Mrs M seems to be having withdrawal symptoms from the remote control. This object, once so regularly used to flick between various episodes of Next Top Model, has hardly left my side during the World Cup.
Realising her pain at such a loss I suggested she chose something good for us to watch whilst a less important match was on last night.
To my horror her remote controlling finger stopped pressing when we arrived at the latest American import known as Glee.
I had seen the odd trailer for the show so knew that it might be the type that I wouldn't fully appreciate. Nothing, however, could have prepared my for what I was about to witness.
For those who haven't seen it let me explain. It is set in a stateside high school and uses all the usual reference points to carry the story. Their are jocks and geeks and other groupings of American teens showing an unhealthy amount of disrespect for one another.
This series has a twist, however, in that it takes one such group and draws them together around their passion for performing arts, making them more Gleeks than Geeks.
This is where the show takes a turn for the worse as we are subjected to cheesy song after cheesy song set in a storyline that adds further helpings of savoury dairy products.
For this middle aged nothern male it represented sheer pain.
When I was at school the only musical we came near to performing was Porgy and Bess. That was because we had a substitute drama teacher for one term. She was full of enthusiasm and convinced that the boys in the class should experience the joy of singing in front of other people.
In truth, most of us were secretly drawn to the idea but we had to maintain our usual air of disdain for fear of being ridiculled.
Cast in the lead roll I was required to sing 'nobody knows the trouble I'm in' using my best deep south accent.
I didn't have such an accent and the teacher kept asking me to make it sound less like a football chant.
The following term our substitute teacher had disappeared along with my embarrasment at having to sing in front of the class.
Perhaps this is why I revile at the sight of these over enthusiastic American teenagers turning every mundane incident into a song.
I mentioned to Mrs M, in passing, that I preferred the football and she sang, with full musical actions, the main song from Glee as she went to make a brew.
'Don't stop believing'
'You might need that song when you watch the England match tomorrow' she said with a smile.
As long as I don't end up singing 'nobody knows the trouble I'm in' I replied hoping that my footballing dreams won't be shattered.
England - Glee or Porgy & Bess
Cultured or Second Class
I have been trying to get a bit of culture in my fairly ordinary life.
This sounds like it should be a relatively easy exercise if it weren’t for
the fact that I am a full northern male with, what was rather
discouragingly called, a secondary education.
Perhaps this title isn’t meant to imply a sub-standard academic
environment; however the address given by our deputy head master at our
opening assembly certainly did.
We sat before him as a group of gangly eleven and twelve year olds looking
for the kind of pedagogic inspiration we have become accustomed to in our
primary schools.
‘At an establishment down the road’ he began, referring to the local
grammar school. ‘They are being trained to be the cream of society’ he
continued as if imparting wisdom. ‘I want you to know, however, that you
are not second class’.
Until that assembly I had never considered that I was, being glad to
attend a school that played both football and rugby.
Now, as I approach fifty, I consider it is never too late to become
cultured. So as I waited for Mrs M to finish her nursing shift last week I
listened to Pavarotti’s performance of Nessun Dorma.
At the same time I surfed the Internet to find the words. This didn’t
completely prove fruitful, as I didn’t learn Italian at my secondary
school.
Fortunately the World Wide Web is not limited by my lack of education and
provided me with an English translation.
It turns out that Puccini was an old romantic and the song contains a very
moving lyric.
My computer didn’t stop there in trying to bring me culture. It seems that
those who know about such things are very passionate about naming their
favourite performer of this operatic masterpiece.
It seems that Britain’s Got Talent contestant Paul Potts doesn’t please
the opera going public of these fair isles.
When my bride finally arrived home I shared my newfound knowledge with her
and insisted that we did our own comparison by listening to several
singers
one after another.
Mrs M wasn’t immediately keen on the idea but soon came round and so we
listened, and we listened, and we listened.
After hearing nine tenors I had two conclusions; Firstly, Pavarotti was a
genius. His performance stood out above the rest. Secondly, my education
was, to some degree, secondary because our deputy head master never told
us
about the brilliance of Nessun Dorma during any of his assemblies.
Nothing to wear
We are heading off to a conference this week and we have had our usual 'I haven't got anything to wear' conversation.
I don't want to sound unsympathetic but I approach the issue with a completely different perspective than my dear Mrs M.
We entered this dialogue immediately after an in-depth assessment of my wardrobe methodology. Apparently my bride doesn't feel that my system gives full honour to the hard work she has put into the ironing.
I foolishly asked her to explain her comments and so we stood in front of my proud collection of shirts and pants whilst my wife explained how I wasn't making good use of the available space.
I tried to seem interested but I couldn't help feeling that I was letting down all male members of the human race by spending too much time looking at cloth. I mistakenly said this thought out loud and was informed that I was as old fashioned as the corduroy jeans that have mocked me for the last five years. I bought them just after they changed the sizing system to make Medium the new Large.
Anyway, faster than a speeding knitting needle, my wife rearranged my clothes into an order that made her sigh with satisfaction.
'There you are!' she exclaimed.
In deed, there I was; my garments were now gathered in order of smartness and colour. My best shirts were neatly lines to the right and my comfortable, if slightly scruffy, T-shirts were waiting for me on the left.
Granted, it had a certain aesthetic appeal but I wasn't convinced that it offered me anything of any use.
Therein lies the difference between my bride and I; the question I ask when looking for clothes is 'are they fit for purpose?' Not so Mrs M who assures me that she looks at the bigger picture.
I realise at times like this that it is pointless arguing so I agreed to so order my wardrobe knowing too well that I would forget the next time I come to hang up the nicely ironed clothes.
I asked Mrs M why none of her many clothes would suit our upcoming conference. I didn't word it like this of course; that would imply a certain amount of sarcasm.
At this point she gave me lots of information that seemed, in her world at least, to sound rational. All I remember was that the black trousers weren't the right kind of black and that most of her outfits would be no use if the weather turned warmer.
After nodding my sympathetic agreement I put my shirts and trousers in the case; never once did I question their colour or suitability for warm weather.
