have to tramp back half a mile through hail, or snow, or rain,
To sign a book, then sling your hook and tramp it back again.
And when the journeys' ended and the foreman says sign off,
Miles from home you've landed without money, backet, or scoff.
Lodge over at the barracks, built inside the station yard,
Where the engines sing you lullabies, and the beds are bleeding hard.
Or perhaps it's private's digging, that's another lively hole,
It's ten to one the fire's gone out, and to find the bloody coal.
You go to bed half famished, and it's pretend it's for the best,
It's said when your belly's empty, then your brains will get a rest.
It's really aggravating, and it chills you to the bone,
When they call you up and tell you to work the diner home.
On the homeward trip the shovel seems to weight at least at tonne,
But you've still got a couple of tonnes to shift before your done.
For the umpteenth time you swear you'll jump the job and do no more,
Reach home and then book in nine hours and the game starts as before.
I very often wonder, if I'll get to driver's job,
But sick and tired of fighting 60 hours for thirty pound.
Drivers don't retire, on the footplate they take root,
As a fireman I must wait until I fill up dead men's boots.
I'll be swinging shovels till I die, and then to heaven go,
Or perhaps I'll still be firing for the old lad down below.
were the barracks actual barracks or just really shabby workers huts?
sounds like your standard workers' overnight lodgings and in a big industrial business in 1910 as the railways were, small bunkhouses with rock hard beds and leaky roofs, paraffin lamps that sort of thing would make sense. pre-WW1 it wouldnt have been barracks but they wouldve functioned as such because youd wake up when called, make your bed then on the job in 20 minutes or its your head on the block i should think, given that its before proper workers rights and all
The hostel.the one at Reading was rather good.
@@georgesmith3036 horrible way to treat a loco crew
What was the killer for many crews was the shift work.
can you please post lyrics
Here's what I could gather - anything with a question mark I'm not sure what he says :)
It's not all beer and skittles this bloomin' job of mine
For its not a bed of roses a-firing on the line
They don't give you much money, but lots of slag instead
And they teach you how to work at night to earn your daily bread
Just fancy being knocked up in the middle of the night
With the noise enough to wake the dead and give the neighbors fright
You leave your bed with sad regrets, prepared to work a train
Then they tell ya that the job is caked and it's back to bed again
(Guitar)
When you get down to the shed that's when the fun begins
You'll find that someone's pinched your lamps and tools and other things
Of course it's all against the rules but still you do the same,
Go and pinch someone else's or it's you who'll get the blame
You often get an engine that is very shy for steam
It's then you start to realize it isn't all a dream
Your mate sits in the corner, doing nothing else but moan
'Til you wish to Christ he'd shut up, or get off, or stay at home
And when the peg's at danger, just as sure as you're alive
There is a rule made by some fool they call it fifty-five
You'll have to tramp tracks half a mile through hail or snow or rain
To sign the book then sling your hook and tramp it back again
(Guitar)
And when the journey's ended and the foreman says sign off
Miles from home you're landed without money (beckett or scoff?)
Lodge over at the barracks built inside the station yard
Where the engines sing ya lullabies and the beds are bleeding hard
Or perhaps its (private piggings?) that's another lively hole
It's 10 to 1, the fire's gone out to find the bloody coal
Ya go to bed half famished and pretend it's for the best
It's said when your Belly's empty then your brains will better rest
It's really aggravating and it chills ya to the bone
When they call you up and tell ya you've to work the diner home
On the homeward trip the shovel seems to weigh at least a ton
But you've still got a couple of tons to shift before you're done
(Guitar)
For the umpteenth time you swear you'll jump the job and do no more
Reach home then book on in 9 hours and the game starts as before
I very often wonder if I'll get the driver's job
For I'm sick and tired of firing 60 hours for 30 (bum?)
Drivers don't retire on the footplate they took root
As a fireman I must wait until I fill up dead men's boots
I'll be swinging shovels 'til I die and then to heaven go...
Or perhaps I'll still be firing
For the old lad down below
@@nicholmansgarage3501 Thank you for writing down the lyrics. Very accurate! Regarding this line: For I'm sick and tired of firing 60 hours for 30 "bob".
Bob is a slang word for shilling and this gentleman earns considerable more than the gaffer of the squad that makes "the hot asphalt". He only earns 19 bob.
@@FlyingConey thank you so much!! I'll be sure to fix that :)