Drinking Den. Typical.

Underqualified Interloper – *in earnest.* Sheets of sound, mate, sheets of sound.

Father Figure in Hiding – *careless perfection* Aye. Sounds of shite.


(guffaws)


You are not likely, to run into a bedraggled working class codger, who will expound upon the miraculous delicacies spewed forth from Charlie Parker’s horn. It’s just not gonna happen like. He’ll be tellin’ ye about 10cc, Supertramp, thon boy with the flute, and other such shite. I mean I hate to be a dirty snob, and cast the considerable weight of my opinion upon these neglectees, but I just don’t have time for it. Probably five or six years from now I’ll repent all my sins and form a tribute band. But for now the band must be beaten, like fit to beat the band, or whatever. Every man up on their toes singing their very sins out for the redemption of mankind (non NI residents need not apply.) I mean we probably think there’s an audience out there for us, and there is, a miniscule band of thigh-slappin’ groin-grabbers. And they’re the ones who keep the whole thing in balance, your outlook that is, because no matter the mete of your mother’s slavery, and you the one who’ll inherit it, the whole thing’s one big joke. But here, now and then ye do get a deadly tune, or like somebody pure gets your shit, turns round and tells ye exactly why and it’s a feelin’ that rivals no doubt the dumping of ten trillion dollars in the bank account of a Bobtailed Bieber… Savouring moments. Hotshot flies by with his top down, teen wife topless as he laughs into the emptiness. They’re all fuckers man, but the tunes, and some of the people that are playin’ them, not so bad. Lovely wee people, few gnarled oul street savvies, hafta tuck back and gimp. But that’s aright, can’t win ‘em all. Life’s not the worst, get the tunes on.                                                                                                                                                                                               

But look, an alternate point of view should surely be voiced here, where’s the analytical practicalligator? Yes. In reality (which isn’t very interesting), any fellow voicing the above aspersions is surely a short-sighted fool, who would no doubt do well to consult a man, or woman(women are intelligent too, as we are finding;) yes, a person of the opposite disposition, thus completing the much vaunted yin yang, and taking a well-deserved kick in the egoic knackers for his trouble. Should he attempt to go one better and court the regard of some wise, guru-type character? It could be endless really. A gamer’s approach to winning at life. Seminars. Cash. In hand. Kay. If I wanna get paid tonight I’d better contact my financial adviser, see ya later.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

Afterthought   

Your phone is talking to you. When’s the last time you lost your phone? The notifications are raining in, and you’re not even a particularly popular person… Unless there’s some strange sewing circle where they worship your socks. Could be. Nobody wants to read about a sock. The stink from our socks are merely memories, traces of the day’s deeds, demons in need of bleaching. Men inhale the stink from their socks, in an unconscious attempt to rid their living space of evil spirits, their reward a pungent scent-present. But nobody, and this time I really mean nobody, wants to smell another man’s socks. The sock sniffer. For all of my sins I could never be called the sock sniffer. That is a title that belongs to one debauchee alone. Out there, sniffing socks. Goodnight.