On a Sunday recently, in a galaxy not far away….
Cornflake and I have just got in from a roast dinner in a local pub. Very nice. A sunny Sunday evening in Primrose Hill, blue skies, families, couples and a few rowdy fashion types. Not particularly note worthy, but very nice.
As we left, the pub sound system was playing, Play that Funky Music White Boy. An oldie but a goodie, I think we can all agree.
I can’t shift it out of my head, I’m humming it, singing it, waggling my head to it.
I wish I wouldn’t. The music of our youth doesn’t suit old age particularly well.
There was a grey haired bloke in a van outside Koko a while back, he was singing along to his radio, holding the steering wheel tight, agitatedly rocking backwards and forwards to The Clash. He was loving it.
What will the old folks home Xmas parties be like? Fragile ancients using their zimmers for pogoing purposes, enthusiastic pensioners eager to get their old moves out in Soul Train type dance lines, it’ll be mayhem and super dangerous for fragile hips.
Anyhow, I’m sure that if there is a heaven, it will have disco balls.
fat tart 