The Hugh Laurie Song

Recently, the British actor, Hugh Laurie (of hit US TV series House fame), made an album of blues music with a whole bunch of well-regarded musicians and singers. Now, Hugh is a very gifted musician and, while not necessarily an outstanding singer, can at the very least hold of tune.

I heard the album playing in the local record shop (or what passes for one around here) and bought it – because of the music, rather than the singing, I should point out.

I brought it back into the office and, as just a few of us were in that day, we played the CD out loud.

My colleagues absolutely tore it to shreds.

According to them, it was not even remotely authentic, it was a cynical piece of self-indulgence, and it was not very good either. I think they were being a bit harsh.

But, I never pass up the opportunity for a comedy song, so I put their criticisms to music. This is a hastily-made recording of it.

The Hugh Laurie Song by DelusionsOfAdequacy



You are too middle-class to sing the blues.
Even though your only aim is to amuse.
You’ll never sound like you’re from the deep south
While that silver spoon sticking out of your mouth
That plummy accent should be reading the news.
You have no right to sing the blues.

Your home is just too fine for you to sing the blues.
That Georgian townhouse, in its secluded London mews.
Your snow white carpets, B&O, that good feng shui,
You’d never catch Robert Johnson using pot pourri.
With your designer bidets in every en suite loo.
You have no right to sing the blues.

You are just too well-fed to sing the blues
The finest Michelin-starred cuisine is yours to choose.
I bet the last time that you tasted famine
Was when Harrods ran out of smoked salmon.
If hunger’s never forced you to eat your own shoes,
You have no right to sing the blues.

Now we’re not saying white men don’t know trouble,
But, Hugh, I really hate to burst your bubble.
The Blues was born of suffering across the Atlantic
And public schoolboy, Oxbridge types are just inauthentic.

So unless you’ve pissed your life away on drugs and booze.
You have no right to sing the blues.
You’re too happy
You have no right to sing the blues.
You’re too rich
You have no right to sing the blues.
You’re well-adjusted
You have no right to sing the blues.
Ain’t.
That.
A.
Bitch!

Judge Not?

A few days ago, as I was making my way through the city centre, I happened to be walking a couple of yards behind a man. As we went along, I noticed him dropping a piece of paper on to the ground. He didn’t stop to pick it up, of course.

Litterbug!

Now if there’s one thing that really gets a whole herd (if herd is the word) of my goats, it’s littering. It’s completely unnecessary - there are bins all over the place, for pity’s sake!

What to do, though?

In situations like this, I usually just seethe silently, being far, far too chicken to actually tackle the offender. I have been known to pick up litter and bin it myself. I may even have tutted loudly on occasion, but that’s as far as it goes usually.

Usually.

For some reason on this particular day, a couple of my self-preservation/embarrassment-limitation synapses must have been on the fritz, for I suddenly found myself speeding up to draw level with this terrible, ghastly, anti-social, vandal, this desecrater of public spaces, this contemptible scofflaw, this, this.... little old man.

The balloon of my righteous indignation popped. All the acerbic and, no doubt, hugely witty comments I was going to make just melted away.

Now, don’t get me wrong, little old men are not, per se, entitled to drop litter any more than anybody else is, but there was just something in the fellow’s demeanour that stopped all my windbaggery in its tracks.

Instead of, “Oy! You rotten litter lout, thanks for making the place look so nice – NOT!” I ended up saying “Excuse me, but I think you might have dropped something back there and I thought I should let you know in case it was important.”

“What? Where?” he asked, clearly a bit surprised to be spoken to by a stranger out of the blue. I indicated the fallen paper. He looked at it for a moment, then suddenly seemed to realise what it was. He grabbed it up quickly with many thanks, as though it had indeed been something of importance to him.

Now, he may have been an incredibly quick-thinking actor, able to pass off his littering ways as merely an accident, saving face in front of a stranger, but I like to think better of him than that. There was absolutely no trace of embarrassment or guilt about him (as there would be for me if I had dropped litter and caught at it) and in any case, we parted ways amicably.

What if I had simply gone ahead and berated the man for dropping litter when it had actually been an accident all along? I would have been deliberately unpleasant to someone who didn’t really deserve it – a nasty experience for him and certainly no credit to me.

As it was, I was apparently able to do someone a good turn, reuniting him with something important he might have lost.

A last-minute change in attitude on my part from outright condemnation to presumption of innocence brought about a completely different outcome.

Maybe I should try this approach more often – it’s certainly easier on the old blood-pressure.

Mind you, if I ever see some kid smashing up a phone box or spraying his ‘tag’ on a statue, I’m not sure that I won’t revert to silent seething – or even tutting.

Moral cowardice – I has it.