The Twelve Days of Christmas

The artist:
Unknown, although said to be French in origin. For the purposes of this blog, we will be listening to this novelty mash-up a cappella version from Indiana University’s Straight No Chaser, recorded in 1998. 

Mainly because it invokes Toto’s Africa in such a way that gives Geldof a pretty comprehensive slap down, their recollection of having “Christmas down in Africa” putting the mockers on the myth that the continent isn’t even aware of the festive period. You’d bloody remember it if these jokers racked up in town. 

The vibe:
That loving combination of repetitive and festive: Repeti-festive. See also: Feliz Navidad 

Lyrics & annotation:
Today I will be analysing lyrics in diary form, starting on the day before it all kicks off.

[24 December]
Dear Diary

One sleep to go til Christmas. Gonna be a quiet one this year with just the kids, what with my one true love, Margaret, working in Dubai or something. I hope she sends me something good this year – last year’s shaving kit was a bit of a disappointment and I told her as such in our latest Skype chat. I’ve sent her some shampoo and a new potato peeling set (2 x potato peelers, 1 x bag of potatoes), I’ll be a little embarrassed if she upstages me in some way. 

[25 December]
On the First day of Christmas my true love sent to me
A Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Well she’s certainly blown the shaving kit out the water, although I’d call it a score draw with the potato peeling set. At around 9am I opened the door to the surprising sight of a Yodel delivery man unstrapping a tree from the roof of his van. We had a bit of banter about the impractical nature of Marge’s gift, and I helped him carry it to the back garden where I’ve just rested it on the ground for now, I wouldn’t know how to replant a tree anyway. I noticed there was this colourful bird among the branches, I think a pheasant or something. Anyway it’s probably not a bad call as the garden definitely needed livening up, but I can’t help but think it would have been more satisfying to be given the seeds so I could plant the tree myself – I don’t mind waiting a little longer for it to grow, particularly as I don’t really like pears anyway.

The delivery man, Carl, stayed for Christmas lunch, turns out we were his only job for the day. We joked about eating the pheasant but in the end just got stuck into the turkey I got from Lidl. Was tempted to use the pears from the tree in a crumble but I don’t know how to bake, and neither does Carl.   

[26 December]
On the Second day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Bloody love Boxing Day. Footy on the box, Lidl turkey sandwiches, kids are amusing themselves or whatever. Carl stayed the night in the end, I think he’s a bit lonely. He’s a nice guy but says some right odd things at times. 

Anyway strangely there was a second part of Margaret’s present which apparently didn’t make it yesterday, and even more strangely it’s another bloody pheasant & pear tree combo. There must have been an offer on I guess. This time however, the delivery man – who Carl definitely recognised but avoided speaking to – also brought out a coop with two doves in it. They don’t look as meaty as the pheasant, and I don’t know if you can eat dove, but I can’t see why Marge would send them to us if I wasn’t supposed to eat them? I don’t really like birds either. 

[27 December]
On the Third day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Diary, this is getting ridiculous. I sent Carl out to get beers as we’re running low, and by the time he’d returned we’d acquired a third tree and six more wild bloody birds. It’s bad enough having a lonely delivery driver with bad breath and questionable views on the Asians, but now we’ve got three hens, four doves and three pheasants knocking about… I’m definitely going to eat some of them, but I’m a bit queasy about cutting them up and stuff so I think I’m going to tell Carl that if he wants to stay any longer, he has to kill and cook at least one of the birds roaming about in our garden. 

I would ask the kids but they’re only 4 and 2 years old, so I instead I sent them out to gather pears. We must be able to make a soup or a curry or an omelette or something with them? 

[28 December]
On the Fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Neighbour knocked on the door today. “Your doves are eating the seeds we’ve been planting in our garden mate,” he said. “And the branches of that second pear tree are clearly encroaching over our fence. Mind keeping handle on your back yard please boss?” 

Yeah well it’s going to get worse, pal, because that dozy wife of mine has sent four really noisy twats this time, on top of a repeat of yesterday’s six birds + pear tree. Three weeks ago she flies to Dubai, and in the time since she’s apparently a) gone mental and b) forgotten the size of our garden. Carl spent a bit of time chasing one of the French hens but he couldn’t catch it for shit, kept tripping over the Christmas decorations.   

[29 December]
On the Fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree

Dear Diary, good news today! I’m no mug, I can detect the mathematical pattern that’s going on with Margaret’s ‘presents’, and so when I woke up I was quietly hoping that it was all over and that she’d stopped the game on number 4. So I was naturally disappointed to hear the familiar murmur of the Yodel van, peeling back the curtains to take in the equally familiar sight of a pear tree strapped to its fucking roof. 

This time, however, get in! There wasn’t five of any kind of bird to go with the 10 other bastards in the van – no ducks, no ostrich, no pelican orgy for me today. Instead the driver handed me a small jewellery box, which contained inside five rings of real gold. Suddenly everything began to click – it’s a little joke of hers whereby she sends me loads of impractical things I don’t really like (pears, birds), and then follows it up with a whole host of shit that I can fit in a drawer and sell for cash. “Can I have one?” asks Carl, invading my personal space as he leans over my shoulder to check out the rings. I laughed and tried not to suppress my increasing contempt for this guy. “Make me French hen pie, then maybe we’ll talk,” I lied. 

