Monday, 22 December 2008
Oeutres Turps Oueutres Meoures
In my day the folk singingy people used to stick to a reliable Cornish-Bristol sort of accent which anyone can do, so anyone can join in. And it's goodbye to arrrll you young ladies of Spairrn, for we're bound for the Rrrriooo Grrrrande. You know the sort of thing.
The stakes have been raised, now you have to offer a fruity and you'll-be-amused-by-its-pretentiousness Dublin and all the fun has gone out of it. I blame the Pogues. And the Chieftains. Too-ra-li-oo-ra-li-add-ity? A simple -addy will suffice, thank you.
Also the English have to be blamed for everything, including lack of sexual intercourse, persecution, the sending of criminals to Strine instead of hanging them &c &c (& as well deserved). I find this tiresome. O bogus Gael, the 'craic' you smoke from a pipe is brain-damaging enough.
Readers: Why the lack of posts? Have you died?
Self: No, I am in paid employment. 06:00 Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night!
21:00 Hooome to Hooove and bed. From Bexhill. M2F.
Weekends, coma and rooting out five clean shirts.
But - I am not ungrateful.
Readers: What has been th'biggest lifestoile change sints y'divoce? Two years ago.
Self: Then, I would spend my Saturday evenings silent upon a page in my Larousse Gastronomique.
Readers: Now?
Self: I have just fucked up opening a can of Prince's chopped pork and ham because the key went all wongly. Again.
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2 comments:
The major prob is that folk singers don't seem to hold their ears on when they are singing like they used to.
Up at 6 and back at 21? You should get a car Mr C.
And mostly they don't have beards with bits of fish pie in them, even Maddy had one of those.
The train journey has got me reading books again, so it has to be a good thing. I fancy murmuring Blake to oneself as one motors along a South Coast road is illegal, along with smoking, singing, phoning &c.
Life just isn't as much fun as it used to be.
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