The boss and I have just had our yearly dose of culture and how jolly it all was. We went to see the Bigtown Symphony and assorted choirs perform one of those holiday spectacular things. The show really was incredible value for money (mainly as the tickets had been given to us by one of our customers (I think she wants me)). We kicked off with an introduction from Dick and Ed the unbearably perky gay bar loiterers that “present” the morning show on Kissbotty Radio (home to all the hits). These are the unfeeling bastards that have been assailing me with 24/7 carols since November. I can’t tell you how much my trigger finger was itching when they started. Sadly the boss had made me leave Mr. Glock at home otherwise I might now be incarcerated in the Smalltown lock up, which as you know involves three hots and a cot followed by a spot of light fetching and carrying whilst enjoying the flirtatious company of the many, many nubile young ladies that flaunt their feminine charms here in Smalltown. Whatever, on with the show.
Clearly some of these musicians get paid more than others, I am sure that the lead violin is getting a bigger suck of the pineapple than the retard that hits the triangle, but I am guessing that the also rans that no one loves (third oboe, trombone and the like) all get about the same wedge. So my attention was drawn to the guy with the kettledrums. During the tune up time, you know that bit when the whole orchestra sounds like a feral cat with its testes caught in a rat trap, he was banging away nineteen to the dozen, he was rolling across all five drums, crossing his arms and having a grand old time. And that was it. For the rest of the evening he did absolutely nothing except at the end of every movement (or whatever it is called) when he would look up at the conductor and bang a drum in a most inaudible manner. What he did do, however, was to make himself look busy (and let me tell you kiddies, the secret of success is to look busy. It doesn’t matter if you run GE or a Coffee House, never let the boss see you resting). So during the long, long minutes of inactivity he would be running his hands over the drums, polishing his sticks or pretending to read the music. Not that he had me fooled. I just knew that buried deep in the score was a dog-eared and much used copy of the 1996 edition of Cheeks Apart Plus. Still give the man his due, at the end of every piece he would awaken from his self-induced masturbatory fantasy, look up at the maestro and as the baton fell, hit one of his drums. He really was a fine example to lead swingers everywhere and I take my hat off to him.
If I knew anything about music I would write the Bitches 5th Symphony for the Kettle Drums in G Major (whatever that means) and really make the fat smug bastard sweat. Ten minutes on all five drums and right at the end the baton would fall on the lead violin who would draw her bow across the fiddle for 1 second that no one could hear.
Finally it turns out that the boss knows quite a lot about music. Just the other day she mentioned that she was thinking of getting me orchestrated. Bless her.
Bangin’ the drum
TCB
Clearly some of these musicians get paid more than others, I am sure that the lead violin is getting a bigger suck of the pineapple than the retard that hits the triangle, but I am guessing that the also rans that no one loves (third oboe, trombone and the like) all get about the same wedge. So my attention was drawn to the guy with the kettledrums. During the tune up time, you know that bit when the whole orchestra sounds like a feral cat with its testes caught in a rat trap, he was banging away nineteen to the dozen, he was rolling across all five drums, crossing his arms and having a grand old time. And that was it. For the rest of the evening he did absolutely nothing except at the end of every movement (or whatever it is called) when he would look up at the conductor and bang a drum in a most inaudible manner. What he did do, however, was to make himself look busy (and let me tell you kiddies, the secret of success is to look busy. It doesn’t matter if you run GE or a Coffee House, never let the boss see you resting). So during the long, long minutes of inactivity he would be running his hands over the drums, polishing his sticks or pretending to read the music. Not that he had me fooled. I just knew that buried deep in the score was a dog-eared and much used copy of the 1996 edition of Cheeks Apart Plus. Still give the man his due, at the end of every piece he would awaken from his self-induced masturbatory fantasy, look up at the maestro and as the baton fell, hit one of his drums. He really was a fine example to lead swingers everywhere and I take my hat off to him.
If I knew anything about music I would write the Bitches 5th Symphony for the Kettle Drums in G Major (whatever that means) and really make the fat smug bastard sweat. Ten minutes on all five drums and right at the end the baton would fall on the lead violin who would draw her bow across the fiddle for 1 second that no one could hear.
Finally it turns out that the boss knows quite a lot about music. Just the other day she mentioned that she was thinking of getting me orchestrated. Bless her.
Bangin’ the drum
TCB
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