Last night, in front of assorted tables of assorted mums, dads, brothers, sisters, and miscellaneous, Molster stood - all cloakless, tinsel-haloed prog rock god - at a fancypants keyboard, and played Last Christmas. Very well. With all the twiddly bits and everything.
All right, so there aren’t really that many twiddly bits to Last Christmas. In fact a lot – a lot - of Last Christmas goes:
Derderderderderderderderderderder der dader
Derderderderderderderderderderder der dader
Dadadadadadadadadadada da dada
Derderderderderderderderderderder der dader
And this she did. With the rest. The twiddly bits.
Despite people holding me down last night and force feeding me dirty booze, I managed to film it rather well. My video camera is decidedly non-digital, being the size of the suitcase you'd have to take were you only allowed to take one suitcase on a three month cruise, crank powered, and full of midgets chipping individual film cells into lumps of slate. Were it not I would certainly share the joy of Yamaha derderder with twiddly bits.
Mol, I am very, very proud of you. I can’t play Last Christmas on a keyboard, not the derderder, not the twiddly bits. I can’t even remember how to play Jingle Bells on the chime bars, which was the highlight of my childhood musical triumph. You, in Wham terms, rock.
So you see, I can explain why Last Christmas is squeezed between Tom Waits and Yann Tierson. Give me a minute or three and I’ll come up with an excuse for Wake Me Up Before You Go Go
Things To Do
Cake:
Pressies:
Pressies from kids:
Cards:
Decorations:
Christmas dinner: yeah, right.
Booze:
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