..and other Festive Illusions.
It’s all going to be my fault, of course.
We rocked on down into the Big Smoke last night for a Christmas concert in the cathedral in the tradition of Years Past and my expectations were pretty much fixed – Cathedral choir, Cathedral brass ensemble, Cathedral organ and some heavy duty classical stuff.
Not that I’d researched it extensively, because yesterday was pretty much the only free slot until sometime in 2011. (This oversight will come back to haunt me for years…)
Sat on the marble staircase at the back of the cathedral to choruses of “My bum’s going to be cold” and thoroughly enjoyed the Cathedral choir followed by the Cathedral brass ensemble.
By this stage, frostbite had affected the nether regions of other members of the party who proclaimed that her bum was indeed cold if she indeed still had one and she was going to find a possie slightly less arctic.
So when Johannes Kalpers started singing, I had no-one to consult with.
For example: Do they REALLY have castratos these days? And where did he hide the full string orchestra with angelic backing singers?
It’s a backing track.
So I do a quick research on the iPhone and stumble across names in the program that I’ve never heard of: Johannes Kalpers. Ingrid Peters.Marshall & Alexander.
They all look like bloody clones of the Osmonds or the Partridge Family.
Finally get a line of sight to Ms jb (relaxing under the palm trees) and express my critical verdict (subdued eye-rolling, throat-cutting motions – that sort of thing) with which she appears to concur.
A thumb motion in the direction of the exit is fairly conclusive
“What the hell was that?” I said.
“Well, YOU arranged it” sez Ms jb (cf Sentence #1) “and you MUST recognise the singer from those TV programs that you zap through”
“You mean the ones where the spectacularly lowbrow artist ends up in the vineyards, supposedly singing in the wild (but in studio quality) with the Invisible Strings?”
Other penny drops….
Good thing that we stopped at that stage to ensure that we had enough to afford our annual ration of saturated fat at the potato pancake stand.
I can feel my coronary arteries clogging up as I ty