Suddenly, I no longer dread the Yodel van. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?! Six Fabergé eggs? Six iPads-a-charging? Six days in the Bahamas? 

[30 December]
On the Sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Six Geese-a-Laying, 
Five Gold Rings, 
Four Calling Birds, 
Three French Hens, 
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Not fucking funny. 

[31 December]
On the Seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

New Year’s Eve, 7pm, most of the world is already pissed and getting ready for cracking night out, and I’m digging the old paddling pool out the shed so these twatty swans can float around instead of breaking my arm or my neck or whatever it is they can break. And there’s massive fucking goose eggs and bird shit everywhere. I want to go out on the lash but I’ve got to look after the kids - I would get Carl to look after them, but I don’t think I can trust him not to steal the gold rings or get one of my kids eaten by a swan. So instead it’s the four of us having a night in with Jools Holland, plus the RSPB jamboree outside. To make matters worse, the neighbour’s having people round his. I reckon he would have invited us, but our relationship is a bit weird now, his cat tried to attack one of our calling birds but one of the swans came to his rescue and twisted the cat’s ankle. I tried trimming the branches off the pear trees but the pheasants started going mental and the branches just fell down into his garden anyway, which just pissed him off more. 

[1 January]
On the Eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Last night was alright, all things considered. Kids popped off to bed early, although the older one threw a shit fit when she found 15 turtle doves in her room. Get used to it kid, I thought, we’ve nearly 100 birds in the house now and no doubt more on the way. Me and Carl got smashed on Lidl vodka and played FIFA, which is difficult when you’ve got all manner of wild birds pecking at your face and flying in front of the screen and what not.

Anyway today I was making a nice goose egg and bacon sarnie, to help with the hangover, when the bell goes. It’s later than the normal Yodel delivery, and up until then I thought I’d got away with it, with it being a bank holiday. Well, this one’s a little tough to explain. The van with the usual delivery was there, but alongside them was an unusual sight. Up until this point I don’t think  I’d ever seen an actual milk maid, I wasn’t really sure if they really existed, but here in front of me were eight of them, and more than that, all at work milking things – cows, goats, almost anything you can imagine a maid milking. 

Tried Skypeing the wife to find out wtf was going on but the screen had been pecked to the point of destruction.

[2 January]
On the Ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Nine Ladies Dancing,
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Back at work today which would normally be shit but quite frankly it’s good to get out the house. All a bit mad here now, Carl’s trying to get one of the maids help him catch a goose for us to have for tea, but the dozy cow caught one and tried to milk it. Came home to what has to be classed as a result, certainly in relative terms. There were these nine girls all dancing with Carl around the Christmas tree in the lounge, one of them doing some nice samba stuff, another doing the robot, I think one of them was doing some solo line dancing. There was twerking, even a morris dancer, it was mad. Carl, who by now has been in my room and helped himself to a gold ring for each finger, was loving it. 

Been thinking of getting an extension to the house. The goose eggs have started hatching all over the shop, and I’m not really comfortable with Carl staying in my bed, even if we are also sharing with two ladies, five maids, one lost pheasant and six or seven turtle doves. 

[3 January]
On the Tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Ten Lords-a-Leaping,
Nine Ladies Dancing,
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Well Carl did it. He caught a bird, wrung its neck and fixed us up a cracking roast with apple and sage stuffing, cider gravy and assortment of carrots, parsnip and roast tatties. It was genuinely delicious, even if we struggled to get some to everyone, what with there being 50 people in the gaff. But size of portions aside, the only real issue was that Carl had mistakenly cooked a swan, thinking it a goose, and had done all of this right in front of an apoplectic member of the aristocracy – he was hoppin’ mad, I tell you. Tell the truth, his nine mates were all a bit mental, jumping around all over the shop, exacerbating what was already a charged atmosphere. 

The Queen’s Guard came round and took Carl away for Crimes against Swans. I miss him, in a way. One of the Lords smashed a wine glass and a maid broke my Playstation.   

[4 January]
On the Eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Eleven Pipers Piping,
Ten Lords-a-Leaping,
Nine Ladies Dancing,
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Alright well Dave from nextdoor’s been round again, and to be fair to him I can hardly blame him. Not only are these Lords proper Bullingdon bellends, smashing up the gaff and throwing pears and goose eggs at his house while calling him an ‘oik’, I’ve just let in eleven even noisier bastards. In the end we had a bit of a row, shouted it out, calmed down a bit, and after some negotiation he’s agreed to take eight ladies and one piper to stay at his. 

