Monday, October the 18th, 2010

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O Anglepoise Man!

(To the tune of O Tannenbaum, if you put some effort into it.)

O Anglepoise Man, toss me a bone, for I am famished and dressed in rags! They sent me to Mudchute to jabber and keen, which was fine by me, I had no particular plans for October. I travelled there by train, clutching a mittenful of coupons. Before I arrived it occurred to me that I am a total irrelevance in the grand scheme of things, as seen from the perspective of, say, a Mudchute magnifico. There are plenty of magnificos in Mudchute, more than you might imagine, yes, you, Anglepoise Man! My disembarkation from the train had something of the farce about it. Rix would have approved. After I'd pulled up my trousers—ragged, ragged!—I swept across the pavings towards my assignation. At this stage I already wanted a bone upon which to gnaw, but there was no sign of you, nor of any other superheroes. I could have had noodles, from Hong Fat Goon, but, do you know what?, they were despicable noodles. So despicable, indeed, that in comparison I took on an air of nobility. If I planted myself next to the noodles, even in my rags and insignificance I would have shone brightly, like young Apollo. But what sort of behaviour would that be? Foolish behaviour, that's what. I took up my post at the jabbering and keening slab, put there by a paviour, a proper Mudchute paviour. Did you know there are almost as many paviours as magnificos? I didn't. But then I know very little about Mudchute, still. For instance, I had absolutely no idea it was your spiritual home, Anglepoise Man. I always thought you hailed from somewhere far away, even mythical, Zembla or Gondwanaland. Nobody ever asked me to keen and jabber there, in either of them, in October or any other month, in spite of my clutch of coupons. My mittens are the only part of my apparel that are not rags. They were donated to me by a benefactor. He bore a striking resemblance to you, Anglepoise Man. Perhaps he is your brother, or one of your dozens of cousins? He gave me mittens instead of the bone I wanted. Wanted? Yearned for! O to yearn for a bone! What am I become? Irrelevant, insignificant, surely. At least I may buff my shrivelled sense of self with the knowledge that I am not as despicable as the noodles. Not yet.