Snow patrol - not odd, damn it!

My late father (in both senses of the word - that's the word 'late' obviously, not 'father'.  He was definitely my father, I have his chin. It's around here somewhere, just can't put my hands on it right now, and he wasn't all that father away.  Quite close, in fact.  Bugger.  Where was I?  Better get out of these brackets) (he was often late.  In fact, the hearse arrived somewhat tardily for his funeral, thereby fulfilling a family prophecy put forward by my mother on many an occasion - damn these brackets!) was a Man Who Sang.  And along with his chin, a slightly chewed biro and some strange metal things that no-one really knows the use of, I have inherited his Singing.

But what I haven't told you is, that he Never Knew the Words.  And, I too, have inherited this tendency.  Hell, I grew up thinking the song went "Bye bye Miss American Pie, drovel shevvie anna levvie budle levvie's drah'.

So now I must put to you a Question.  WHY DOES NO-ONE EVER CORRECT ME?  There I am, singing at the top of my voice, 'boodle doo' ing like mad, and no-one takes me gently to one side and points out carefully, and in words of one syllable that the Arctic Monkeys are not doo-wop singers and that their songs have real words in?  No-one. Not Ever.   Kings of Leon, apparently, do not sing 'Nyar nyar, these legs is on fah' either.  Bet you never knew that.

And then there's the words that I swear I have heard and reproduced correctly, and yet have people rolling about and wiping their eyes when I sing them, again at the top of my voice because my volume control knob is broken and I'm sick of trying to find the pliers to turn it down.

For example.  The other day, there I am, singing along to Snow Patrol's 'Throw the Shutters Open Wide', merrily bellowing 'I could sit for hours finding new ways to be odd each minute', and when my audience finally regained the ability to speak, and mopped up the puddles of resultant merriment, they told me that what he is actually singing is 'finding new ways to be AWED each minute.'

Well!  All I can say is, he should learn to ENUNCIATE.  And, speaking as someone who can, clearly and demonstrably, find new ways to be odd each minute, I have no idea what the song means now.  I had been feeling a certain amount of closeness and empathy with him up until then.  No one realises how hard life can be when one lives under the umbrella of Odd, and I thought I had finally found someone who appreciated it.  And then it goes and turns out that he's just smitten with some tart or another, and all that fellow-feeling just flew out of the window.

Don't be fooled.  These men are not Odd.  Even though they apparently chained themselves to a single radiator, they are not Odd.  Hmph.  Although, if you look closely, you can just see my fellow-feeling vanishing out of the window.  It looks a bit like a bush.

So, I am giving up my career in the world of singing.  No, plead ye not, I shall not be diverted.  I am going to dedicate my time to this writing nonsense, in which the words all mean what I think they mean, and a homogenous confabulation is simply a piece of furniture covered in embroidery.

Hmph.