[5 January]
On the Twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Twelve Drummers Drumming,
Eleven Pipers Piping, 
Ten Lords-a-Leaping,
Nine Ladies Dancing,
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

So Margaret hasn’t been in touch for a few days, I can only conclude that she totally lost her shit while in Dubai and is curled up in a ball in an institute somewhere, naming species of bird. In any case, I tried to explain to the kids, but they don’t really know what’s going on at all anymore, what with all the noise and the mess and the squalor – and, today, the media coverage that’s cropped up since Lord Carrington of Buckingham put a call into Sky News and got them to come down and do a piece on poor people. “In this house live two children yet in the bathroom alone I counted 15 French hens and 27 swans,” the reporter shouts earnestly to camera over the sound of two heavy metal drummers engaged in a duel. “The garden is practically a forest of pear trees, one piper told me that he hasn’t eaten since he arrived yesterday, and the maids have milked every species in the house dry. And yet when I open this cupboard, here stored away, 30 gold rings, each and every one 24-carat gold.”

The authorities put the kids into social services for the next 12 days of Christmas, while I had to do a course on ethical cleanliness and general hygiene in the household. I received my BA (Hons) but it didn’t make up for the hate campaign the Daily Mail led against me for the next six months and Nigel Farage’s promise to deport me if he won. He didn’t win, but it’s still annoying. 

Conclusion:
Christmas gifts needn’t always be serious or mainstream. They can be light-hearted or amusing, left-field or alternative. But if you are thinking of playing a joke or doing something ‘random’ or ‘wacky’, then consider the consequences for the recipient of the gift. 

Even if we were to presume that the actual protagonist in this tale is a possessor of large plots of land, with ponds aplenty and plentiful living quarters, it remains impolite to burden upon someone such a large number of animal and human guests without prior warning. 

That is without even considering the implications from an animal welfare perspective. Keeping 224 wild birds in a domestic environment is nothing if not irresponsible, and probably illegal.

Overall one can presume that the 'one true love' in this instance meant well, but in the end has inadvertently caused stress and disorder for their other half at presumably considerable expense.


The Stats
12 x Partridges in a Pear Tree
22 x Turtle Doves
30 x French Hens
36 x Calling Birds
40 x Gold Rings 
42 x Geese-a-Laying [unspecific number of chicks born]
42 x Swans-a-Swimming
40 x Maids-a-Milking
36 x Ladies Dancing
30 x Lords-a-Leaping
22 x Pipers Pipping
12 x Drummers Drumming 

Feel It by The Tamperer featuring Maya

The artist:
The Tamperer featuring Maya

These Italian purveyors of hackneyed Europop briefly stumbled into our lives in the late 90s, like a merry tramp accidentally wandering into a private party at the Hilton. After treating us to a hearty rendition of Feel It, they were swiftly shown the door and were never heard of again, presumed lying in a ditch somewhere outside of Florence. 

The album: 
Fabulous (1998) 

The opening track confidently declares that If You Buy This Record (Your Life Will Be Better). Information on how many people heeded this advice is difficult to come by, and such is the lack of online presence, one might surmise that many in the late 90s missed this great opportunity to improve their fortunes. 

It’s shit, by the way. And not in a ‘so shit it’s good’ way either. Track 5, I Love Being A Girl (I like every flavour / Boys in every style / I like it when they feed me / I like it when they smile) could be a collaboration between the Crazy Frog and the corpse of Jade Goody, such is the level of talent, subtlety and wit on display.

In fact, it is such a standard bearer for pathetically inane lyricism that I felt the need to do what no man on the internet has done thus far, and transcribe the lyrics:
http://theworstsongseverwrittenbyman.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/i-love-being-girl-by-tamperer-featuring.html 

The vibe:

The bells are a direct edict from the Lord: thou shalt drop all distractions and make thy way to the church dance floor for renditions of The Worm, The Robot, The Macarena and any other clichéd school disco routine. 

Lyrics:
You got it on the side
A little one night thing
I thought it over and this time I will forgive you
Well I'm not letting go
But don't forget I know
You made your bed and she was in it, no no no

What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?

Well I'm not blaming you
But she's still hanging around
And she's so crazy, tell ya now I just don't trust her
She thinks she's right on time
But I think she crossed the line
And I'm ready for the ride, I'm ready if it's fighting time

What she's gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?

Annotation:
The song is clearly a message from Maya to her other half concerning a third party of the female gender, so first thing’s first, who is ‘she’? A ‘little one night thing’ that one might put ‘on the side’?

Sounds like Maya and her other half have run out of booze and so have called in a Knighthawk delivery, an expensive course of action but when you’re desperate, you’re desperate. Maya is quick to forgive the other half for having drunk the house dry, and in Verse 2 is rightfully irritated by the fact the delivery is late and yet the driver, unusually a woman in this instance and presumably contacted by phone, is insistent that she is not. However the suggestion that ‘it’s fighting time’ seems a bit excessive – there may have been traffic or something. 

Why the delivery lady spent time previously in their bed is unclear. What I do know is that making a bed while there’s someone still in it is just downright stupid. You’re liable to wake them up and ultimately they’re just going to get out and mess up your work all over again – a little patience wouldn’t go amiss.

The chorus is devoted to asking how the delivery woman might appear in the unlikely event of a chimney being balanced upon her person.  

Conclusion:
Being a deliverer of alcohol late at night seems dangerous territory for a lone woman, so kudos to the unnamed driver for her unperturbed bravery, even if her timekeeping leaves something to be desired. 

Maya meanwhile is belligerent and curious, willing to contemplate violence as a response to poor customer service, inquisitive as to the visual consequences of human beings wearing household structures.

