Sorry to trouble you all again so soon, but I've had rather a shock. As you know, part of my initial motivation for this blogging business was to add some small crumbs of pecuniary advantage to my meagre cathedral/teaching earnings. With this in mind I got the choral-scholar chappie who looks after all the technicalities of blogging for me to sign up for a spot of advertising on the site. I was assured it would be tasteful, small and relevant to the content of my blog. (The fact that, so far, it has earned no more than £2.70 is irrelevant; I still have hope.) Anyway, I 'logged on' as we bloggers say, this afternoon to read the comments on my latest post (I do so enjoy that, don't you? Reading the responses of people kind enough to write a small reply is one of the greatest delights of this whole enterprise; that, and making tiny contributions to the posts of others. But I digress). What do I find when I log on this afternoon to read 'my' comments? Yes, Mr Musgrove is there in his unfeasibly long shorts; Miss Cake is sunbathing in her underwear again and Gill is hiding behind a bunch of flowers. The others, as far as I can tell, seem not to be accompanied by photographs. But no matter. Having read what they all have to say, having responded as appropriate to one or two enquiries and having 'clicked' on a number of their profiles (are you sure about Inspector Morse, Doshea?) my eye strayed momentarily to the right of the main column where I caught sight of a small, otherwise unobtrusive plug for Sky Plus (whatever that is - personally, I would rather subscribe to Sky minus). And there were the words that sent shivers of revulsion and despair down my spine - Last Choir Standing. Last Choir Standing!
I have already written to the Director General at BBC HQ to complain in the sternest manner about the sobriquet 'choir' being applied to the musical (ha!) ensembles participating in this so-called competition. I happened to be trapped into viewing it whilst sojourning with my sister. And it proved difficult to avoid. Having endured it once with something of a rictus grin on my face on the Saturday evening, I then had to repeat the entire ordeal again on Sunday. Dear Lord above, it was enough to drive a man to drink (and if my sister had had any in the bungalow, I might have been forced to take it - intravenously). And the cause of my frustration? The reason for my somewhat negative reaction? Why, the term 'choir' of course. In the course of two entire episodes of the so-called entertainment, I witnessed only one ensemble which could justifiably aspire to the title 'choir'. And they were Welsh. All the others seemed to be made up of unfeasibly young persons up well beyond their bed-times prancing about the stage and dancing to the sound of their microphoned voices. Dear readers, such exhibitionist behaviour does not a choir make. Where was the subtle harmony of voices - the lyrical beauty of soprano; the matronly stability of contralto; the incandescence of the tenor and stentorian splendour of the bass? Nowhere. Instead we were treated to a succession of grinning and gyrating boobies singing songs the like of which I'd never heard and whose lyrics made my sister blush! And now I find they're advertising on my site. Help! Please help! The choral scholars don't return until September. I am bereft. Please tell me, what am I to do?
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