The Music Man

Great show yesterday Kid. Tommy my cat peeped out of the cupboard where he was pretending to be an old packet of Bisto long past its sell by date, stared at me accusingly and roared, "Why does that man want to play the accordion? Are not the air waves choc-a-bloc with music?"

I grabbed the phone and called, Rent A Tickler.

As he got busy with his tickling stick, I laughed and said, "Ah Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. How little you know of the dark, secret world of accordion players. That would-be Jimmy Shand does not want to make music. NO! He wants to be the life and soul of the party. He wants to be the one to whom people say,

"Willie John, strap on your auld accordion and give us a blirt." He wants to be the centre of attention. He wants to stand out in a crowd. That would-be accordionist," I yelled, "wants to ease his insecurities. He suffers from lack of self esteem. He has no interest in music. He probably hates music, especially accordion music, but when he is pointed out in a crowd as the accordion man, all feelings of quiet desperation will disappear and he will be SOMEONE! He will be, 'The Man' He will be-ACCORDION MAN!"

"My, my!"said Tommy. "What an insight you have into human nature.What an incisive mind you have. Why, the saying, "Not just a pretty face" could well have been written about you."

"It was," I said, blushing to the roots of my corns. "A man once said, I was the most ugly thing in God's creation."

"And who am I to disagree," said Tommy. He looked at me slyly and said, "Why don't you strap on your auld accordion and give us your wheezing, asthmatic version of "The Hills Above Drumquin?"

I nearly broke my neck as I spaltered to get my according. For the next hour or two, everyone would be looking at ME. I would be the centre of attention. The spotlight would be on ME!.ME! I tell you-ME!

Tommy lay back in his Lazy Boy chair. He had a smile and, for some strange reason, a fly look on his face.

As I expanded the accordion, like a python, he softly muttered, "If music be the food of love, hand me a sick bag."

I met him at last! Frank Mitchell that is. Hewas standing at a bus stop waiting for a bus to Hollywood.

"Frankie goes to Hollywood," I giggled under my breath.

"Mr Mitchell!" I yelled. "Could I have a moment of your time please?"

Frank looked at his wrist, the place a watch would have been, had he owned one and said- condescendingly, "I'm very busy.

I am a star, you know. A star of stage, screen and my local dole office. What do you want? And make it snappy. And DO take of your hat. You are talking to a celeb."

"Mr Mitchell," I yelled, "could you give me ten reasons why you go around Ulster looking for the ten best this and thats?"

"As a child," said Frank, in a very cultured tone, "my mother used to send me to the forge with a list. I just happen to have one of the lists in my fanny pack. Would you like to hear it?"

"By all means," I replied, gazing in awe and wonder at his puce, fanny pack.

He cleared his throat and began to read, "Dear Mr Blacksmith, this is my son Frank. You will probably notice that he has a donkey with him. Here is a list of the things I want you to do with the donkey.

(1) Shoe the donkey's right front foot.

(2) Shoe the donkey's back left foot.

(3) Shoe the donkey's back right foot.

(4) Shoe the donkey's left front foot.

(5) Check the donkey's teeth.

(6) Comb the donkey's hair."

"Shall I go on?" said Frank.

"No," I said, "you are suffering from heredity listitis. There is no none cure. Go to Hollywood in your endless quest for Ulster's ten best this and thats."

How sad! How terribly, terribly-sad!

All this and more have I seen, as Sarah Travers and I wrote rude things on the tele-prompter and then read them out to much giggling, and high, falsetto girlish laughter.

You should have seen some of the things little Sarah wrote.

OH MATRON! Take them away!