The Emperor of Lancashire

I enjoy the music of George Formby, the Lancashire born and bred entertainer whose heyday was in the thirties and forties. Although some of his lyrics are a little suggestive at times, as one might expect from a mid-century music hall act, they still remind me of simpler, happier times. Although more famous for When I’m Cleaning Windows and Leaning on a Lampost with his famous ukulele, my favourite is The Emperor of Lancashire. This is a 1941 comic song written by Roger MacDougall and is a parody of real emperors and strong men who stalked the Europe of the forties:

…I'll be a Cotton King, yes sir, I'll be the Emperor of Lancashire.

I'll have a retinue ten miles long, and an army ten million strong,

Big white elephants, by the score, and a fleet at anchor off the Wigan shore.

Don't you recognise who I am? You've got to give me a big salaam;

You've got to end with a vote of thanks, to the Emperor of Lancs...

Now bow down everyone here I come, bang that cymbal, and hit that drum;

Bow down everyone, yes sir, I'm the Emperor of Lancashire.

The irony is that he sings it with a broad, south Lancashire accent. During the song, some rather posh males and females ask:

Who's this gentleman flashing dough? Is he somebody we should know?

And

Who's this gentleman talking loud? Is he one of the usual crowd?

To which the emperor responds:

Is he somebody? Woah sir! I'm Emperor of Lancashire!

At a time when the BBC was wholly characterised by formal, received pronunciation, this famous entertainer flaunted, perhaps even exaggerated, his regional speech, and would have been highly unusual. Not only does his accent make his imperial pretensions sound ridiculous, but also his policies:

Now I'm going back to my native town, with my millions I'll knock 'em down;

I'll have everything in my power and I'll build a palace on the Blackpool tower.

On my birthday the crowds will cheer, all the fountains will flow with beer;

Blackpool wakes will run all year, for the Emperor of Lancashire.

I'll hold a banquet for fifty score, tripe and onions and whelks galore;

Stewed pigs trotters, aye and mutton shanks for the Emperor of Lancs.

Bow down everyone, here I come, bang that cymbal, and hit that drum;

Bow down everyone, yes sir, I'm the Emperor of Lancashire!

Mid-twentieth century Britain was far more hierarchical than today, with ‘old money’ and class distinctions respected and accepted. This is why the song is funny. A crooner with a posh accent and actual claims of grandeur would not have made such a success of the song.

What must the angelic princes and potentates make of the slack-jawed, common rustics of earth enjoying all the fabulous riches and glories of God’s splendid heaven? I suspect they marvel, not just at our backwardness and humble origin, but our Saviour’s (and their King’s) astounding grace and mercy, that He should invite ones such as us to a greatness exceeding that of emperors and empresses.