Michael Praetorius ✒ with the seventh act in his satirical series.

The disappointed

It's hard for Jean. Living with a troubadour, I mean. I think all of us want to be artistic, but while many are called, very few are chosen. Inevitably my talent casts a long shadow, and she is, understandably, frustrated and depressed by her inability to match my innate creativity, and knack, via my playing, of enthusing others.

Look, I said to her one evening when she was particularly beset by her ordinariness, even though you're artistically challenged you can still strive to exhibit a layman's notion of flair and finesse in your own somewhat prosaic field.

Eh . . .  ? she said.

Well, for instance, I went on, let's say you're making a salad, but it all looks a bit green, so for a dash of style, originality, colour and verve, and instead of the green ones you were going to add, you throw in some black grapes . . . ! Or, you're mopping the floor and you visualise the mop as an impressionist's brush through which you capture and distil the experience of scrubbing away industriously . . . 

Or, she interrupted, you could, for once, make your own salad and do a bit of the housework . . .  that'd be innovative, imaginative, inspirational . . . 

As I say, she gets a bit down at times.

Let us now praise flawed men

There I was. Aged about 9. One Friday night. On TV there was a programme of rock 'n' roll. Topping the bill was a man with issues. He pumped the piano furiously. He played it with hands, elbows, feet, and bum. He yelled, hollered, growled, snarled, and laughed like a lunatic. It was the most wonderful, anarchic, breathtaking epiphany. Everything was changed.

May God forgive me: I forgot the other day to say Happy 87th birthday to the original wild man of rock - Mr Jerry Lee Lewis. If not the greatest man ever to have lived, certainly in the top three.

He sold vacuum cleaners and sewing machines, he played drums and piano with a local band, he auditioned in Shreveport, and tried his luck in Nashville. But when the Lewis family heard Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins and Elvis Presley, they knew that Memphis was his true destination. To finance the trip to meet Sam Phillips (of Sun Records) there, Jerry Lee’s father sold eggs - 33 dozen - along the 350 mile drive north.

He’s a man of a great, contrite heart who’s just maybe messed himself up from time to time
, Sam Phillips once said.

Like when he married his 13 year old cousin. But sure, as my Mother used to say, there go the rest of us but for the grace of the Sacred Heart, I suppose, and worse things probably happen at sea. And he wouldn't do it again. Although you never know, with him.

To this day, in homage, I finish my busking 'set' with a raucous rattle through Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On.

Gravitas

As a philosopher, I know that whatever decision I make it will be the wrong one. This is because gravity pulls us down towards the ground, relentlessly, and you feel so weighted that inevitably you make a hames of everything.

On the moon gravitational pull is one sixth of that on earth. It follows, therefore, that if you lived on the moon you would make about 84% fewer wrong decisions.

That’s the real reason the USA is now racing to put men back on the moon before the Chinese do. If they succeed, it will give them a good head start over the slitty-eyed, conniving Chinky bastards, when it comes to making all the right decisions.

Milking it

An old pal from the Maiden City sent me a copy of a manuscript he hopes to have published soon. He works on a milk, butter and cheese production line, and has been keeping a written record of the many changes he has witnessed over the years in his job. He is hoping to donate the profits to his daughter on her marriage.

I've just finished it. To be honest, it's dull. Yes, he has written a dreary Derry dairy dowry diary ...

Poetry Corner

I got divorced around the time of the Rev Ian's death. I’m not suggesting there’s any connection there, but, as you would expect, it brought out the poet in me.

So. Farewell then, Ian Kyle Paisley . . . ...

Never! Never! Never!
and
No! No! No! -

those were your catchphrases.

Funnily enough,
they were my ex-wife's inevitable responses
whenever I suggested
she and I have sex.

You finally
said 'Yes' however;
whereas that bloody woman
never did.

E J Thribb (1690 - )

Blood on the tracks

Guess who didn't mind the gap at Gt Victoria Street Station yesterday . . .  ? One second we were stepping on to the train, the next she was underneath it . . .  And it was departure time . . . !!

