It's not been a great month. I am summoned to the youthful, guitar-plucking presence of MIN's editor, Steven, to explain the unfortunate circumstances surrounding my after dinner speech (unpaid) to some ghastly music press knees-up and music awards ceremony in Dundee, of all places. The event would have gone swimmingly but for three rogue factors:
1. Jose Cuervo Tequila: A tequila of note.
2. My choice of topic
3. Some fat, know-it-all, waste-of-skin, Glaswegian bagpipe-maker whose name the company lawyers have forbidden me to write or even refer to in any way even though it sounds very much like 'McFuckwit' (This is exactly what I mean! Ring me. Ed.)
It's true that I may have had one or two 'margueritas' too many before the dinner but, in my defence, they were free and excellent. Nor was the improvised speech entirely my fault as somebody with a red beard (a woman, I think) spilled her vodka and Irn Bru over my notes rendering them all but unusable.
It's strange what topics appeal to a mind half-submerged in tequila. I'd half-heard a story on the nocturnal BBC World Service about the Welsh self-assembly government (That's Ikea, isn't it? Ed.) helping itself to people's organs. I thought this would be a good topic on which to start. I told the assembled throng that I myself had once possessed a huge organ built, reputedly, by the famous nineteenth century drunk and bankrupt, John Avery. Unbeknownst to the landIord, I had it reconstructed in the stairwell of our house in Abergavenny. It was ideal for keeping up my Bach and Buxtehude and also had enough punch about it for some Sorabji and Saint Saen when the occasion or alcohol-level demanded.
It was at this point that the chairman started to tap my elbow. I decided to ignore this putting it down to some local custom. I continued describing the qualities of the instrument and how it provided an interesting conversation piece for visiting dignitaries to the Abergavenny area. The elbow tapping continued but I was not to be put off. Our neighbours complained that the vibrations caused by the pedal stops were adding to the subsidence which already blighted our shared party wall. Mrs Vapor appealed to the better side of my nature and we had the instrument removed and, after a brief psychotic episode during which I believed that the instrument was possessed by the spirit of its builder, John Avery,... burnt.
I began to notice that many in the audience seemed puzzled. By now a considerable debate was going on. This rose in volume as I castigated the Welsh Assembly Government for being nothing more than a Stalinist-inspired, district council on steroids incapable of organising fornication in a brothel. Bodies such as these are too powerful, I said. They've got enough to keep them occupied with basic problems of modern life like dog-mess, pot-holes and spandex cycle-wear without marauding through the countryside, sequestering church and chapel organs without so much as a 'by your leave'! Heaven knows what problems this would cause numerous religious foundations in Wales! I was not surprised, I reported rather topically, to hear that Dr Barry Morgan, The Archbishop of Wales, a man whose name is almost synonymous with 'organ', had waded into the debate saying that if the Welsh Assembly Government just helped itself to people's organs, then organ voluntary donations (Shouldn't that be 'voluntary organ donations'? Ed.) might even decline. But before I could bring the matter to a conclusion, my delivery was rudely interrupted by 'McFuckwit', or whatever his name is, from Table 16 in the far corner of the polished floor that comprises The Dundee & District Zumba Studio.
'He's nae talking aboot Church organs, ya daft twat!'
At first, I mistook this for an ungainly attempt to muscle in on the proceedings so gave as good as I got.
'It's organs today but what will be it tomorrow?' I yelled back, rhetorically. 'People like you are never satisfied. That's your problem! It starts with organs but where will it all end? Dogs? Er... Cats? State ownership of children? The end of the Union itself!'
To my amazement, the audience seemed to be siding with 'McFuckwit'. Amidst increasingly urgent requests for me to sit down and be quiet, the tapping at my elbow had now developed into full-blown tugging.
'What is it? What the hell do you want?' I yelled at the chairman. Calmly, he explained in under 140 characters, without the aid of glove puppets that the organs refered to in the BBC World Sevice report were the sort used in transplant surgery and not the large, wind-powered musical instruments often found in religious buildings. Seeing that the crowd were turning nasty, I decided to beat a hasty retreat to the bar whilst a fashionably short Scottish composer brought proceedings to a close.
All would have been well, had 'McFuckwit' not decided to continue our frank exchange of views in the bar. This resulted in a brief tussle during the course of which I bit off a tiny section of McFuckwit's ear; no bigger than a Waitrose sample; no more than any international footballer would have taken; an amount constituting less than 2% of the whole ear. I am now bound over to appear in court in November. I forget the charge but being under Scottish Law it's probably something like 'being foreign in a public place and attempting to eat a bagpipe maker at one sitting'. Who knows, my next few columns might be sent in from some oubliette in the Scottish borders. (Steve, Please put your appeal for to help with legal costs here. Regards, QV) ...
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