kenphigs

I often find myself on the chat show circuit, as is only fitting, and one question that invariably crops up concerning  popular music is the old chestnut "what is your favourite song or piece of music?" This of course depends on my state of mind at the time.  Often it depends more on whether the likelihood of my soiling myself is greater than 50-50. In response I suppose it might be one of Ronnie Hilton's or, more likely, a military march from the Edwardian period. One thing that is never asked, though, is "what piece of music makes you physically sick?". That would be an easy one to answer. Since I first heard it I have known there would never be anything more loathsome or vile in creation, even in this day and age. No, the honour - honour! - must go to someone called Gloria Gaynor who breathed death into "I will survive", a piece which causes my bowels to move every time I hear it. So deep is my hatred of this song that deep is not the word, although hatred undoubtedly is the word, or mot if you prefer. I don't know why, though. It's a nothing in the grand scheme of things, a mere bagatelle and yet it  makes the skin crawl.
The fact that it has been adopted as an anthem by packs of larey, binge-drunk office girls is something of a bonus,  lending further justification to it's vilification, although I hated it long before the lower element came along.
In the Cafe 97 in Arbroath, back in the long cold summer of 95 I watched two drunks, females probably, fighting, kicking and shrieking as they rolled around the floor. I was about to intervene, in my capacity as a non-military man, when I noticed that they were both humming the tune under their breath and between grunts. At first I wondered whether it might have been a madrigal but soon realised this was not the case. I concluded immediately that there was no point in remaining so I hurriedly finished my Guinness with Pina Colada chaser, put on my kepi and left by the fire door.
I heard later that the Police had arrived within a few hours and had shot three revellers and a cat as a token gesture.
Maybe they didn't like that song either.

All this talk about the seven ages of man is, of course, irrelevant.  Senior figures, many of them respected members of the community are at pains to point out that there  is really only one age of man and that is old and decaying. That's not two separate ages, by the way - just one. It all depends on how  quickly you read it. Try  running the three words together, as in "oldanddecaying". See? The chap on the right, Professor Codger is one such respected figure. A boulevardier in his pomp, these days he has a motorised chair but still manages to charm the ladies. Wanton dribbling, it seems, is still acceptable among the chattering classes. The good professor is a man of many talents and can multi-task, particularly when performing his party-piece. This involves rocking his motorised chair from side to side whilst simultaneously dribbling from his mouth and wetting himself. A remarkable feat, given that his DRYBLAD colostomy sac is a state-of-the-art model, tailored by Fargs of Harley Street. It's a strange world and no mistake.


VOCABULAIRE:

Codger:  Vieil homme.  En Anglais "old codger"