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Comedy's own twist in the plot
I assure you, sir, this isn't the first time, said the disembodied voice on Mr Bell's invention, laughter like fairy bells tinkling all the way down the line.
- By Kevin Martin, Special to Gulf News
- Published: 00:07 May 22, 2008
I assure you, sir, this isn't the first time, said the disembodied voice on Mr Bell's invention, laughter like fairy bells tinkling all the way down the line.
My own voice, meanwhile, lapsed into freeze mode while my face, although I could only feel the flush, undoubtedly matched the red handset - crimson taking on scarlet.
Another victim of entrapment, lulled by the polite, dulcet "Please hold, sir," tones followed by five full minutes of Bohemian Rhapsody.
True, Rhapsody is not exactly a singalong song like The Yellow Rose of Texas but if, like me, you're a child of that era and can recite some of the lyrics backwards or diagonally, and even if you're aware of the lurking dangers of being on an open line alone with Freddy Mercury, you throw caution to the shamaal that hasn't yet started blowing, and join in, tentatively at first, then, with growing confidence, as the "Please Hold" cements itself and you settle in for the wait, even forgetting momentarily that you're "On Hold".
And so it happens that when I, lost in the lyric, am exhorting Scaramouche, "Scaramouche, will you do the fandango?" that I hear what, momentarily, sounds like an interposed lyric, like one of these ultra-techno mixes where the DJ intersperses a few random phrases into well-known lyrics, so that you have, for example: 'Feelings (oh, bay-bee!)/Nothing more than feelings (oh, my sweet baaay-beeee!); or, 'I'm a rocket man (Rock it, bro)/Rocket man (yea, bro)/burning out his fuse up here alone (No, bro!).
Yes, so Freddy and I were trading Scaramouches when, into the mix as it were, I hear a jaunty 'Yes, sir?' I have resisted, ever after, the impulse to break out in song when left on 'Hold' in the company of a familiar artiste of yesteryear.
There have been times, honestly, when I've mentally pleaded for someone as modern as perhaps Jay Z, Beyonce or Rihanna, whose tunes I know little of and am, consequently, safe with.
Anyhow, all this telephonic resistance to song veered off in an unforeseen direction recently, when the karaoke machine, no doubt a first cousin of piped telephone music, turned up quite unannounced at a gathering at which I happened to be present.
Singing lyrics
The fun element was in singing lyrics we were totally unfamiliar with, although we thought we knew the songs by heart. I was reminded of the occasional sub-titled film where, for example, the actor says to his class, in a Californian drawl, 'Cut the chatter.
Gee, it's like a knife slicing through my brain.' And the sub-title reads: 'Cut the Chatterjee. Is like a nice sly thing. True, my brain.'
I mean, there's an entirely different plot waiting to be fleshed out from the sub-title. Ditto the karaoke set we got to use.
My friend Ryan got to do this version of Rod Stewart's 'Rhythm of My Heart': 'Oh the river of my heart/Is beating like a drum/and the words I love you/Rolling off my tongs.'
Barney, another mate, ended up crooning this, and it's now up to the reader from hereon to guess: 'Slow drops and daffer dills, butterfly sand bees/Say boat sand fishermen things often see/Wish you well, wedding bell, early morning due/All kind soft everything remind me of you.'
Yes, there was no escaping but thanks to the all-encompassing laughter that had built a safe wall around non-existent pitch and other absent musical sensibilities, wading into the uncharted waters of restructured lyrics was a safe exercise after all, as poor Sting helped take us out: 'I look out and cross/The river today/ Icy a city in the fork and an old church tar/Where the sea girls play/I saw the sad shy horses walking home/In the so dear light/I saw two priests on a fairy/October Greece on a cold winter night...'
Here's to that un-pencilled in moment of hilarity that, in the field of comedy, complements its mysterious half-brother, the twist in the plot.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
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