Yesterday was a pivotal moment in the Tree Faction's Annual Unfortunates' Outing and Picnic. Or so the window-licking Tree acolytes would have me believe.. I've already passed my judgement.
Tondvig the Blur Dagwald of Caedmeron gave his definitive performance at the Ð Factor beano. I spoke with Caedmeron beforehand, and he told me he was going to give it his best shot, and a life in Political Leadership was the only thing he wanted - more than anything else in the whole wide world. I tried to look sincere as I wished him the best of luck. I'd already overheard Caedmeron's strange bird that instructs him in the ways of rhetoric and public oration, so I had a shrewd idea of what was to follow. All that remained was the actual performance before the judges.
With characteristic smoothness in his stagger, he strode onto the daïs and proceeded to sing his heart out. A number of verses were delivered immaculately in a different key from the mood music that was being used as his backing. The audience grimaced. Some wept or slept. Some passed wind noisily at both ends. Others died. On several occasions, his impeccable timing caused to him to start a verse half a bar behind the orchestra. I heard one of the admirers in the audience refer to it as "syncopation", but I know for certain that it was what is referred to in musical circles as a cock-up.
He sang about cats (there seems to be a strange obsession with cats at this Picnic), and hard times a-plenty; he deviated from one of his verses and praised the Northumbrian public who were paying off their debts to help the poor, moribund economy and the suffering leetle cheeldren of the Moneylenders. The original verse enjoined the noble Northumbrians to :
"..pay the Moneylenders' dues,you know you simply can't refuse.."
This change of message caused no little controversy among the soothsayers, who were drunk with excitement and mead.
In the last verse, Caedmeron stepped up his performance and delivered a fortissimo anthem in praise of the mythical 'can-do' spirit of the Northumbrian people on their journey to their long-lost inheritance. Paradise is over the horizon (where it was yesterday, and will be ten thousand years' hence). It was rousing stuff. The enraptured crowd jumped to their feet and cheered in response to the sound of drawn swords from the Picnic's Thug Praetorian Guard. The judges were nowhere to be seen.
I crept into a corner, curled out a brown verdict - which I left uncovered - and promptly left. I'd had enough..
Post a Comment