Plughole / February 25 2008
A sausage-fingered piano player I know from a few years ago called at the house last night to ask if he could book the studio for a few days. He is someone I have never liked or respected and I must admit that I took great pleasure in turning down his request.
If I said that he was a wonderfully charismatic and witty individual, my assessment of him would be woefully inaccurate. If, on the other hand, I were to describe him as a deceitful and grotesque clown, I would be confident that I had portrayed him with scientific precision.
‘Good Lord, have you been working out in the gym?’ I asked him. He was massive; he had practically tripled in size since I last saw him.
‘Oh yes,’ he said, ‘The old me went down the plughole with the wife.’
I had no idea what he meant by that but I was sure of something: ‘You’ve been spending too long on the weights, matey,’ I told him. ‘I don’t think you’d actually fit into the control room. There are oxen in that field over there that are frailer than you.’
‘You’re so funny, Napoleon,’ he sniggered. ‘You always made me laugh, you did.’
Playing to type, I joked with him for a another minute before telling him that the studio wasn’t taking any bookings at the moment. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘it’s a definite “no”.’ I continued: ‘And that’s as funny as I can be today, I’m afraid. My scriptwriter is on holiday.’
His shoulders dropped, he seemed heartbroken. I could not clearly make out the expression on his face because his bulk was blocking out most of the light from the moon but I am fairly certain that his countenance was one of crushing disappointment. ‘Oh well,’ he shrugged, ‘Bye.’ He turned to leave.
I took a moment to study him further before he receded into the umbra. He had an unlikely appearance: a colossal frame with bulging muscles that gave the impression he was wearing the clothing of a child, arms too swollen to hang properly by his side - they sprouted from his torso at 45 degree angles, minuscule buttocks, and a disproportionately small head with tiny pig-eyes and a double chin. These, combined with several other irritating features, gave the impression that he and his ancestors had spent too long at the shallow end of the gene pool.
The size and profusion of muscles in his legs meant that he was forced into adopting an ungainly waddle as he walked back to his Ford Focus, into which he had considerable difficulty getting.
I could not help but feel slightly sorry for this man and his hard-won abnormalities and nearly called him back, but I quickly came to my senses and managed to keep my mouth shut for once.
Usually, I hate saying no to people but on this occasion I was happy to make an exception.
Filed under Clowns / Idiots / Musicians / Other People / Recording Studio
Comments
2 comments on “Plughole”
Nelson Galaxy / February 26th, 2008 at 5:43 pm
Is this the same sausage-fingered piano player that I used to be aquainted with? He does sound like a proper clown, but then he always was.
Napoleon Fantastic / February 27th, 2008 at 12:48 pm
Nelson,
T’was ever thus.
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