NAILING IT.

Great shows last week Kid,great shows made possible by the old,reliable water wheel at the side of Radio Foyle. If Radio Foyle ever gets hooked up to the national grid don't sell the water wheel for scrap. Slap a preservation order on that wheel. It helped turn out some great shows in its time.
"BIG WHEEL KEEPS ON TURNING. WEE KEN KEEPS ON GIRNING. ROLLING. ROLLING. ROLLING ON THE RIVER."
When Tommy my cat and I moved into this condemned hovel,imagine our surprise when we discovered a room upstairs. At first I thought of handing the room into the police,but Tommy said,
"Finders keepers. Let's keep the room and call it the spare room."
And that,as the man said,was what we did.
I listened to the low drone of Tommy practising the cello in the spare room.
Tommy was playing,Lionel Bart's,Fings ain't what they used to be. It was good,but Tommy hadn't nailed it. He hadn't made it his own. My trained ear, the one on the left,picked up where Tommy was going wrong. The feline was playing too soft and low.
I grabbed a map of the house,ran to the spare room,threw the door open and yelled,
"Tommy, it's too larghetto! Too soft and measured. Louder Tommy. Fortissimo, Fortissimo!"
"How dare you talk like that to me?" yelled Tommy.
And little Tommy, who had always been affettuoso, tender and affectionate, suddenly became agitato-agitated, passionato-impassioned and rather, pathetique-pathetic.
I relented, which is difficult to do with your shoes and tights on and ran to Tommy and gave him a big hug. Tommy smiled and his mood turned to allegretto, playful and vivacious. As I left the spare room I turned to Tommy and said,
"Tommy, please don't take this the wrong way,but the cello should be played between your knees and not under your chin."
"Rubbish!" yelled Tommy. "I have been lucky enough to see the noted cellist, Yehudi Menuhin, perform many times at the Black Box in Belfast and Carnegie Hall in Cullybaccy and NEVER!, NEVER!" yelled Tommy, "did Yehudi Menuhin play the cello between his knees. Yehudi Menuhin ALWAYS, ALWAYS, put the cello under his chin!"
"I bow to your superior musical knowledge Tommy," I said,as I left the spare room on my belly,like a soldier or a a very, very drunk man. I went to my bedroom,picked up my harpsichord,put it under my chin and played,I am the walrus, by the Beatles. As the harpsichord got heavier and heavier,the music began to lag. I looked at my sweating face in the mirror and yelled,
"Fortissimo! Fortissimo! For Pete's sake, Fortissimo, you ugly old bag!"
But alas,I failed to nail it. I did not make it my own. Later, when the harpsichord fell on me pinning me to the floor, I remember thinking before I blacked out,
"I bet this sort of thing doesn't happen to Yehudi Menuhin. JP McMenamin-Yes! But not Yehudi Menuhin."