Putin on the Ritz

Welcome to the week. Who’d like to kick off by being talked through Prime Minister Vladimir Putin’s public rendition of Blueberry Hill?

Good. Let’s go.

The airport lounge is empty,  and the old fighter’s waiting for a plane that ain’t takin’ him nowhere. “Thank Christ they left this piano, and three of my fingers,” he mutters to himself as the man in overalls shuffles past, following the floor waxing trolley.

But no. Pull back; reveal. We’re at some sort of gala dinner. Where did all these tables of florid men and tight-lipped women come from? “Strike up the band,” shouts someone.

It’s a big band too. Synths, horns, fat men, the works. “Have I walked into the wrong exam room?” wonders the President, who thought he was here for Grade Three Tap. Too late for that, he’s already up at the microphone. “Surely I’m not about to break into song,” he thinks.

“Oh Christ, I’m actually doing this. There are ruddy-cheeked patrons of the nation clapping along. There’s a stern man swaying gravely behind me, adjusting his glasses as if they’re lying to his eyes. This is really happening. But perhaps at least I can manage to save these people from the spoken word section…”

Too late.

“Come climb the hill with me baby. We’ll see what we shall see. I’ll bring my horn with me,” says the Prime Minister of the Russian Federation, in a manner so cold and creepy it sounds as if he plans to blow rohypnol  bubbles from a sax made of temazepam resin.

Still the assembled great and good, clap along, in the buttock-clenched, teeth-ground-to-stumps, cob-sweating manner of of ramblers trying not to give fright to a maddened rhino.

And to their great relief, he legs it. Look closely, and you can actually see a purplish cloud jump up to the roof, as they all unclench in unison.

As a reward, for watching that, here’s Fats Domino doing it properly.

And here’s an even cooler man called Fats doing something else.

~ by David Thorley on December 13, 2010.

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