Talk about a kerfuffle. She was looking up at me, scared. But then noticed there were bits of discarded grub about, and began to snaffle them, regardless of fear.

God help her, said a woman who'd been fussing over her earlier and was now boarding the train, she'll be killed.

Never mind God, I said.

Cometh the hour, cometh the Man Whose Philosophic Aspect Refuses Allegiance Not Merely To A Definite Concept Of God, But It Refuses All Servitude To The God Idea, And Opposes The Theistic Principle As Such.

First I tried to wriggle down there so as to lift her out. But either the train or me was too fat. It was haul her up or nothing. Without breaking her legs. It was awkward, she didn't understand what was happening and floundered a bit. Nip and tuck. But we managed it.

What the Hell are you doing?!? shouted the train dispatcher from up the platform.

I got her on the train. Immediately she snaked under the seat in front, hunting for dropped crisps, sweets, etc.

That dog never gets a bite, I said to the woman.

The artist's hard station

At St. Colman's College I was in the same class as Colum Sands, of the Sands Family Folk Group. They went on, apparently, to be famous in a village in The Netherlands. Or a hamlet in Germany, maybe.

Years later he unfriended me on Facebook when I claimed I was equally famous in the Canadian tundra.

Marmalade played the Mandela Hall when I was at Queen's. It was during their 'heavy' period, in which they spurned former smash hits, the better to express their authentic artistic selves via marathon prog rock. When my mate asked vocalist Dean Ford if they would play Ob-la-da Ob-la-di for us anyway, Dean said, Fuck off, wise guy.

For a time I wore round, steel framed NHS glasses. I was leaving a shop one day as a hard man/comedian entered; seeing me he exclaimed, More flower power to you, John Lennon . . . !

My specs though were, in fact, a homage to that lad Andy Partridge, from XTC.

I went to a book signing by Brian Moore. I addressed him as Bryan, only to hear later that he preferred the Irish, Bree-an. He asked me what other Irish fiction I found interesting. I mentioned Bob Shaw, citing his The Two Timers as a particular favourite. But Bree-an had never heard of either.

Bloody Hell

A man brought me over a cup of coffee last Saturday. For Miss Lotte Lenya he had a bap with two sausage rolls in it.

We got talking. He explained that there is, in fact, a Heaven and a Hell. The way things are today, he said, you can hardly imagine the miracles our descendants and their computers will be capable of.

True, I said.

Well then, he continued, all this is a computer simulation. We're all just programs. They're running it to see how they evolved. Probably thousands of simulations, all different. Testing all the possible outcomes.

So, how does that prove there's Heaven and Hell ...?

Come on, he said, if they're smart enough to set all this up, there's every chance they'll add some phoney Heavens as compensation for all those compliant, deserving programs who've adhered to the diktats of their particular faith. One for the Muslims, and one for the Taigs, and one for Prods, for Jews . . . 

I know where this is going, I said.

Right, he said, and Hells for the heretic, or atheist, or free thinking programs, where they can be burned in unending virtual torment . . . 

I couldn't fault him. What a bummer. My happiness sickened. It’s a non-life, a non-death, followed by a non-Hell just as agonising as the real one. Dear God ...

I didn't let Lotte eat the bap. We had a sausage roll each though.

Cheers

When I was 18 and having my first alcoholic drink in the local pub the man next to me said, You are a useless piece of shit and you'll never amount to anything.

Ok, I replied, but thanks for the drink anyway, Dad ...

The end of the affair

One thing that really annoys Jean is that I'm still such a big hit with the chicks.

I was in the bicycle shop recently and, as is the way of the world these days, there was a girl behind the counter.

Wow! she said, you're still a fit looking hombre, I bet you don't need the blue pill, you rascal you ...

Those weren't her exact words. Her exact words were, A mechanic will be with you shortly . . . 

But I've made the rounds, I'm hip to this kind of sexy banter, so I caught her real drift all right.

