My grandad used to sing this song to me every night when I was a little girl. He always said it was about my grandma ❤

When I was little, I would ask my Grandma to dance to this song over and over on the cd player in the living room. "Again! Again!" And over and over, we'd link arms, and skip around on the living room rug, laughing and singing along to George. Before she died a few months ago, I went to go see her, and I sang this song to her quietly. Oh she's absolutely wonderful and marvelous and beautiful and anyone can understand why I'm leaning on a lamppost at the corner of the street in case a certain little lady passes by

The talent of George, its amazing to see after 85 years.

Thanks. This was one of the first popular songs I ever heard on the wireless, back in the 1950's, and it has been a favourite ever since. Good clean lyrics, with no hint of innuendo, performed and played better than anyone else has done since the 1930's.

Never seen this movie, and never seen this scene in this high quality. I've just realised how much more involved he played that particular solo there compared to how it looked at low resolution.

A real Superstar 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Absolutely fantastic. Love this fella musically and in personality 👌👌😊

Bet George would be happy some yank in the colonies was still enjoying this today. So catchy!

The quality is just so much better in this one, compared to the other video with 1.5 Million views. Thank you for this, have a great christmas and 2018 everyone!!

Good old George! He was the Jimi Hendrix of the Ukulele.

Why this man was not as well known as Charlie Chaplin?? i’m a massive George Formby’s fan he’s a legend, greetings from Mexico!

Awesome ,, to have this video is sooo awesome. It is priceless. Cheers. 😊

Super. Thanks for uploading. :)

Written for the queen May she RIP. Classic George, where have the good times gone.

Thanks for upload been looking for this song for years but didn't have any info x

I bought this in 1937, it's the best shilling I've spent .

I like this song I’m leaning on a lamppost

I know this from Morecambe and Wise. Very funny little tune

Go to 1:45 for the banjo-uke solo!

Fabulous! Just as a matter of interest - was the introduction deliberately faster than the rest of the song? I sort of get the feeling he started too fast and realised that before the first chorus. Maybe I’m reading too much into it! But it’s a fabulous song and performance! Love the lady on piano too!

still leaning

🎵🎤🎸✌✌🎸🎤🎵

Notice at about 2:00 George starts but stops singing the verse. I believe he forgot the words and was looking for Beryle to mouth the words. Any thoughts on this?

I’m Tintin

Couldn't do that now, you'd be arrested for stalking. 😆

I thought it was a Herman's Hermits song lol

This must be where Herman learned it from.

