Look, I am sorry that you didn’t get my message, but don’t think you can blame me just because I didn’t leave one. It was clearly the fault of the answering machine because it failed to record the message I didn’t leave. Now, if I’d have left a message then that machine probably wouldn’t have passed it on, because it is prejudiced against me because I occasionally smell of garlic. You understand? It hates me, that machine hates me so therefore quite conclusively it is not my fault that you insist on continuing to perpetuate the ongoing situation by not replacing that damned machine, which I swear, I swear (I bloody swear, I do!) was a catholic in a previous life. There! I’ve said it!
Now here I am at the top of the Empire State Building dressed as a hot dog and where are you? Sweden. Well, I’ve had it with you, pal. You think you can do exactly as you please? You’re going to have to learn that nobody can do this to me, not even you – and you’re not me, that’s for sure. Nobody is me, definitely not you, and only very occasionally am I me, but that’s only when I’m being myself – and then that’s only for private parties and when I think no-one is watching. There’s always someone watching and, you know, sometimes I like it, sometimes I think, “Ooooh, someone’s watching!” but then I get this, like, wave of revulsion and I put the cucumber back on the shelf.
I really needed to talk to you as well. I’m never going to get a girlfriend. It’s not fair, I’m reasonably good-looking, I have an excellent, well-paid job as a result of my honours degree from Oxford but no-one will even come close to me seeing as I have a cello growing out of my left elbow. It’s pure prejudice – and as it’s such a large musical instrument, I just can’t disguise it. I’ve tried putting clothes on it and passing it off as a mute friend, but people always see through that pretty quickly, especially if I’ve arranged a double-date. I’ve even tried to promote it as a positive thing… you know, come on a date with me and I’ll give you a G-string, that sort of ‘jokey’ line, but that just gets snorts and sneers – and a slap on my face, once.
There was one woman who seemed to like me, but it turned out that all she wanted was to play my cello. I was sat there in a restaurant for two hours while she went through a repertoire of Mozart, Handel, Schubert and Jimi Hendrix. She tried to tell me that it was spontaneous, but if that was the case, how come she’d brought her own bow? She couldn’t answer that. Still, perhaps it was for the best – she had thighs which could crack walnuts. Most female cello players do, I suppose.
God, I am going to die a virgin. I’m 38 and haven’t even been kissed. I go out night after night to try to meet people – all I get is jokes… about me being ‘highly strung’… or people asking me to ‘send them a note’. It’s so upsetting – I just end up doing what I’m doing now, drowning my sorrows with Claret. Just to rub my nose in it, it seems like everybody else is having success with the opposite sex other than me. I just don’t get it. For instance, that fat, ugly bloke in the corner gets all the girls… he’s not rich, he can’t really talk that well, he’s not very well-educated, in fact I’d say that he’s positively stupid and yet they’re all over him night after night. All he ever does is sit there, licking his eyebrows.
Cameras are everywhere and you can’t trust anybody. Trust me on that.
The Album Preservation Society 