My smashing jumper gifts me a perception from others as follows:
Erect but casual.
Sure, my erection might well enter the room without me owing to extraordinary confidence from the 5th limb, but all is well; I’m wearing a jumper for goodness sake.
Of course, whilst I might find purchase in such activities as sinking into a comfy armchair to the point drowning; all is well – “They say he had an erection with him at the time he went missing”.
I am confident there are those out there who will claim that luscious hair is the means to all favourably flavoured ends, but I tend to lean rather more towards the erection side of the debate, mainly because it’s sturdier to lean on.
A 21st Century renaissance chap has newer and distinctly less reasonable facial hair than the rest of the class and a tiresome duty to type with his erection.
This is the 21st Century after all (this far).
The erections of these people are named.
Weighed and measured.
And finally hung and smoked before being unleashed upon the unwittingly nearby congregation.
The regrettably nearby congregation
And, with regards to virginity, terminally there.
And I am among them, keeping all at a 6-inch reach from me and one thrust away from grasp.
Please don’t misinterpret me here; the erection doth not the wooing, for his is merely the domain of the pleasurable presence and chemical pride.
Rather more so it is the smashing jumper that doeth the greatest woo.
These stiches know a woo or two, with a pattern so simply super that neither man, woman, beast nor basil bush can do much but falteringly implore for “Not here…my parents are downstairs”.
And whilst there might be little sway granted to man, woman, beast and basil bush, there have admittedly been some rather wall-like resistance and, in fact, submission to the fungi community.
It would seem my smashing jumper is not what once it was whilst away a’wooing.
Perhaps if I flailed?
Willingness to motion is a point desired in all but the most stationary of cultural backgrounds.
And should you see myself in such a smashing jumper as only I can actually be bothered to labour about; take care. For I’ve only a few jumpers and even fewer are smashing.
To begin with, as we know, everyone’s been dying for quite a substantial period of time.
Nobody’s not died in living memory.
We just keep it up, don’t we?
2016, in four months, robbed the world of mother and brothers, friends and lovers; most of which are unknown to all of us.
Now however, it would seem the entertainers are going.
Victoria Wood was introduced to me by my mother.
I had no idea in the slightest.
This is a very general rule for me, and becoming engaged with a funny looking lass who seemed to be wearing intergalactic clobber made it all the more so; not to mention her referencing to things which were evidently quite dull.
And then I aged.
A sad story, I know, but with these betraying years came the sublime smack of comprehension regarding the world that I had not known before.
I read a little, wrote a little, kissed here and there (once everywhere) and realised a bad time was sweaty and good time doubly-so.
And now I am as I am.
And me being what I am as I am now; I’ve gone and gotten myself and appreciation for Victoria Wood.
And I think she’s an absolute cracker.
Blending the northern grind of suburban mediocrity with the true surreal thrill-filled passion which consumes each and every one of us at our best and worse; she found her comedic niche and worked the hell out of it, building to the paramount point of glorious comedic beauty:
“The Ballad of Barry and Freda”
She, being Freda, approaching the waning years of latter middle-age, whilst also being bloody Northern, is one evening filled with the passion of Greta Garbo’s smouldering glare and Marilyn’s off-the-shoulder-strap cheek.
Freda enquires, demands, pleads, proclaims, beseeches her lover, Barry – likely a chap still working though would rather more sit and scratch – this simple statement of the still-sparkling powerful cheek of she that is forever young (sometimes)… “Let’s do it.”
Barry cringes, is unkeen to go about the act of love making owing to some “it’s not right, s’not proper at ah age, you’re just bein daft y’old blody womun”
As is his right, with the timidity of the years bearing down upon him, though much still very so in love with his Freda, he’s a tad out of rhythm when in the sack.
And he is quite honestly intimidated by his wife.
However, her passion builds, bulges become commonplace in the front room and the crescendo cometh in the form of Victoria Wood bellowing, thoroughly accented like a bloody Northerner should be, with “TONIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGHT!”
And I’m still listening to her sing it.
Recognition is the means of immortality and thus, for us, Victoria is very much so still here.
Lemmy basses about through a thousand stereos still.
Bowie’s bravery strikes chords in a million daily hearts.
And I’m reminded that I am fairly old for the average 26 year-old.
And I’d better get working.
You can’t take anything with you, but you can leave the world with something to remember you by.
And there they go.
Never forget, we’re lucky to have them…still.
Rest in peace humanity, and throttle life like you know you’re not coming back.