When I told Jean about it, all she could say was, Are you 15 . . . ?

We're chalk and cheese, you see, and that's the problem. For instance, she thinks we should just ignore people who don't like dogs, whereas I think we should stone them to death or something, since hanging's too good for the bastards.

On the other hand, and surprisingly so - with her being a Prod, I mean - she's a bit of a Red. Unable even to understand that my son would never have been able to go 'up' to Cambridge were it not for the industrious, inspirational and altruistic efforts of British entrepreneurial leviathans like Tim Martin and James Dyson. To her they are merely sleekit, criminally greedy, self-regarding, regulation burning, bumptious wankers.

We have to jolt the economy, darling, I said.

Aye, but not electrocute it ... ! she replied.

She calls me a prosecco socialist, and superficially atheist.

You'll die roaring for a priest, she sneers.

To be honest, Miss Lotte Lenya is finding stairs difficult, now that she's 14. She somehow manages to fall up them, as well as down. I'm going to buy a bungalow for her and me.

Michael Praetorius spent his working life in education and libraries. Now retired, he does a little busking in Belfast . . . when he can get a pitch. He is TPQ's fortnightly Wednesday columnist.

Joy And Fun Are Fucking Killing Me ✑ Act Ⅶ

Michael Praetorius ✒ with the seventh act in his satirical series.

The disappointed

It's hard for Jean. Living with a troubadour, I mean. I think all of us want to be artistic, but while many are called, very few are chosen. Inevitably my talent casts a long shadow, and she is, understandably, frustrated and depressed by her inability to match my innate creativity, and knack, via my playing, of enthusing others.

Look, I said to her one evening when she was particularly beset by her ordinariness, even though you're artistically challenged you can still strive to exhibit a layman's notion of flair and finesse in your own somewhat prosaic field.

Eh . . .  ? she said.

Well, for instance, I went on, let's say you're making a salad, but it all looks a bit green, so for a dash of style, originality, colour and verve, and instead of the green ones you were going to add, you throw in some black grapes . . . ! Or, you're mopping the floor and you visualise the mop as an impressionist's brush through which you capture and distil the experience of scrubbing away industriously . . . 

Or, she interrupted, you could, for once, make your own salad and do a bit of the housework . . .  that'd be innovative, imaginative, inspirational . . . 

As I say, she gets a bit down at times.

Let us now praise flawed men

There I was. Aged about 9. One Friday night. On TV there was a programme of rock 'n' roll. Topping the bill was a man with issues. He pumped the piano furiously. He played it with hands, elbows, feet, and bum. He yelled, hollered, growled, snarled, and laughed like a lunatic. It was the most wonderful, anarchic, breathtaking epiphany. Everything was changed.

May God forgive me: I forgot the other day to say Happy 87th birthday to the original wild man of rock - Mr Jerry Lee Lewis. If not the greatest man ever to have lived, certainly in the top three.

He sold vacuum cleaners and sewing machines, he played drums and piano with a local band, he auditioned in Shreveport, and tried his luck in Nashville. But when the Lewis family heard Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins and Elvis Presley, they knew that Memphis was his true destination. To finance the trip to meet Sam Phillips (of Sun Records) there, Jerry Lee’s father sold eggs - 33 dozen - along the 350 mile drive north.

He’s a man of a great, contrite heart who’s just maybe messed himself up from time to time
, Sam Phillips once said.

Like when he married his 13 year old cousin. But sure, as my Mother used to say, there go the rest of us but for the grace of the Sacred Heart, I suppose, and worse things probably happen at sea. And he wouldn't do it again. Although you never know, with him.

To this day, in homage, I finish my busking 'set' with a raucous rattle through Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On.

Gravitas

As a philosopher, I know that whatever decision I make it will be the wrong one. This is because gravity pulls us down towards the ground, relentlessly, and you feel so weighted that inevitably you make a hames of everything.

On the moon gravitational pull is one sixth of that on earth. It follows, therefore, that if you lived on the moon you would make about 84% fewer wrong decisions.