The boyfriend sounds like a bit of a domestic moron who doesn’t wait for individuals to get out of bed before making them. 

The main thrust of this song is just an inquiry, and if someone had just bothered to crack out MS Paint all those years ago, then we could have saved ourselves the bother of this whole palaver. 

She would look like this:

*Drawn on Windows 7 version of Paint which would not have been available in 1998. One might expect the results to be similar.  

Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz

The artist:

 
In theory the wankiest concept known to man: famed musician known for being cheeky poster boy of Britpop devotes following decade to pretending to be a cartoon. In practice, Gorillaz are one of the most innovative listenable genre-spanning artists of the 21st century, with 2010’s Plastic Beach collaboration-fest bordering on the verge of masterpiece. Real life members are confirmed as being Cockney genius Damon Albarn and his comic book mate Jamie Hewlett; cartoon members vary between abducted Japanese child who will one day give evidence at an inquiry and disgusting pervert thing that will one day be subject to an inquiry.

Also featuring on this record are the hip-hop stylings of Del the Funky Homosapien, of rap supergroup Deltron 3030. Later on this album, Del’s funky credentials are confirmed in Rock the House, while his Homo sapiens credentials are confirmed by various photographs taken of him in which he appears distinctly humanoid.  

Clint Eastwood, after whom the song is named, is a popular actor who once conversed with an empty chair because he thought the President was sat on it. 

The album: 
Gorillaz (2000)

At the turn of the century, aged 12, I reached the conclusion that music was good, and Gorillaz’s self-titled debut was the first album I invested in. On reflection, a bizarre concept album from a ‘virtual band’ was a fairly hipster choice for first ever piece of music bought, but at the time being a hipster wasn’t a thing so I didn’t receive much stick for it.
 
The album is at least 80% bipolar, lurching from the party-on-a-pirate-ship positivity of Rock the House, all the way down to New Genious (Brother), which is a musical manifestation of a swamp crocodile slowly feasting on the gammy carcass of a fallen wildebeest. Somewhere in between you’ve got Slow Country, a Caribbean lonely hearts page, and the Spanish interpretation of purgatory as expressed in Latin Simone. 

The vibe:

To listen to Clint Eastwood is to ride an apocalyptic merry-go-round based in Chernobyl, upon which all of the horses are mutated in some disgusting way – fun, if disconcerting.  

Lyrics and annotation:
[Chorus: 2D]

I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad
I got sunshine in a bag
I'm useless but not for long
The future is coming on
I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad
I got sunshine in a bag
I'm useless but not for long
The future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on

Lead singer 2D uses the chorus to note the subtle intricacies of language: while being ‘happy’ and feeling ‘glad’ may be synonymous, they are not automatically interchangeable, with the concept of happiness tending to symbolise a contented overall frame of being, and gladness referring to a more temporary sensation of satisfied pleasure.
 
The source of this short term pleasure is a recent purchase of some kind – he has popped into HMV or perhaps iTunes and acquired one of the numerous DVDs, books or albums entitled Sunshine. A short bit of Wiki-investigation shows us that it sadly couldn’t be S Club 7’s third album, as that came a year later, but could be a copy of the American monthly digest of the same name, which allegedly was filled with “uplifting articles and anecdotes”. This explains a lot – an uplifting anecdote would instil a burst of gladness without having the requisite importance to one’s being to fulfil a deeper happiness void.
 
2D’s already had a browse as he is clearly feeling very uplifted - he spends the rest of the chorus informing us that he’s generally feeling positive about things to come.
 
[Verse 1: Del the Funky Homosapien]
Finally, someone let me out of my cage
Now, time for me is nothing cause I'm countin' no age
Nah, I couldn't be there, now you shouldn't be scared
I'm good at repairs, and I'm under each snare
Intangible, bet you didn't think so I command you to
Panoramic view, look, I'll make it all manageable
Pick and choose, sit and lose, all you different crews
Chicks and dudes, who you think is really kickin' tunes
Picture you getting down in a picture tube
Like you lit the fuse, you think it's fictional
Mystical? Maybe, spiritual
Hero who appears in you to clear your view when you're too crazy
Lifeless to know the definition for what life is
Priceless to you because I put you on the hype shit
You like it? Gun smokin', righteous with one toke
Psychic among those, possess you with one go

Enter Del, and he immediately expresses relief at being freed from some form of inhumane imprisonment, not befitting of a self-declared Homo sapien such as he. Nonetheless, judging from the liveliness of his delivery upon exit, it hardly seems like he has served a Mandela-esque stint – indeed, he boasts that he didn’t even count how long he was cooped up for, implying that he doesn’t own nor want a watch as time for him is ‘nothing’.
 
The main theme of verse one is Del’s helpfulness with someone struggling with the art of amateur photography. He alludes to an ability to fix hardware problems early on, although swiftly betraying that he is something of an impatient and bossy teacher – ‘bet you didn’t think so I command you to.’ However the real subject of his technical proficiency becomes most apparent from line #6, in which he assures us that he can make the wide angled panoramic function on one’s mobile phone or digital camera a ‘manageable’ affair.

