Love is all you need..

‘I
won’t be fooled again’, I muttered to nobody in particular, knowing
full well that I will be fooled again – and again – by a relentlessly and pointlessly
changing world.
However, there are small victories to be had for the vigilant observer. School
children don’t need to have our attention drawn to them, but changing
fashion sometimes plays merry hell with the indecisive player. I was in the
bank the other day, and there was a mum and her over-sized offspring ahead of
me conducting some mysterious transaction with the teller. The boy was wearing
a uniform, consisting of a shirt and tie and shorts, socks etc. When
we went to school, shirts weren’t allowed to hang out of our trousers
– in fact, as alluded to by Bro’Dick, dress regulations at Christ’s
were arcane and draconian, and shirt tails were as verboten as dicks
hanging out on parade. So, an old codger like myself can’t help but be
mildly affronted when he sees a playground full of hirsute young men playing
soccer or some such pansy game with shirt tails flapping in the breeze. But
what does one do when one wants the world to know that one is as hip as with
one’s shorts hanging half way down one’s arse? Why, one is compelled
to tuck one’s shirt in, of course!
Those who know me now as a haphazard dresser might be shocked to know I was
once a fashion victim of some substance. I was reminded of it when Paul Culnane
pointed me at a website for the terminally dull, called The Dull Men’s
Club, and there was a link to The Corduroy Appreciation Club Website. Taking
a lead from the afore-mentioned Beatles, I once had a mustard coloured corduroy
suit made for me by the inestimable Borrie the Tailor, and I’ve rarely
been without some corduroy garment in my wardrobe ever since. Which makes me
a dag of course, but I have delusions of one day having a wardrobe full of clothes
women will swoon at, even without me in them. That and a house by the sea. I
might have to get rid of this gentle three-month pregnant swelling round my
middle first, but money, or lack of it, is the real impediment to Mike’s
luxurious wardrobe, because like everything else, one tends to make errors of
judgement along the way, and I can’t afford mistakes, so I don’t
buy anything really fashionable at all these days.
This will be my last P&W till the New Year, so I suppose I should wish my
readers, my dear, dear readers, a relatively pain free Christmas (you’ll
never make it it totally without pain) – and thank those gentle souls
who took the time to respond to the various issues I addressed over the last
twelve months. This last year has been quite an odd one, probably best summed
up, by the title at least, of the song I wrote with the ever-enthusiastic Daryl
Roberts, Limbo Man. In some ways the website in general, and P&W
in particular, has been my creative outlet in lieu of musical momentum. Next
year should be more focused – but, of course, I’m not promising
anything..