THE LONE TRUMPET
"How the mighty fall, and whence they do they leave a big pair of shoes". Someone said that once, or maybe they didn't - but they should have done as it is true. True in as much as the fall from grace of love cheat David Beckham.
Following the demise of the England great yesterday, his subsequent pandering to Posh 'Queen of the Pointy finger' Spice and the stripping of his best-father-in-the-world tag, the nation is now crying out for a new hero.
Amidst ranks of the public horde, families cry out for succour as they thirst for a new soma to subdue their now active imaginations. (That was a very clever sentence - meant sh*t, but sounded clever eh?!). Their brains are now active, who do they idolise, who's face will wrap tomorrow's fish and chips.
The answer comes and the horde is silent. The answer, is grim. No-one can fill those shoes.
After years of idolatory and worship. The mass' market for heros had been swamped and marketed to oblivion. The scraps of merchandising that dropped from the Beckingham dining room table were not enough to maintain even a skeleton crew of semi-heros... The news (in it's under 40p format) has ceased.
A lone trumpet player, plays 'The Last Post' lamenting the impending death of the gutter press. The people hear it and agree with it's sweet sound. Silence, barring the pink-faced man's strains.
Bereft of life, The people look up emptily at the trumpet player and ponder... "Hmmm, he's not a bad looking chap, bit pink, smells a bit like marinade - but still he's doing a good job playing that tune".
Urged into a reprise, the trumpet player, plays again. The crowd are sated again. "He does have a good tone, bit like Roy Walker but with extra dedication".
The ball begins to roll, the masses have a new focus. "The trumpet player. The trumpet player" they exhalt. Mortgage advisors remark to clients. Ex-pats in Canada regard on his Rum-ravaged features. A short chap in London Bridge proclaims he taught the trumpet player everything he knew. A Kiwi in Stroud, continues to read the paper.
Maybe it's a new beginning (not in the Steven Gately sense - but a real one). A new life for us all.
"Who is the trumpet player" they ask "Who is this Pied (well slightly pink) Piper leading us".
But like any god, whence they question him he disappears. Evaporating into the ether of society. Only to return when he is needed again - his job is done, his work is done, on earth and at band practise. Society is returned to life. Society can cope once more with it's sickening mundanity. They quickly forget 'The High-voiced Essex One' and begin the search for the Hornblower.
The Hornblower. The Herald of a New England.
--- If you have seen the trumpet player please call this number 0207-TRUMPET (calls cost £4/min). If you have slept with the trumpet player or seen him in a compromising situation call the editor direct on 0207-HORNFKR - we will pay cash ---
"How the mighty fall, and whence they do they leave a big pair of shoes". Someone said that once, or maybe they didn't - but they should have done as it is true. True in as much as the fall from grace of love cheat David Beckham.
Following the demise of the England great yesterday, his subsequent pandering to Posh 'Queen of the Pointy finger' Spice and the stripping of his best-father-in-the-world tag, the nation is now crying out for a new hero.
Amidst ranks of the public horde, families cry out for succour as they thirst for a new soma to subdue their now active imaginations. (That was a very clever sentence - meant sh*t, but sounded clever eh?!). Their brains are now active, who do they idolise, who's face will wrap tomorrow's fish and chips.
The answer comes and the horde is silent. The answer, is grim. No-one can fill those shoes.
After years of idolatory and worship. The mass' market for heros had been swamped and marketed to oblivion. The scraps of merchandising that dropped from the Beckingham dining room table were not enough to maintain even a skeleton crew of semi-heros... The news (in it's under 40p format) has ceased.
A lone trumpet player, plays 'The Last Post' lamenting the impending death of the gutter press. The people hear it and agree with it's sweet sound. Silence, barring the pink-faced man's strains.
Bereft of life, The people look up emptily at the trumpet player and ponder... "Hmmm, he's not a bad looking chap, bit pink, smells a bit like marinade - but still he's doing a good job playing that tune".
Urged into a reprise, the trumpet player, plays again. The crowd are sated again. "He does have a good tone, bit like Roy Walker but with extra dedication".
The ball begins to roll, the masses have a new focus. "The trumpet player. The trumpet player" they exhalt. Mortgage advisors remark to clients. Ex-pats in Canada regard on his Rum-ravaged features. A short chap in London Bridge proclaims he taught the trumpet player everything he knew. A Kiwi in Stroud, continues to read the paper.
Maybe it's a new beginning (not in the Steven Gately sense - but a real one). A new life for us all.
"Who is the trumpet player" they ask "Who is this Pied (well slightly pink) Piper leading us".
But like any god, whence they question him he disappears. Evaporating into the ether of society. Only to return when he is needed again - his job is done, his work is done, on earth and at band practise. Society is returned to life. Society can cope once more with it's sickening mundanity. They quickly forget 'The High-voiced Essex One' and begin the search for the Hornblower.
The Hornblower. The Herald of a New England.
--- If you have seen the trumpet player please call this number 0207-TRUMPET (calls cost £4/min). If you have slept with the trumpet player or seen him in a compromising situation call the editor direct on 0207-HORNFKR - we will pay cash ---
Labels: cricket
posted by Anon at
12:36 pm
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