In a moment of perfect poetic justice, I have recently been on the receiving end of a mild act of political incorrectness within moments of completing a celebration of politically incorrect songs.
With my musical partners Derek Hewitson (Suffolk) and Victoria Hart (Whitechapel), I had been performing songs from our show Taboo-Be-Do! at a London club. It’s an equal opportunity event, with the inappropriateness evenly spread between the differently sized, differently abled and differently raced. The gender politics on display are a disgrace.
It went well – a good crowd, CDs sold, no one walking out in disgust.
Afterwards in the garden, I overheard a conversation between two women of a certain age and a large bald man who had been in the front row of the audience. It went:
AGEING BLONDE 1: Did you you to concert tonight?
AGEING BLONDE 2: No. Who was playing?
AB 1: Haven’t the faintest idea.
FAT BALDIE: It was couple of country bumpkins from East Anglia.
What? For the briefest of moments, I considered making some sort of pompous remonstration but complaining about bigotry after an evening of singing it seemed mildly absurd.
Besides, having heard this conversation from people who clearly regarded themselves as metropolitan sophisticates, I suddenly felt rather proud of my bumpkinness.