That’s the real reason the USA is now racing to put men back on the moon before the Chinese do. If they succeed, it will give them a good head start over the slitty-eyed, conniving Chinky bastards, when it comes to making all the right decisions.

Milking it

An old pal from the Maiden City sent me a copy of a manuscript he hopes to have published soon. He works on a milk, butter and cheese production line, and has been keeping a written record of the many changes he has witnessed over the years in his job. He is hoping to donate the profits to his daughter on her marriage.

I've just finished it. To be honest, it's dull. Yes, he has written a dreary Derry dairy dowry diary ...

Poetry Corner

I got divorced around the time of the Rev Ian's death. I’m not suggesting there’s any connection there, but, as you would expect, it brought out the poet in me.

So. Farewell then, Ian Kyle Paisley . . . ...

Never! Never! Never!
and
No! No! No! -

those were your catchphrases.

Funnily enough,
they were my ex-wife's inevitable responses
whenever I suggested
she and I have sex.

You finally
said 'Yes' however;
whereas that bloody woman
never did.

E J Thribb (1690 - )

Blood on the tracks

Guess who didn't mind the gap at Gt Victoria Street Station yesterday . . .  ? One second we were stepping on to the train, the next she was underneath it . . .  And it was departure time . . . !!

Talk about a kerfuffle. She was looking up at me, scared. But then noticed there were bits of discarded grub about, and began to snaffle them, regardless of fear.

God help her, said a woman who'd been fussing over her earlier and was now boarding the train, she'll be killed.

Never mind God, I said.

Cometh the hour, cometh the Man Whose Philosophic Aspect Refuses Allegiance Not Merely To A Definite Concept Of God, But It Refuses All Servitude To The God Idea, And Opposes The Theistic Principle As Such.

First I tried to wriggle down there so as to lift her out. But either the train or me was too fat. It was haul her up or nothing. Without breaking her legs. It was awkward, she didn't understand what was happening and floundered a bit. Nip and tuck. But we managed it.

What the Hell are you doing?!? shouted the train dispatcher from up the platform.

I got her on the train. Immediately she snaked under the seat in front, hunting for dropped crisps, sweets, etc.

That dog never gets a bite, I said to the woman.

The artist's hard station

At St. Colman's College I was in the same class as Colum Sands, of the Sands Family Folk Group. They went on, apparently, to be famous in a village in The Netherlands. Or a hamlet in Germany, maybe.

Years later he unfriended me on Facebook when I claimed I was equally famous in the Canadian tundra.

Marmalade played the Mandela Hall when I was at Queen's. It was during their 'heavy' period, in which they spurned former smash hits, the better to express their authentic artistic selves via marathon prog rock. When my mate asked vocalist Dean Ford if they would play Ob-la-da Ob-la-di for us anyway, Dean said, Fuck off, wise guy.

For a time I wore round, steel framed NHS glasses. I was leaving a shop one day as a hard man/comedian entered; seeing me he exclaimed, More flower power to you, John Lennon . . . !

My specs though were, in fact, a homage to that lad Andy Partridge, from XTC.

I went to a book signing by Brian Moore. I addressed him as Bryan, only to hear later that he preferred the Irish, Bree-an. He asked me what other Irish fiction I found interesting. I mentioned Bob Shaw, citing his The Two Timers as a particular favourite. But Bree-an had never heard of either.

Bloody Hell

A man brought me over a cup of coffee last Saturday. For Miss Lotte Lenya he had a bap with two sausage rolls in it.

We got talking. He explained that there is, in fact, a Heaven and a Hell. The way things are today, he said, you can hardly imagine the miracles our descendants and their computers will be capable of.

True, I said.

Well then, he continued, all this is a computer simulation. We're all just programs. They're running it to see how they evolved. Probably thousands of simulations, all different. Testing all the possible outcomes.

So, how does that prove there's Heaven and Hell ...?

