Friday, June 21, 2013
Life In The Minstrellerinio Lane
Normally I’m alone right now. In a bar. With a pint. On a desolate Thursday night. Penning thoughts or toasting fluff from my navel with an uncannily dinky DIY fondu set purchased from Shaftesbury Oxfam in 1981.
But tonight, my solitude is slain.
It is Boromir’s conscience, wrestling with the evil of Mordor as his tensed fingers hover in the nightmare limbo preceding a fateful ringing.
Slain, I say! As if tossed from a lofty eyrie by an impossibly egg-averse eagle.
Slain! Slain! Slain!
Again! Again! Again!
Like a Psycho DVD
stuck on the
stuck on the
stuck on the
For tonight (yeah — get to the fucking point, Whirl), tonight there are minstrels!
These minstrels wear no cotton tights, no codpiece wonders, no expressions of realisation that soon they may be slaughtered by an unforgiving lord or laird or demon, but heck upon heckity heck these guys are minstrels true, minstrels all.
As I sit with eardrums stretched out to either side of my face with special BASS U YA harmony-friendly titanium hoists, it’s clear that minstrelling comes easily to these hippest of musical dudes.
Hey, listen — I planned tonight to write a villanelle about the problems of being a disabled quadruped in a world obsessed with the health and hairdo of Nelson Mandela, but right now I’m glad there’s a band on.
They’re young. Hip. Talented. Sexy. Rifling through my possessions. Trussing me. Thrusting swab upon swab of chloroform into my face. Erasing my internet identity via a hackily jailbroken tablet-cum-PC and replacing it with the generously detailed biography of some wankhead Dutch leather belt manufacturer.
Hey! What’s going on?
I only came here to write a villanelle! With a pint! And my bandana! And a nylon brassière I probably never should have put on BUT I LIKED THE COLOUR.
Now, here’s the thing.
Technically it ought to be impossible to continue to write while three bearded specimens of happ’nin’ acoustic minstrel troupe attempt to bind you with their assembled ropes, whips, guitar strings and spare lengths of beard from their back pockets, but somehow, with biro clenched tightly in anal sphincter, I write on.
These fiends may try to numb my brain with chloroform, but no way are they knocking out my ability to practice pelvic floor exercises, my desire to scribble on.
Ok, so maybe you’ve figured out that I’m jesting here. I sit as a veritable clown among minstrels! It’s not chloroform, folks — it’s superglue. Administered by a gang of hirsute stooges as the minstrels strum on.
Now the lead singer — a bald guy by the name of Kai whose beard looks like a wig that’s slid from the top of his head in all the excitement — drops me a voicemail message of a moderately desperate nature.
“Dude! Our next number’s called Swabbity Nose Kinda Confused Guy and our regular dancer, the guy who normally goes acrobat crazy to this one, has been run over by a mad horse. Get your dancing shoes on! We need ya, babe.”
On reflection, this has turned out to be something of a fun night. Right now, the villanelle can wait. In just a few seconds time, I shall be up on stage like a thrustily butteroid Last Tango Brando, dancing á la Bez as the acoustitude of three crazed minstrels twangles and spangles its way from the undercluster of my auricular wherewithal to the antenna twitch tip of my cock. Probably.
Over and out for now...