You can dance if you want to

In the pub last night at around 6.00 pm, I saw someone order a shot of Amaretto and commented that, in our household, this sweet liqueur was only used for culinary purposes - poaching pears, chiefly - and I marvelled at how someone could actually choose it in preference to beer and pay as much for a few drops as a pint costs in a supermarket.

Later on, having finished all the wine in the house following a jolly dinner with step-daughter, I found myself draining the remains of our bottle of cooking-Amaretto into a small glass and polishing that off as well.  At least this was done in the privacy of our compact but adorable city apartment.

Anyway, the net result was that the three of us went on a You Tube spree, starting with me selecting the original Men Without Hats, 'Safety Dance', and making the other two befuddled with incredulity about how I could possibly like this mad tune and video enough to play it over and over again.

Step-daughter requested Toto and Kate Bush, and I pointed out that if she could enjoy this 1980s nostalgia, then I should be allowed to play 'Safety Dance' (everybody look at your hunds).

We went through - at H.I.'s insistence - many Jimi Hendrix bootlegs, but there does not seem to be any full-length version of the wonderful 'Little Drummer-Boy' anywhere on the net, so eventually gave up.

And another thing - don't you find it maddening that every spotty-faced little shit in the universe thinks it is his right to get hold of a perfectly good tune and re-mix it in his bedroom into a horrible parody of itself, so that you have to tack the word 'original' onto the end of every search to avoid having to listen to their rubbish?

A little later, as I was drinking the Amaretto, H.I. snuck off and found a copy of the Mahler symphony which I can only remember as 'Death in Venice'.  I liked it so much that I immediately posted it it up here on the blog, but then she reminded me that I had recently posted the same piece of music, so I took it down for fear of repeating myself.  How is it that she remembers this better than I do, when she hardly ever reads this stuff?  Maybe it's because she never touches Amaretto unless poaching pears.

About half way through all of this, grand-daughter called up from Ibiza on her mobile.  All was well and they had only hired bicycles on the island, not the motorbikes that I had warned them against.  Her mother's prime concern was whether or not she had exposed her breasts whilst sun-bathing on the beach.  When grand-daughter said not, her mother said,  "Why not? You've got lovely boobies."  And she thinks I'm a weirdo.

Suggested topic of conversation for this weekend's dinner parties:  Andy Murray - British winner or Scottish loser?