Wrinkly Joe’s son sent me an invitation to his wedding.
His wedding!! What????
I phone up Wrinkly Joe. How the fuck can your young fella be inviting me to his fucking wedding? He’s only eight!!
He is in his bollix, says Wrinkly Joe. He has four grown-up children. One of them is a bishop and another is a retired guard.
Is he? says I.
Yeah, says Joe. I got married very fucking young.
Moving swiftly on, says I, are yourself and Wrinkly Paddy doing the wedding band?
No, says Joe. We don’t know any music suitable for the over-fifties, so we were thinking of having a session in the bar instead while him and his friends get on with the ballroom dancing. We were thinking of maybe a medley of cheerful numbers by Joy Division, Morrissey, the Cure, Nick Cave. You know: something to start the place rocking. Then we thought we’d move on to Rammstein, Nina Simone, Rocket from the Crypt and Norah Jones. That kind of thing.
What do you mean, that kind of thing? What kind of thing?
Ah, you know, the Barenaked Ladies.
They’re a crowd of Canadian cunts, aren’t they?
Oh yeah. Scratch them. Canadian cunts. Instead we’ll do Daniel Lanois, Bryan Adams, Leonard Cohen, Neil Young, Joni Mitchell. Then there’s the Cowboy Junkies, and you couldn’t leave out Bill Shatner, Alanis Morisette, Robbie Robertson, kd lang –
No, Joe! You can’t cover that old dyke!! I roar, intolerantly.
Why not, Joe roars back. Haven’t I been doing it all my life?
It’s December, I say. You’ll have to do a few Christmas numbers.
Certainly, says Joe. We’re going to kick off with Uptown Top Ranking.
That’s not a Christmas song.
Course it is, says Joe. It’s Jingle Bells. That bollix Binge Crosby used to sing it.
No -, I interrupt, that would be White Christmas.
You’re wrong there, replies Joe. I’d say you’re thinking of Why Syphilis? by Mick Jagger.
Maybe I am, I agree, in an agreeable sort of way. But tell me this. As it’s a wedding, who’ll sing The Wind Beneath My Wings?
I can feel Joe standing up on the other end of the phone.
The wind beneath my motherfucking wings??? Do you think we’re a complete crowd of fuckin Pavees? Next thing, you’ll want a fuckin karaoke machine.
You know sometimes I wonder about Joe.
Later: Oh God, Never Again