Picking first violin for the Coupe Mondiale is turning into one of those nightmares where Sheila Shag knocks me in the ribs and tells me to stop scaring the neighbours with all the groaning and wailing.
Dan’s not showing the old virtuosity like he could. Not saying he won’t, just saying he isn’t. Having a couple of sproglets now won’t be helping with his relax and recuperate, and I bloody wish the Red and Black One-Eyed Symphonia would stop playing him out of position. He’s a first, not a second, or he’s nothing. Bloody play Sladey out the back, I said to the Adder, not up front: where do you think I’m gonna play him, for Ted’s sake?
Beaudy’s got all the chutzpah to pull it off, but he’s always liable to switch into a spot of improvisational jazz at exactly the wrong moment. Cripes, is he trying to make me choke on my Maketu Steak & Onion?
Now Crudes has limped off the stage with a dodgy joint, and the whole thing’s looking like I’ll have to be back on the blower to Beaver saying put away the whitebait net mate and start practising the trickier bits of Pomp and Circumstance.
Yours in night sweats