Taking shots like this needn't be
intimidating with the right tuition

When one reads backwards from this point, suddenly his previously confusing lines make sense: ‘Nah, I couldn’t be there’, a reference to an attempted panoramic by a clumsy amateur photographer, resulting in Del appearing in a comically inaccurate position; ‘Now you shouldn’t be scared’, assuring the same individual that, although no doubt challenging, we mustn’t ever be afraid of expanding our horizons (no pun intended) beyond standard-angle shots.
 
The reference to his ability to repair the situation is self-explanatory, while the ‘snare’ he discusses is not the noun but the verb: to capture or catch (i.e. in a photo). He also assures us that he is familiar with the photo editing software – the ‘picture tube’ of course being a PaintShop Pro term for graphic images with no background.  
 
The rest of the verse is slightly self-aggrandising regarding his teaching ability, at one stage claiming this advice is ‘priceless to you’ and declaring himself a ‘spiritual hero who appears in you to clear your view when you’re too crazy’. Although rhythmically pleasing, this is probably a little arrogant to put on a business card.
 
[Chorus]
 
2D remains glad and perky about his future. Perhaps he is one of those receiving photography tuition.
 
[Verse 2: Del the Funky Homosapien]
The essence, the basics, without it you make it
Allow me to make this, childlike in nature
Rhythm, you have it or you don't, that's a fallacy
I'm in them, every sprouting tree, every child o' peace
Every cloud and sea, you see with your eyes
I see destruction and demise, corruption in disguise (that's right)
From this fucking enterprise, now I'm sucked into your lies
Through Russel, not his muscles, but the percussion he provides
With me as a guide, y'all can see me now cause you don't see with your eye
You perceive with your mind
That's the inner, so I'mma stick around with Russ and be a mentor
Bust a few rhymes so motherfuckers remember
Where the thought is, I brought all this
So you can survive when law is lawless
Feelings, sensations that you thought was dead
No squealing, and remember: that it's all in your head
 

One of Del's self-placement Photoshops

A continuation of the lesson, Del assures us that the art of good photography is to walk before you can run – ‘the essence, the basics.’ And, he is going to explain everything in non-jargonistic ‘childlike’ language, which hopefully won’t be too patronising. One can only assume that around lines 4 and 5 Del is showing us some Powerpoint slides in which he has used his Photoshop skills to place himself among various trees, children, clouds and oceans – a somewhat egotistical way to highlight his abilities, but as we learned from Verse 1 this is hardly out of character.

At this stage the whole thing gets a bit dark and he rounds upon the college that employs him – ‘this fucking enterprise’ – for apparently representing concealed corruption and dishonesty. One might imagine he considers them responsible for his recent forced captivity. While this outburst in front of his students is a little unprofessional, he nonetheless assures them that he isn’t planning on throwing in the towel: ‘I’mma stick around with Russ and be a mentor.’ Russel Hobbs is the drummer of Gorillaz, seemingly drafted in as some kind of teaching assistant.
 
He closes off by informing the class that his motivation for teaching comes from a belief that photography will be valuable within a society that lacks rule of law, perhaps for monitoring police brutality or catching a politician cheating on his wife. He closes with a reminder - ‘it’s all in your head’ – that good photography lies more in mental, rather than technical, ability.
 
[Chorus]
 
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future

2D really wishes to emphasise that he is positive about his future. The implication is that he not only attended Del the Funky Homosapien’s amateur photography course, but he also found it a worthwhile experience that taught him valuable technical skills, boosted his self-esteem and looks good on his CV.
 
Conclusion: 
Del is something of a maverick in the classroom, railing against his employers and boasting of his abilities in often coarse and colourful terms. If his cohort was that of a primary or secondary school class, then this would simply be unacceptable. As it is, you would only expect photography courses to be offered at higher or adult education institutions, and so while his methods may remain unconventional, we needn’t entertain moral panic over his use of obscenities. 
 

Sometimes when you teach you have to work
outside conventional boundaries

More to the point he is clearly an effective and likeable tutor. While some of his technical references highlight his impressive in-depth expertise, he nonetheless maintains an accessible and easy to understand approach to teaching: beginning at the basics, reassuring his class when they get overwhelmed and providing many useful pointers along the way.

Perhaps most tellingly of all, if 2D’s delighted feedback is anything to go by, he can expect a glowing report when the Student Satisfaction Surveys come in. Considering his unconventional style of tuition, his undoubted popularity among his students, his questioning of authority and his considerable issues with his employers, one detects more than a whiff of Dead Poets Society about Del the Funky Homosapien’s teaching career. Should that be the case, come the day of reckoning, the reinvigorated 2D can be expected to be the first to stand on his desk and salute ‘O Captain, My Captain’.

Paint It Black by The Rolling Stones

The artist:
Mick Jagger, front man of The Rolling Stones, and I share much in common. We both have walked somewhere in the vicinity of the London School of Economics at some point, although if you believe the ‘Notable people’ section of LSE’s Wikipedia page his drop out doss-about years are worth more to the institution than my fully completed MSc. Also we were both at Glastonbury in 2013, but we didn’t meet, and I missed him play because he was playing too far away.

