Observing a bingo session taking place in a wooden hut at a sea–side resort has led me to believe that I know why the Church is suffering from poor attendances. This hut had the appearance of a chapel. There was the congregation sitting in rows eagerly clutching bingo cards instead of hymn books. The high altar was a platform on which the preacher was calling out numbers instead of delivering a sermon. He was assisted by altar boys and wardens to ensure the smooth running of the service. Instead of amen and hallelujah, shouts of “bingo!” rent the air to rape the solemn quiet.

This substitution of images is becoming a habit. Not only have the flickering flames of the family hearth been replaced by the flickering images of the TV screen, but the church service is being forsaken for the bingo session.

In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was bingo!

Two in a bar
I was invited to leave my perch in my local the other night and go with a drinking mate to another pub that features a trad band once a week. I declined the invitation and this rather puzzled the guy. Surely a musician would prefer to be in a pub that had music rather than stay in one that had none. I didn’t bother to explain to him that listening to music is hard graft for me. I can’t just listen and relax, tapping my feet to the beat the while. I find myself analysing and contemplating why the musicians get around a chord sequence in that particular way.

The sad thing about getting older is that we are prone to becoming blasé. Once everything was fresh and exciting—and then my memory began storing up all it heard. Now it has so bloody much that only the talented artists can pass the censorship of my own built–in computer. Then, and only then, music becomes a pleasure.

So I let my architect pal go off to his musical pub and I hope he was able to tap his feet into orbit. I remained in my music–less pub and listened to the sound of human voices undergoing various stages of inebriation. Come to think of it, that can be hard graft also.

Arise, Sir Jazzington
 I am secretly preparing to circumnavigate the globe single–handed and thereby receive my knighthood. Being of an original turn of mind, I’m going to do it the hard way. I am working in my subterranean workshop converting a Bechstein Grand into a sea–worthy craft.

The tiller will be a double bass with the f holes plugged, the sail a harp with old Spud Murphy arrangements sewn to the strings. The mast was a bit of a problem until I hit on the idea of straightening out a serpent.

I am setting sail from Buckler’s Hard some time this month so I’ll be back in time for Xmas. I have reckoned that if I set off at about 180 crochets to the fathom and then vivace a litttle when I go past the Scilly Isles I’ll be able to make it okay. So I’ll see you when I receive my accolade. There will be none of Drake’s rusty old sword for me: I want it done with a platinum flute. I think I will adopt the full title of Sir Jazzington of Archer Street and so become the first jazz knight.

Devilled tongue
I was shocked to learn of a vicious rumour concerning myself currently rife around the West End and God knows where. Had it not come to the ears of a real friend I might never have learned of its existence at all. Now, I am usually a fun person, albeit cynical. But my sense of fun deserts me when I learn that I am supposed to have thrown my wife and two kids out of their home, am now living with an ex–girl friend and we are both popping the hard stuff like crazy! How’s that for a particularly vicious way of describing a guy who is happily married and has no intention of being anything else? I will have a drink and a chat about old times with any ex–girl friend and I still manage to absorb sufficient poison into my system by way of pint glasses to satisfy my main vice. If I ever find the evil person who wishes me so much ill–will I will sue, Sweet Sue!

Natural break
The recent disruptions of T.V. programmes have given rise to some of the most turgid rubbish being transmitted in the place of the usual commercials. I used to think the music used in them was bad enough, but it would seem that there is no limit to the absurd sounds that can thump your ears under the guise of music. If verbal counterparts of this ‘music’ were to be spoken it would amount to nothing more than gibberish. I hate non–music and we are getting more and more of it to put up with, what with Muzac, or whatever it’s called, and the like. No art form should ever be so debased as to become just something to fill in a hole in the programme, least of all music.

More and more I am inclined to think that the discovery of sound recording, and indeed any form of mass reproduction of art, is a truly retrograde step in the evolution of mankind. Just as mass education relieves the people from the unforgivable sin of illiteracy and yet results in the reading of tons of pulp literature, so the technique of recording sound has resulted in tons of plastic being impregnated with diabolical sounds. Goethe and Shakespeare count for nowt as long as people only read Hank Jansen and Batman–and who really cares for Beethoven and Ellington when rubbish is dispensed at every available opportunity?

Why not have a couple of minutes silence? I know they say that Silence is Golden, but these days it’s so hard to come by it would seem that it has priced itself out of existence. But please, no more of this non–music.