"Daddy, what's your favourite Beatles' song?"
"Ooh - depends. Which album are we talking about?"
"This one."
['Help' is indeed playing at the time]
"I like the one about the lady getting the Isle of Wight ferry."
"Which one's that?"
"She's got a ticket to Ryde."
[Sighs deeply, rolls eyes]
"How about on Rubber Soul?"
"I like the one about the chap who makes the costumes for Japanese classical theatre."
"Is there such a song?"
"Yes. Noh-wear Man!"
[Groans, exits sideways looking worried]
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6 comments:
Set your daughter on Germaine Greer. There's a damehood in it.
No, Gyppo, nobody has conversations like this! :-) (Though it must be a great way to help your daughter's appreciation of what is and what isn't great comedy).
I'm a big fan of the song about a trip down to the underworld on the back of an insect trying to cover up embarrassing hair loss:
"Hell on a wigged bee"
/coat
Oh do let me join in! I have been on Cuvee Lalou since 12 noon, so feel a bit befuddled, but: Estate Agent's invoice on one-storey property = Bungalow Bill.
I had a nasty moment a couple of years ago when I heard a burst of Britney Spears on a shop radio, apparently informing me that my German Shepherd/Corgi cross (don't ask) had canine distemper:
"Don't you know that your dog's sick?"
My dad does this to small children and women all the time. He reckons that the bullshit gene is passed along with the male DNA.
Suspect he's right.
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