The banjo am the instrument for me

Well let me hear the banjo, I like that good old five-string melody.

I have begun positively craving a banjo. I’ve got a hammock; I’ve got a place to swing; I’ve got a faraway not-quite-with-it twinkle in my eye. I could break out some serious Deliverance licks on this borough.

And then one day I could grow up to be a big bearded man (“big, bearded” in the conventional sense and “big-bearded” in the Old Testament sense) riding a train like Michael J Fox surfs the van in Teenwolf, and picking out Appalachian strains on an instrument that looks tiny as a teaspoon under my massive fingers.

 Look even that guy out of  ¡Three Amigos! is at it.

That’s probably enough banjo videos for now.

Here’s why I want one. Because, I can’t see anyone – anyone – running for a bus, sprinting after a runaway ball, chasing a criminal, trying to catch a speeding bullet without my brain begining to go “dum-diddle-dum-diddle-dum-diddle-dum-diddle.” Any fast moving public secnario, at all, cats scrapping after each other, foxes running away from footspteps, whatever: then I just get the “dum-diddle-dum-diddle-dum” thing along with a mental image of a fox in a picking clawhammer in a white suit and bow tie. These demons need exorcising.

Snag is, I’ve got more debt than a fat bearded man has emergency sausage rolls hidden in his pants. Those nice people at the bank who keep writing me letters will not look kindly on non-essential spending.

So I’ll need a doctor’s note. Dum-diddle-dum-diddle-dum disease has lived in the shadows for too long. Our voice must be heard.

Or, failing that, if I went for a career change and told them I was going into business as a big bearded man, I could at least claim back the VAT. Big trousers to fill though.

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~ by David Thorley on September 30, 2010.

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