The album:
Aftermath (American version) (1966) 

Confusingly only the Americans were considered worthy of having Paint It Black on the Stones’ fourth album. The rest of us had to do with Mother’s Little Helper, a bit like when Ryan Giggs would get injured and United would bring in Quinton Fortune.

On the plus side, the album does come with two misogynistic anthems in Stupid Girl and Under My Thumb. It’s comforting to know that some 50 years later Jagger still has an influence with students at his Alma mater.

The vibe:
An ill-fated cavalry charge which you don’t realise is ill-fated at the time – if he had an iPod, you could just imagine Napoleon cruising to Paint It Black on his way to Russia, for example.

Lyrics:
I see a red door and I want it painted black

No colours any more, I want them to turn black

I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes

I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

I see a line of cars and they're all painted black

With flowers and my love both never to come back

I see people turn their heads and quickly look away

Like a newborn baby, it just happens every day

I look inside myself and see my heart is black

I see my red door I must have it painted black

Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts

It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue

I could not foresee this thing happening to you

If I look hard enough into the setting sun

My love will laugh with me before the morning comes

I see a red door and I want it painted black

No colours any more, I want them to turn black

I see the girls walk by, dressed in their summer clothes

I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

Hmm, hmm, hmm,..

I wanna see it painted, painted black

Black as night, black as coal

I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky

I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black

Yeah!

Hmm, hmm, hmm...

Annotation:

On first listen Mick Jagger certainly comes across as a man of very specific and fairly restrictive taste when it comes to matters of décor and fashion – a purveyor of mourning chic or something along those lines. Frequent references to one specific colour leads you to believe this is the case – but, listen a little closer and you soon learn that he’s perhaps not as obsessive as first appears.

In fact there is only thing that he actually specifically wants to be black: his front door, unhappy with the current shade of red and other assorted colours. I can sympathise – red can often be garish and unnecessary where a more understated and civilised ‘Number 10’ look would do the trick. He later explains that the specific shade he is seeking is night/coal – classic black in other words. Refined; classy.

Eiw

Also on Jagger’s mind is the inherent shyness of the British psyche, no doubt chuckling to himself as he notes the irony of strangers avoiding eye contact on the street in the same way he does when he gets shy around a group of girls. Curiosity about both staring directly into the sun and developing a Mr Burns style device to block out its rays further indicate his daydreaming state of mind.

But with the loss of some flowers and a significant other, his DIY ambitions have became the primary focus of his attention. In many ways, this is healthy – relationship experts would probably advise taking up hobbies in those lonely quieter moments, and work around the house leaves a man with a sense of productivity and achievement.

Jagger explains that the inspiration for his choice comes from a moment where he happened upon a coincidental row of identically coloured cars. Seeking further confirmation that this is a ‘sign’, he misinterprets an X-Ray scan at a later hospital appointment, not realising that the black space where his organs are supposed to be doesn’t actually represent his organs. Nonetheless he has happily settled on his choice of colour for the front door. 

That ain't your heart, Mick

Conclusion:

Like so many popular musicians’ anecdotes, Paint It Black fails to come to a satisfactory conclusion, and we are left wondering whether Jagger was able to acquire the necessary supplies to paint his front door. In case he still hasn’t got round to it, 46 years later, I made some enquiries to establish the best product on the market.

The Valspar range is
available exclusively at B&Q.
Mick should pop into his local branch to
ensure the tone is just right. 

Quickest to get back to me was a helpful Scottish gentleman from B&Q, who assures me that he can “recommend one paint and one paint only” for the job, and that's the Valspar Exterior Wood & Metal. Advising that Mick take the requisite time to prepare the paint properly first, the Scot is confident that 2.5 litres was "more than enough" to cover the front door. He can get this at a slightly pricey £39.99 (£15.97 per litre), but with Jagger’s fortune estimated at £200m, he might consider the extra outlay a worthwhile investment. Critically, when it comes to starting the job proper, Mick must ensure he paints the contact surfaces first i.e. the slim side that goes on the hinges, the bit that touches the latch etc. I forget why, but apparently this is important.

However should finance ultimately be an issue, then he may be better off opting for the smaller quantity Wickes Exterior Gloss, with 750ml available for £14.99. Gloss is recommended over a matte finish, as scratches and general wear and tear tend not to show quite as clearly. 

Homebase didn't get back to me.

Nonetheless part of me believes that all those years ago Jagger did manage to identify the paint he desired and completed the job to a satisfactory standard. I certainly hope so - this song really had me rooting for him and his decorative ambitions, the cute little misunderstanding at the hospital only endearing him to me further. And as Aftermath reaches its conclusion, the final track Goin’ Home perhaps give us a little nod and a wink towards his success: I’m goin’ home … I just can’t wait, I just can’t wait. Is that because there’s something shiny and black greeting you when you get there, Mick? 

Ballad of a Thin Man by Bob Dylan

Ballad of a Thin Man by Bob Dylan

The artist: 

Bob Dylan is an inspiration to us all, highlighting how a positive outlook, a pleasant singing voice and the ability and desire to make sense needn't be necessary to becoming a world renowned singer-songwriter. 

