As I commence putting pen to paper, the soundscape of Adele singing her melancholic refrain ‘When We Were Young‘ reverberates around my living room.
Obviously, the source of the Tottenham-born singer’s lament is my smart speaker; the one where Alexa resides rent free. The superstar (Adele, not Alexa) hasn’t, of course, travelled to my modest West Yorkshire apartment to perform the song live… Yeah, she rang last night to cancel after contracting a condition called St Michael’s Clack.
Obviously (again), the last sentence of the above paragraph was fictional… There is no such thing as St Michael’s Clack (I googled it). Consequently, I have concluded Adel’s lack of attendance is down to not being arsed to drive from London…… Bloody hell, talk about me milking a weak gag for all it’s worth!
Going back to Alexa living rent free in my home, I have contemplated seeking financial recompense for her tenancy. However, as the speaker she resides in affords her cramped conditions, and the suggestion may impact her responsiveness to future song requests, I will waiver any monetary recompense.
Anyhow, moving on…
Recently an acquaintance randomly inquired which five famous individuals (dead or alive) would I invite for a dining party I was hosting. My initial reaction upon hearing this question was the whimsical retort of “Mind your own chuffing business you nosey get!”
After receiving a sneering chunter under their breath for my tongue in cheek repost, guilt hit me and I decided to pay proper mind to this friends intriguing inquiry. Leading to me asking the questioner whether the deceased invited to this hypothetical nosh up would arrive in their living state.
Although assuming they would be, I felt it prudent to clarify. After all, a skeleton perched on a dining chair would add little conversationally. Other than perhaps one of the other guests proffering “Are you ok, Frank?… You’re looking a bit peaky today.” to old Bonesy.
I would also suggest having a skeleton at the dining table would do little towards achieving my aspirations at creating a warm, aesthetically pleasing ambience for my diners.
Anyhow, after receiving confirmation deceased guests would attend this hypothetical clambake as they appeared in life, I provided this buddy with the five companions I would most like to dine with.
As the individuals I chose had all popped their clogs, the re-assurance they’d appear as when alive was a mighty relief… Call me picky, but I’d venture an evening sat with five skeletons is at best warped, and at worst really f***ing warped.
Anyway, to calm your inquisitive mind, here is this list of invitees from whom I’d expect a diner party RSVP: – Frank Sinatra, John F Kennedy, Groucho Marx, actor Robert Shaw and Peter Sellers. These ‘lucky’ recipients being offered an evening of good food, flowing drink, and revelation of my great ‘Parrots Eat ‘Em All’ anecdote.
The choice of Robert Shaw may surprise a few individuals. No doubt he was an actor of some note, but I guess he wouldn’t appear in many selections from people faced with a similar question.
The simple reason I’d like Mr Shaw’s attendance is I’m intrigued to know if, in the iconic movie Jaws, he regrets damaging the radio on his sinking boat the Orca. Ultimately resulting in him being eaten by a Great White Shark… And yes I know that was fictional, but that decision has psychologically troubled me since first seeing Steven Speilberg’s film in 1975.
Sinatra, JFK, Groucho and Sellers would no doubt feature on many peoples invite lists. To my mind, the best singing voice, most colourful politician, not to mention two of the funniest men to have graced this small and messed up globe.
I envisage they’d be accomplished raconteurs, keeping the conversation flowing with a swiftness the Aldi branded bourbon will be poured throughout the evening. – Well I’m not buying for the expensive stuff with those five as guests… They’d flaming bankrupt me… Bloody pissheads!!
Footnote – I cite JFK as the most colourful politician of recent decades. Of course, this ‘chromatic’ behaviour has been hugely overshadowed by the disgusting antics of the 45th US president, Donald J Trump… However, with absolutely no desire to ever meet the Shit Kicker King, my invite stays firmly with the president assassinated 7 months after my birth.
As I draw towards concluding this monologue Elton John’s Rocket Man is now playing in the far corner of our living/dining room. If you’re reading this Adele, at least Elton made the bloody effort to get here!…… God only knows, though, how he got that grand piano through the front door of my apartment.
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