I’m a spaceman

A vocal introduction to the bars of Mars and other rubbish.

Una ciudad rinde homenaje a su pintor: Gran Bingo Goya, Zaragoza

Una ciudad rinde homenaje a su pintor: Gran Bingo Goya, Zaragoza

A very early mother-in-law in the Saxon swamps took her daughter to the Betty Mahmoody Evil Muslims flick and at the end asked her, tears welling in her eyes, “Has he asked you to go to England?” To which she replied, “Mum, I’m not pregnant.”

This wonderful lady it was who decided after 50 years to have a weekend away from her natal village but awoke on Saturday morning in great psychic distress because she couldn’t hear her familiar soundscape of church bells. So the whole party upped and returned.

But the motif seems to nag at MILs to barbarians in general, and the latest splendid example has just concluded that, rather than perhaps needing a proper job, a car, or a wardrobe of suits, I should … fly some more.

It occurred to me late yesterday that I have been doing very little else for quite a long time. So, rather than succumbing to a case of Flow my Dowlands, here, courtesy of Audacity and my Skype headset, are the MP3 and lyrics of a little ditty from the depths of the night.

Health warnings:

  1. Thanks to Vodafone I’m still without internet at home a month after requesting it, so the story progresses more according to the rhymes occurring most rapidly to an unconnected brain than to any logical or factual imperative.
  2. Quite a lot of tunes choose to scull the waters of my brain, and while I believe everything I produce is sufficiently original, fear preys that Google will eventually out. There must be a word for this.

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