Sigh. Another one bites the dust. We've lost another good 'un. I've just heard the news Jim Keays, front man of The Masters' Apprentices, has died aged 67. If there's a rock and roll heaven (don't worry, I'm not about to start singing Righteous Brothers songs, although that one is a guilty pleasure of mine), then Jim and Doc Neeson are doubtless slapping each other on the back. This is all so sobering: everyone I've loved over the years as a kid and young adult is dying. They are shuffling off this mortal coil. And we're left to deal with dross like Miley Cyrus and Kanye West. Oh, and Madonna. I will not duck for cover because I stand by what I wrote. There is really not a person alive who shits me like Madonna.
Only a few days ago I was staggered to learn of Rik Myall's sudden death. Like many of my -ahem!- vintage, I became acquainted with Rik Myall's ouevre via 'The Young Ones'. Now, I am very appreciative of Rik's talent and timing as a comic actor, and adored him in 'Blackadder', which is one of my very favourite shows and I am delighted to see my 13yo becoming a fan. But after a while, 'The Young Ones' wore a little thin on me. I couldn't see the humour in four very disparate and juvenile twerps shouting at each other. To admit you're a little disenfranchised from 'The Young Ones', and that you just don't get it, is to invite looks of incredulity from ones' contemporaries, but the fact is, I don't really get their humour at all now. But I still really enjoyed Rik in his other work, and actually saw he and Ben Elton live in 1986. And Rik is now gone at just 56. I'm curious to learn of the cause of death.
There is a very curious phenomenon out there, and it manifested itself at my home the other night. It involved my almost-10yo adamant he had put the iPod on the lounge near his father. What ensued was a frustrating and fruitless search as I shoved my hand into the crevices of the lounge to see if the iPod was there, I dragged the lounge away from the wall, and ended up sweeping behind there after seeing the accumulation of dirt. I recreated my son's movements to the best of my memory, as my son wailed at the punishment meted: not touching Mum's iPod for 24 hours once it was found. I was going to grab a crowbar and rip up floorboards, so baffling was the mystery of the missing iPod. My grizzling son went to bed, bemoaning the unfairness of life and not understanding it is high time he got himself a little sense of ownership (of his mistakes, not my iPod). After a while, my nose started to run, and I went to the kitchen and reached into the box of tissues, and lo and behold, it was the missing iPod. Now what is this phenomenon that transfers an iPod from the lounge beside Dad, to inside the tissue box? Can any of you astro-travellers, or physicists out there tell me? As relieved as I was to have my toy back, I was still infuriated at No. 2 Son, and he had to suffer the consequences. Of course him having a few hours without my iPod is worthy of me being brought before The Hague, but it would send him into conniptions to learn I actually survived 48 years without an iPod. That's not to say I didn't get pissed off whenever my Sony walkman was confiscated.
Oh, sigh again, RIP Jim Keays. I had a listen to 'Turn Up Your Radio'. How fucking awesome is that song? Everyone, turn up the radio full bore, I say!
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