I resent panpipes. I resent the reedy, insipid bleating they emit, which sounds like Enya’s farts, or a flute with a cough.
Proof of panpipes’ plainness, as if any was needed, lies in the fact that they lend themselves to any song of any style with results such as these:
Panpipes are the appendix of the music world, serving no obvious purpose other than filling spaces of silences in lifts, hotel lobbies and my local Alfa Market. While they are not as bad as Yosra, panpipes are inoffensive, which is possibly worse. If they were human they would talk about the weather. Or about new age healing spas, their favourite haunt apart from my local Alfa Market. Pan Pipes are the Scientology cult of music, stripping songs which fall into their clutches of all personal identity and forcing them to wear a pair of beige slacks, and every time I hear ‘Bright Eyes’ or ‘Tears in Heaven’ done a la pipes I wonder at the cruelty of mankind.
On a different note, yesterday I spoke to a woman on the phone who informed me that her name was Dolly, and wasn't joking.
Suber star actor and former fit bloke Hussein Fahmy is on television presenting a programme called ‘the People and Me,’ in which Lord Fahmy gives ordinary plebs their Warhol 15 minutes. I am pleased to report that Hussein has taken the time to colour coordinate his pink jumper with his perma-flush face. I have just relayed this information to my mother on MSN, prompting her to exclaim “Hussein my old friend! I used to talk to him on the phone,” revealing yet new boundaries to her former hobnobbing with the stars 60s self, now discovering another type of glamour in Croydon. When I asked her whether Hussein’s face was still flushed back then, she said “yes, and he was very fat.” Fancy that!