Sing-along-a-blog

Today I have decided that my blog will come to you through the medium of SONG.

You may wish to conjure the atmosphere.  In order to do this you will need a campfire, hotdogs, a few loose horses roaming around (optional) and beer.  For preference it should take place outside, but, hey, you want a campfire and horses in your living room - who am I to judge you?  Now, imagine (unless you have one handy) a burly, bearded cowboy with a guitar, plonked on a log in front of you, with a slightly surprised expression (there is always a sticky-up bit in any given log, and he's probably sitting on it, either that or he's astonished to find himself with an audience).  There should also be the slight, and unlikely, smell of hats.

Just imagine the toasting marshmallows, the singeing of fur...


Spread your blankets, people, and prepare for a sing-song!

TWANG, TWANG (it's all right, that's him tuning the guitar, the whole song doesn't go like that.)

Ohhhh gather ye people and come listen to meee
As I sing of a maiden so young and purrrdy. (stop giggling at the back, he's using artistic licence)
Her hair was as blonde as a yellowish crayon
And her clothes were all prefabricated in rayon.

SINGING - (all join in here) A TWIDDLE A DIDDLE COME FIDDLE ME FEE

Now the day came a-dawning (they talk like that, cowboys.  You just have to go with it), the day of her ruin,
And this time it weren't on account of home brewin' (you have to allow them rhyming licence as well)
Now the maiden is up to her gusset in tins,
For on Thursday she forgot to put out the bins.

SINGING - A TWIDDLE A DIDDLE ETC (you don't sing the et cetera, you sing the come fiddle me fee, obviously.  Unless you actually are fiddling your fee, in which case be quiet or the taxman will come and find you).

TWANG.  (Now is when the guitar goes all slow and plangent.  It's a good word, plangent.  I always thought they were the ones that came after the Tudors, but apparently not.)

The beautiful maiden (all right, I know), she stared at the trash,
The greasy chip papers, the half-eaten mash,
The fish cakes and sausages covered in ketchup, (I should like to point out at this juncture that this is a completely fictional song, and in no way reflects the current state of my kitchen.  No, as our cowboy would say, Sireee Bob)
And the putrid obnoxious stink there made her retch up.

SINGING - well, I'm sure you've got the hang of it now.

TWANG.  (Now the guitar goes all fast.  You can dance, if you like.  Just make sure you've got your underwear on - I speak from experience here.)

But the maiden whose form was so cute and loveleee,
She sang and she danced, so undaunted was sheee,
Picked up the beans, cans and papers with lard in -
Threw them over the fence into the next-door garden!

SINGING -

Disclaimer; the writer of this blog in no way condones the flinging of rubbish into any gardens, let alone the next door neighbour's, particularly if they are in any way armed or in possession of a big dog.

It's all right you can stop singing now.  And if I catch anyone fol-de-diddling later, it will go hard with you...