Humming without a licence

Thursday, August 31st, 2006

Want scary? I can do scary. Scary this: I’m coming down the stairs and I’m humming a song. I realise it’s The Wanderer by Status Quo. That’s Staaaatus Quo. S-T-A-T… Look, you get the idea. I was terrified. I may have to turn Catholic just to do penance for this. I blame being forced to watch Top of the Pops with one of my big sisters back when I was a kid…

Have YOU ever found yourself humming without a licence – that is, humming a song you really don’t like or doing it in a strange place – strange as in anywhere public, anywhere other than the privacy of your own home – and then you only realise you’re doing it when you grasp that people are staring at you? Uh-huh. Yeah, me too. That last part, I blame Apple for – those white devil boxes that breathe music into your ears wherever you go once they have your lobes enmeshed in their silky chains. They call those implants buds.

And yes, those who know him, that was my impression of Bill Bailey (a wonderful comedian – Howard, take note, check his stuff out!). Those who have seen the man live or perchance came across his DVD in one of their lifetimes will understand… I hope…

See, one of the things that surprises people sometimes is that I can do comedy. I’m not intense all the time, just a lot of the time. Ask Jo or Khlari. I’ve had both of those women weeping, and believe me, how many straight men can say they’ve made two women cry with joy at the same time? Right now, I am feeling much, much better. I am cleansed for the time being of bogeymen.

I expect D to return to me only slightly the worse-for-wear having lived out of Tesco’s pockets (or rather, Tesco’s shelves) for nearly four days in Exeter, number one clone town in the UK although anyone heading there expecting to see 70s gay men in checked shirts with ‘taches will be sorely, or should that be safely, disappointed. I shall embrace D in my arms, talk filthy rudeness into his auditory receptors and then, to make up for all the fast food hardships he has suffered, make him a cup of tea. Ahem.

I will then beg him – beg him, I tell you – to cook me one of his wonderful meals because I’m kidding nobody here: when he’s away I don’t eat well because (a) I can’t cook much of anything edible and (b) eating’s just not the same when he’s not by my side. Am I a bad, bad person? Or do I simply recognise where I am weak, he is strong? Actually, I’m not a bad person. I always do the washing up, which when you’re living with a culinary god, is always a considerable pile which will only come clean with lots of elbow grease. It’s only in this relationship I’ve learned how to milk elbow grease – see, the trick is to grip the elbow firmly with the other hand, then twist. You can also learn how to sing falsetto using this technique.

That’s enough comedy for now. Let’s do politics.

categories: rattle bag