The album:

Highway 61 Revisited (1965)

At times this album is suited to absent-mindedly poking your waffles with your fork while sat in a Minnesota diner, wherever Minnesota is.

Meanwhile Tombstone Blues and the title track are getaway numbers – if the crime is the armed robbery of an emu farm, and the getaway vehicle is an emu. 

Therefore in many ways you can say that Highway 61 Revisited represents a microcosm of blue collar Midwestern life in the United States.

He's just following orders

The vibe:
Musically Ballad of a Thin Man is a death march, as conceived and executed by the characters of The Magic Roundabout. One can almost taste the sadism of Zebedee, cigarette in mouth and bayonet in hand, as he mercilessly drives you through an unspecified desert.

Lyrics & annotation:
Such is the complexity and length of this evolving narrative, the song will need to be broken down and annotated along the way.

You walk into the room

With your pencil in your hand

The most likely kind of people to do this would probably be journalists or quantity surveyors. Therefore we will work on the basis that Mr Dylan is referring to somebody who belongs to one of these two industries.

You see somebody naked

And you say, “Who is that man?”

Any good journalist is inquisitive and tries to establish all the facts early on; any good quantity surveyor would question the presence of nudity in the workplace environment.

You try so hard

But you don’t understand

Just what you’ll say

When you get home

Based on industry demographics an average quantity surveyor is married with 1.2 children, and he may well indeed struggle to explain to his other half why his day involved ejecting a construction site streaker. Mr Dylan anticipates awkward dinner time conversation; frankly I think his wife would see the funny side.

A journalist is more likely to be a single professional who works from home – in which case this verse likely refers to the difficulties he will encounter producing engaging copy for this particular story. ‘Man Naked In Room’ is unlikely to be considered a particularly ground-breaking scoop, even at a local level. Any concern the journalist has about his editors’ reaction would not be unwarranted.

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

With a more specific reference to the identity of our journalist/quantity surveyor protagonist comes a somewhat cruelly pointed question from Mr Dylan. Whereas one might expect the singer to empathise with Mr Jones’ confusion, having been greeted by a naked man, the way in which he phrases this question in fact suggests he almost revels in it, demanding confirmation of his ignorance. Perhaps the quantity surveyor is in the employ of a new local development which Mr Dylan opposes, such as a wind turbine that he considers ugly and intrusive; perhaps the editorial

The benefits of wind energy weren't properly understood
in the late 1960s

line of the journalist’s newspaper is broadly in favour of said wind turbine. Either way, the kind of pettiness on display from Mr Dylan really is typical of your local neighbourhood NIMBY.

You raise up your head

And you ask, “Is this where it is?”

And somebody points to you and says

“It’s his”

And you say, “What’s mine?”

And somebody else says, “Where what is?”

And you say, “Oh my God

Am I here all alone?”

At least one person has misunderstood someone else in this exchange. My guess would be that the second person actually said ‘it is’, and not ‘it’s his’, in other words affirming that this is indeed ‘where it is’ – ‘it’ presumably being the source of the news item, or the construction area ready to be surveyed. What follows is an unfortunate breakdown in communication, resulting in Mr Jones somewhat melodramatically losing his cool – he’ll likely feel a bit silly when he looks back at this particular exchange.   

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Mr Dylan’s goading of Mr Jones clearly does not aid the situation – he probably could have just pointed out how the above misunderstanding came to be, instead electing to seek further superfluous confirmation of Mr Jones’ bemusement.

You hand in your ticket

And you go watch the geek

Who immediately walks up to you

When he hears you speak

And says, “How does it feel

To be such a freak?”

And you say, “Impossible”

As he hands you a bone

With the song predating mass access to computer technology, the term ‘geek’ has connotations of being well-read rather technological. The journalist or quantity surveyor is meeting an academic of some kind, perhaps an expert on local governance, a logical candidate for consultation or interview.  Clearly book smarts can’t buy you manners however, and Mr Jones has every right to feel somewhat affronted by the distinctly non-professorial, aggressive and insulting opening gambit – regardless of the fact it is accompanied by a novelty gift, which Mr Jones can pass on to the dog when he gets home. One can probably surmise from his confrontational nature that the academic is also opposed to whatever project it is being introduced to the immediate area.

Nb. The ‘ticket’ is likely to be his parking stub – perhaps this new development will bring an increase in free parking spaces, something the likes of Mr Dylan and the academic often fail to appreciate. 

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Yes but he’s trying to establish the facts from an expert now, just let him get on with his job.

You have many contacts

Among the lumberjacks

To get you facts

When someone attacks your imagination

Any journalist reporting on local issues needs to develop an appreciation of the consequences for the man on the street and industry in the wider area. Clearly this particular reporter considers the timber industry a key stakeholder, likely responsible for providing a large proportion of materials and labour towards the development. If they are able to assist Mr Jones by providing the sorts of statistics and citations that back up his newspaper’s editorial line, then all the better.

Likewise quantity surveyors ought to maintain good relations with the construction industry as a whole, with lumberjacks no exception.

Mr Dylan’s antipathy to Mr Jones is all the more surprising when you consider how good at his job he seems to be, whatever job that is.