BEHOLD, the song, the man, and the uke, that seduced me, as a three-year-old, wide-eyed, love-searching, all-believing kid, when my by then reduced and *down-at-heel* poor-but-posh, Park Lane heiress mother, escaped with me at the Queen's Cinema, at the bottom of Penny Meadow, Ashton-Under-Lyne, Lancashire, England, UK. This is not more than a ukulele-throw from where the Lancashire Maestro's famous Old Musical Hall, daddy - of the same stagename - was born, as a penniless, wandering door-step waif ! It was just six decades before, when that blessed baby's gin-addicted mum was doing her best - while singing saucy-ditties to bored-and-bawdy, *raggy-assed, but happy* unhearing drunks, in the local Gaff ! In her pathetic Tuberculosis-ridden, forlorn-bid to raise enough to buy her then-anonymous-toddler a crust of bread; she wanders-aimlessly, in an alcoholic-haze, from the forbidding wrought iron *no-help-wanted* gates, of the lit-up-and-glowing, Lysol-disinfected, sterile, stark and uncaring, intimidatingly-looming, Accrington-Brick faced, maroon-monolyth, that was the Oxford Mills cotton-spinning, bland-and-unwelcoming Fairy Palace, several-hundred - by then, out-of-focus, cold-and-comfortless, rain-lashed cobble-stone sets away ! She died in the Lake Hospital, when The Great War was at it's killing-best, by which time that toddler was the The Toast of London-Town, and the Nation; his weekly three-hundred solid-gold guineas, by now the brick-foundation of a resilient Tower that transcended the dizzy-heights of the Music Halls, where his name George Formby was a household word ! On a return-visit to her former Ashton home, the young star's, sound-common-sense, Svengali-wife Eliza Booth, visited the Lake Hospital, where she had been told her famous husband's mother was stricken with a dozen maladies, as her precious-life ebbed-away. Even-so, a hint of that familiar Formby sparkle, was seen - if only for a subliminal-second - to glint in that once disarmingly-charming little-lady's eyes. Not wishing to distress her, the by now Mrs Formby, kept her identity a secret, as she enquired of the stricken-lady, as to whether she had anyone, other than her Workhouse-hospital aids to care or mourn for her in her plight ? *I have a son, who people tell me is now doing well for himself* she murmured. I'd wish I had the strength to find-out more, but I'm on-the-way-out, you know.* Despite being overcome with grief, Eliza Booth, comforted her, and - saying that she knew someone who might be able to help her - left the ward and took the train via Ashton Charlestown Station, to platform five, at Manchester Exchange, and was at the Formby home in Standish, Wigan, by the early evening, when a letter to the theatre, in Bolton, where her husband was working in a touring Music Hall Show, saw him with her at the weekend, when Eliza gave him bitter-news. Moved by all that Eliza told him, George Formby - by now a statuesque immeasurably-wealthy *Baron of the Theatre* - was adamant, that in view of the way he considered his mother had neglected him, although he would, help-and-pity, her, he would not, under any circumstances, visit her bedside ! Undeterred, Eliza told him, that - whatever she had been, and whatever had brought her low - it was his *duty*, as her only Son, to pay her the respects - probably his last - to be with her before she slipped-away. He knew, only-too-well, that Eliza Booth was right; since all through the hard formative theatrical days, of his rise to fame, she had never been wrong ! Armed with this news, Eliza went on ahead, and visited Formby's mother, where she confessed that she was her daughter-in-law, and the wife of her former impoverished Baby; the news, if only momentarily, raising a glimmer of hope in the expiring, by-now-skeletal, mother's tear-dimmed eyes. *Do you have any children, love ?* she whispered ?* *Why, bless you, yes we have; indeed, a whole brood of them, Dear lass, so your name will live-on, whatever else ! When she begged Eliza, to ask him if her fugitive son, if would consider visiting her, where she was, Eliza tearfully broke the news that he was waiting outside the ward, but he had expressed wish that he see her, alone, and with this Eliza took her leave, and minutes later a reluctant, immaculately-dressed, George Formby was bending-over his mother's bed, as - overcome with rapturous tears, she hugged the waif she had known and strived to feed, in the slums-of-Ashton; all those years ago, when he was a little boy ! At this time, Formby himself would be silently-recalling those cruel-days, when the only other available source of heat and sustenance came when - at a nearby bakery, after the bake - he would steal a nap in the residual heat of the cooling-down open cast-iron oven, and later breakfast on an *oven-bottom* balm-cake before returning to the hovel where he lived. After pressing his now =famous, Formby-lips on the forehead and tear-soaked cheeks of his dying mother, Formby rose to his feet, like the shooting-star he was, and waved her last farewell, as if taking the final-curtain, on one of the by-now myriad stages, where he was a beloved, self-depricating character of God-Like Dimensions. He would never see his mother again - nor would his lovely spouse - but no doubt he saw her in his dreams, as the years wore-on, only to take *him* prematurely, at the age of just 45, in 1921; a victim of that then infamous, all-devouring, damness-delivered curse, that was known locally as *Galloping Consumption*, or in medical parlance of the day Turberculosis ! Almost like a Phoenix, raising from the Wigan-ashes, his eldest son Georgie, would - as in some Grecian Ancient Arcadian relay-race, pick up the Formby-torch, before the sublinally-flickering embers expired, and thereafter carrying it for several more generations, as - with his Formby-Fun and natural-borne self-effacing simplicity, he did credit to the Formby-name, just as he returned with-interest the boundless love-and-admiration of his audiences, while he had them *roaring-in-the-aisles; aye lad, not only in the Theatres, where his dad was *King-Of-the Cabbage-Patch*, but in more than a score of ever-successful movies; not-to-mention 250-odd Shellac 78rpm-records, along with many much-looked-forward-to, Radio Broadcasts and finally Television successes, before a third excess-cigarettes-induced Coronorary Thromosis snatched the precious, once-dynamic, life of this beloved earthly-angel, as he passed in yet another sadly, all-too-short Formby-existence, on Monday March 6, 1961; the day my all-illuminating, Happiness-Candle - and ever-optimistic schoolboy's *Reason-for-Living* was snuffed-out !

Does the song creep out anyone else? I don't know if she'll get away, she doesn't always get away, but anyhow I know that she'll try...

Who is the pianist?

Funny haircut the piano player has , a tanner wasted.

I prefer Herman's Hermits version personally.