Come on, he said, if they're smart enough to set all this up, there's every chance they'll add some phoney Heavens as compensation for all those compliant, deserving programs who've adhered to the diktats of their particular faith. One for the Muslims, and one for the Taigs, and one for Prods, for Jews . . . 

I know where this is going, I said.

Right, he said, and Hells for the heretic, or atheist, or free thinking programs, where they can be burned in unending virtual torment . . . 

I couldn't fault him. What a bummer. My happiness sickened. It’s a non-life, a non-death, followed by a non-Hell just as agonising as the real one. Dear God ...

I didn't let Lotte eat the bap. We had a sausage roll each though.

Cheers

When I was 18 and having my first alcoholic drink in the local pub the man next to me said, You are a useless piece of shit and you'll never amount to anything.

Ok, I replied, but thanks for the drink anyway, Dad ...

The end of the affair

One thing that really annoys Jean is that I'm still such a big hit with the chicks.

I was in the bicycle shop recently and, as is the way of the world these days, there was a girl behind the counter.

Wow! she said, you're still a fit looking hombre, I bet you don't need the blue pill, you rascal you ...

Those weren't her exact words. Her exact words were, A mechanic will be with you shortly . . . 

But I've made the rounds, I'm hip to this kind of sexy banter, so I caught her real drift all right.

When I told Jean about it, all she could say was, Are you 15 . . . ?

We're chalk and cheese, you see, and that's the problem. For instance, she thinks we should just ignore people who don't like dogs, whereas I think we should stone them to death or something, since hanging's too good for the bastards.

On the other hand, and surprisingly so - with her being a Prod, I mean - she's a bit of a Red. Unable even to understand that my son would never have been able to go 'up' to Cambridge were it not for the industrious, inspirational and altruistic efforts of British entrepreneurial leviathans like Tim Martin and James Dyson. To her they are merely sleekit, criminally greedy, self-regarding, regulation burning, bumptious wankers.

We have to jolt the economy, darling, I said.

Aye, but not electrocute it ... ! she replied.

She calls me a prosecco socialist, and superficially atheist.

You'll die roaring for a priest, she sneers.

To be honest, Miss Lotte Lenya is finding stairs difficult, now that she's 14. She somehow manages to fall up them, as well as down. I'm going to buy a bungalow for her and me.

Michael Praetorius spent his working life in education and libraries. Now retired, he does a little busking in Belfast . . . when he can get a pitch. He is TPQ's fortnightly Wednesday columnist.

2 comments:

  1. May God forgive me: I forgot the other day to say Happy 87th birthday to the original wild man of rock - Mr Jerry Lee Lewis. If not the greatest man ever to have lived, certainly in the top three.

    He sold vacuum cleaners and sewing machines, he played drums and piano with a local band, he auditioned in Shreveport, and tried his luck in Nashville. But when the Lewis family heard Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins and Elvis Presley, they knew that Memphis was his true destination. To finance the trip to meet Sam Phillips (of Sun Records) there, Jerry Lee’s father sold eggs - 33 dozen - along the 350 mile drive north....


    The Killer has gone to rock'n'roll heaven....I got to see Jerry lee once, been listening to his music since I was 7yrs old. Now the MDQ are all together again.... The complete MDQ session easily the best jam session ever to have been recorded....

    ReplyDelete
  2. Last weekend The Killer was laid to rest. Jerry Lee Lewis Live at the Star Club. Listen to it Quillers and play loud. This is part of a review from all music

    ...........he sounds possessed, hitting the keys so hard it sounds like they'll break, and rocking harder than anybody had before or since. Compared to this, thrash metal sounds tame, the Stooges sound constrained, hardcore punk seems neutered, and the Sex Pistols sound like wimps.

    Rock & roll is about the fire in the performance, and nothing sounds as fiery as this; nothing hits as hard or sounds as loud, either. It is no stretch to call this the greatest live album ever, nor is it a stretch to call it the greatest rock & roll album ever recorded. Even so, words can't describe the music here -- it truly has to be heard to be believed.

    ReplyDelete