Last Night of the Proms

Damn and bloody blast Bryn Tryfel! There, I have said it. It is 'out' in the open at last. And I feel better for having thus unburdened myself. Ah yes, I feel the great weight of last Saturday evening lifting from my shoulders at long last. I should make clear at the outset, dear reader, that I have the utmost respect for the man's musical abilities. I have, on occasion, even had the honour of being in his 'backing' group (so-to-speak - I had a minor part in an 'Elijah' he was doing years ago in Huddersfield, if I remember rightly). And speaking of which I have never, to this day, heard either live or on recorded disc anyone, whether living or departed attempt the first two phrases of 'Lord God of Abraham' in just one breath. One breath! The man's a freak, for goodness sake. Breath control like that, and a voice as big as St Pancras railway station can only have been bought at the expense of his immortal soul, I fear. But no matter. He will not 'appear' again on my portable TV set for some time, and I can always hide my record collection when Felicia comes again for supper. 

I had thought, of course, that an evening chez Can Bass followed by the musical festivities from the Albert Hall would be a most enjoyable experience. I could gently 'show off' my musical erudition (I mean, of course, give dear Felicia the benefit of my wisdom - which is a darn sight more than Clive James could when presenting the damned show!); we could snuggle up on the sofa finishing the wine; I might even 'hold her hand'. But no! First we had that idiot Norrington appearing on the conducting podium in a straight-jacket borrowed, no doubt, from the local lunatic asylum (and the orchestra would have been much better off if they had kept the tapes tied so the fellow couldn't wave his arms). Then the Welsh Windbag himself. Dear God, what a face (no competition there)! And what a voice! As soon as the fellow opened his mouth in that peculiar manner he had poor Felicia in a swoon. 

"Oh Can Bass" she said, slightly breathlessly "hasn't he got a lovely voice? It makes me go weak at the knees. Can you sing as low as that?" 

With the colour rising to her cheeks all the while, I attempted to explain the subtle differences between a baritone and bass (I am, technically, the former) but she would have none of it. 

"I'm down to do a solo in the tomorrow's Benedictus" I informed her "if you'd like to listen." 

"Oh yes, Can Bass" she cooed. "I'll be there". 

And then what happened? Yes, you've guessed. The DoM went and gave the blasted solo to Walter Drane (whom I noticed, incidentally, singing in the same peculiar manner as the aforementioned Welshman - i.e. with his bottom lip pulled down at the side like Fulton MacKay addressing Norman Stanley Fletcher, or Mr Geoffrey Boycott smiling. Honestly, the man is such a poseur!). 

After the service I attempted to explain to Felicia what had happened and apologise for dragging her to the cathedral under false pretences. But she was having none of it. 

"Oh but Can Bass, hasn't he got a lovely voice - just like that man last night on the telly."