But nobody has any respect

Anyway they already expect you

To just give a check

To tax-deductible charity organizations

Considering the highly provocative onslaught from the academic, the nude state of the initial gentleman who greeted him and the constant repetitive harrowing from Mr Dylan, the assertion that he is suffering from a lack of respect is probably a reasonable one. For this to then be followed by an expectation for Mr Jones to personally support local charities seems cheeky, almost churlish.

The Guardian: "the characters in The Great Gatsby
are in themselves very flawed and
very hard to sympathise with". Sounds familiar

You’ve been with the professors

And they’ve all liked your looks

With great lawyers you have

Discussed lepers and crooks

You’ve been through all of

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s books

You’re very well read

It’s well known

It seems that Mr Jones really has gone above and beyond in carrying out a suitable amount of research into the feasibility of this project, consulting figures in academia and law, considering its implications for healthcare and local enterprise. Even Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby deals with themes of ‘resistance to change’ and ‘social upheaval’ (Source: Wikipedia) - the fact that Mr Jones has gone to the trouble of consulting these works of fiction shows that he is serious about this debate, questioning its significance from a philosophical perspective. 

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Well he’s clearly at least made an effort to grasp it; overall discourse surrounding these issues would almost certainly benefit from individuals such as Mr Jones taking the time to establish facts and gain perspectives from across the board. Those like Mr Dylan, who remain entrenched in a mindset and attack others on a personal level, serve only to dumb down discussion.

Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you

And then he kneels

He crosses himself

And then he clicks his high heels

And without further notice

He asks you how it feels

And he says, “Here is your throat back

Thanks for the loan”

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

This street entertainer is, at this stage, the most welcoming and polite member of the local community, probably because he is expecting Mr Jones to throw a few coins into his hat. In the 1960s stem cell research was not sophisticated enough to facilitate throat transplants; as such, the sword swallower is probably mistaken about the ‘loan’ in question. This may just be another misunderstanding - it's more likely that Mr Jones would have lent the sword swallower a goat, a coat or - less likely but still possible - a boat. 

Now you see this one-eyed midget

Shouting the word “NOW”

And you say, “For what reason?”

And he says, “How?”

And you say, “What does this mean?”

And he screams back, “You’re a cow

Give me some milk

Or else go home”

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Once again Mr Jones finds himself being insulted for no reason other than trying to start a dialogue with a local. Once again, there is more than a hint of extortion about the whole affair – now it’s expected he provides dairy products as well as altruistic donations.

In the defence of his attacker on this occasion, being a one-eyed midget in any community is going to be difficult, dealing with the inevitable challenges that arise along the themes of discrimination, bullying and acceptance. Of course that doesn’t mean it is acceptable to hurl abuse at out-of-town business people or media representatives, but one can sympathise more with this individuals’ less secure frame of mind. His disabilities may have resulted in difficulties gaining employment, and there’s a chance that having one eye and being extremely short did not entitle him to the disability benefits available through the US social security system at the time. Thus the demand for milk could simply indicate a shortage of funds for groceries – he may wish to use it in a nice soup, for example.

Well, you walk into the room

Like a camel and then you frown

You put your eyes in your pocket

And your nose on the ground

There ought to be a law

Against you comin’ around

You should be made

To wear earphones

Because something is happening here

But you don’t know what it is

Do you, Mister Jones?

Dylan truly nails his NIMBY colours to the mast here, suggesting that this development and indeed the presence of ALL local developers should be illegalised. Underlining his fear of the outsider once and for all, his anti-progressive insular ideals are complemented by an ‘earphones for out-of-towners’ policy, presumably to prevent them from being able to hear local conversation. If he lived in the UK today, he would probably vote UKIP. The whole thing about walking like a camel is probably racist in some way.

Conclusion:
We all have bad days at work, and clearly Mr Jones is no exception, whether he works for the press or for a construction firm. Presumably he entered Mr Dylan’s community in the hope of acquiring necessary quotes, materials or permissions in order to do his job properly, but instead was met by a wall of obfuscation and sabotage. After this encounter, Mr Jones no doubt dreads returning to the area, fearing further insult, confrontation, blackmail or extortion.

Following the quantity surveyor hypothesis, Mr Jones has his work cut out. Local opposition is always going to make a developer’s life more difficult, and this particular community seems united in their desire to torpedo this project. Subsequent visits to site to try and persuade them of its benefits are going to be a necessity, but having already exhausted many avenues of expertise, one struggles to see just how this can be achieved. Perhaps it would be prudent to consider a Plan B option elsewhere - while I’m sure Mr Jones is a consummate professional who would never overtly express such thoughts, he probably secretly wonders as to the benefits of trying to bring progress and sophistication to a local community as backward as Mr Dylan’s.

Things look somewhat more positive for Mr Jones should he in fact be a local reporter. He clearly has enough material to write a reasonable length feature about this unnamed town’s opposition to corporate development, with quotes from academics, lawyers, lumberjacks, street performers and midgets. And should he particularly want to, he can use his position of public prominence to stick the boot into Mr Dylan and his perpetual rudeness as well. If you’d had the day that he had, could you really blame him?