From behind the keyboard. Snow patrol - not odd, damn it!

My late father (in both senses of the word - that's the discussion 'late' obviously, not 'father'. He was unquestionably my father, I accept his chin. It's around here somewhere, just can't put my hands on it right now, and he wasn't all that get away. Quite close, in fact. Bugger. Where was I? Better get out of these brackets) (he was frequently late.

In fact, the hearse arrived somewhat tardily for his funeral, thereby fulfilling a family prophecy put forth by my father on many an occasion - damn these brackets! was a Man Who Sang. And on with his chin, a slightly chewed biro and some strange metal things that no-one actually knows the use of, I have transmitted his Singing. But what I haven't told you is, that he Never Knew the Words. And, I too, have inherited this tendency. Hell, I grew up thinking the call went "Bye bye Miss American Pie, drovel shevvie anna levvie budle levvie's drah'. So now I must put to you a Question. WHY DOES NO-ONE EVER Set ME? There I am, singing at the top of my voice, 'boodle doo' ing like mad, and no-one takes me gently to one face and points out carefully, and in language of one syllable that the Arctic Monkeys are not doo-wop singers and that their songs have real words in? No-one. Not Ever. Kings of Leon, apparently, do not sing 'Nyar nyar, these legs is on fah' either. Bet you never knew that. And then there's the language that I trust I have heard and reproduced correctly, and yet have people rolling around and wiping their eyes when I sing them, again at the top of my voice because my volume control knob is low and I'm sick of trying to obtain the pliers to spell it down. For example. The former day, there I am, singing along to Snow Patrol's 'Throw the Shutters Open Wide', merrily bellowing 'I could sit for hours finding new ways to be odd each minute', and when my audience finally regained the power to speak, and mopped up the puddles of resultant merriment, they told me that what he is actually singing is 'finding new ways to be AWED each minute.' Well! All I can say is, he should take to ENUNCIATE. And, speaking as somebody who can, clearly and demonstrably, find new ways to be odd each minute, I bear no thought what the call means now. I had been feeling a certain number of intimacy and empathy with him up until then. No one realises how tough life can be when one lives below the umbrella of Odd, and I thinking I had eventually found someone who comprehended it. And so it goes and turns out that he's just smitten with some tart or another, and all that fellow-feeling just flew out of the window.

Don't be fooled. These men are not Odd. Even though they apparently chained themselves to a single radiator, they are not Odd. Hmph. Although, if you feel closely, you can only see my fellow-feeling vanishing out of the window. It looks a bit like a bush. So, I am giving up my calling in the domain of singing. No, plead ye not, I shall not be diverted. I am going to dedicate my clock to this writing nonsense, in which the lyric all mean what I suppose they mean, and a homogenous confabulation is just a man of furniture covered in embroidery. Hmph.