Dreadful Old Man
When old Perry Venus and I were out doing The Longest Crawl, we met a lot of lovely people. One rosy-cheeked old gentleman who we met in a Worcestershire cherry orchard could not have been more charming or more helpful when telling us about the old days in the hop yards. We said goodbye to this ancient paragon, and drove up the road. Neither of us said anything for thirty seconds, until I said ‘What a dreadful old man.’ We laughed, quite a bit more than the gag deserved. After that, everytime we met somebody nice, we would always say something snobbish when we drove away. ‘Dreary old shit’, for example, or ‘Foul old woman.’ It was a running joke, and I’m very glad that no one could hear us.
I’m very glad no one was taping our private conversations, and glad we didn’t have to listen to them back. Whoever kept their tape recorder running while poor old Gordon laid into that foul old woman should be sacked, and so should the jumped up shit of a news producer who played it on air. So should I, probably, for linking to it here.
And yet…. we were joking. Gordon wasn’t. He couldn’t take one Lancashire lady telling him the real concerns of real working class people without classifying them as ridiculous bigoted disasters. We shouldn’t have heard it; but he should have been able to listen to what the lady was saying, without tantrumming.
In the meanwhile, here’s Denim singing about The Osmonds, to help keep us focussed on the forthcoming Seventies come back.