Another Musical Mikey Mnemonic

My parents' LP collection is, and never was, cool. 

In addition to some life-history-picked-up stuff, such as my mother's collection of Fijian mens' choir records whose covers rippled with bare-chested large-haired men beaming brightly from within a palm fringed beach scene, it was mostly the classic operas, classical classical music (as in the ones you'd see listed in ads shown in the early-mid eighties for Demtel records where they'd grabbed assorted composers and jammed them willy-nilly (1) into the same sound-based data matrices unit of encoded-plastic.

That and United Kingdom regional mens' choirs, mostly Welsh or Cornish (2), but also possibly from Devon, Yorkshire or Dunny-on-the-Wold (3). Singing the classic regional themed tunes, such as 'Men of Harlech' or mild inoffensive variants like 'Men of Harlech go on a day trip to Swansea' or 'My coal-black hand grips the edible handle of my potato-infused pasty-wrapped meat-sock'.

And finally there'd be a bunch of sad Christian music. Sad, both in the quality of the recording and over-all concept. Music that would make me, were I an actual robe-wearing magic sky father, somewhat annoyed. I suspect that, were reincarnation an element of my belief and after-life expectation structure, those behind such theology-ranking-lowering monstrosities of music would then come back as those tiny finned fish in the Amazon whose sole purpose in life is apparently to swim up a man's urethra. 

They'd have titles like Songs of Hymnal Love, An Evening at the Back of the Church During Choir Practice or Mrs Herbert's Back's Gone Again, So Deidre Can You Conduct? Like their unread shelves of books, my parents' LPs simply dryly-humped each other in the dark, pressed by time into a daisy-chain irrespective of genre, type or ethnic-origin of musician. Only now and then to be flicked through by my musically-minded older brother, who was probably wondering if there was at all anything of actual interest to him within. 

There probably wasn't (4). 

So in memory of my parents' unplayed lo these last 40 years LP collection I give you another track from Songs of Sickness and Safety—my personal collection of music mnemonics to help me to remember be both healthy and safe; a chorus-re-mapped magnificence where the song-victim-of-choice is 'Don't you (Forget about me)' (5).

Here be the lyrics; old and new.

The concept suddenly came to me when I attempted an overly fast dismount from The Purgatory Cart (6) upon the strap coming loose on the right pedal. As my journey to the ground continued my testes rolled over each other then were scraped, half-trapped beneath my seat-straddling perineum, across the gel-seat-cover covered seat.

It was somewhat painful. But a genesis for an inspirational warning!

Hey ... we can't all be Van Gogh.

(1) I really want to see Willy Milly, having seen so many previews for it back when we got a VCR and it was the coolest fucking thing we'd gotten as a family since Encyclopaedia Britannica and the Apple IIe. Anyone got a copy? I can do VHS, DVD, or AV(X)FORMAT(HERE). 

(2) My dad's family apparently started in Wales but drifted to Cornwall in the 19th century. They are now rigidly-proud ex-pats from Cornwall. My mum used to say, since she doesn't any more as her mind is all but gone (2a), that when Dad was around other Cornishmen he'd happily lapse back into a Cornish brogue. I never heae that happen myself though.

(2a) I hate that the thing she feared most in age; going bat-shit like her mum, actually came to pass. She was one of those women that were an example of what a woman can accomplish in '60s through '80s expatriate woman in Western then Regional NSW Australia. It's absolutely fucked. I just hope science catches up when my genetic bomb triggers.

(3) I confess I am both heavily medicated and enjoying writing this. Backed up as it is with access to a creamy-centres mini- lamington that has a Twinkie-esq half-life of perhaps 900 years and a Diet Coke. However I am sure in the cold cruel light of un-medicated sobriety I will sigh, huff my shoulders, and turn off, head downcast as if I was a member of a Southern US '20s chain-gang, the low rumble of gospel music humming into life as I leave the shot.

(4) I will email him and ask. An update will come. Oh yes, it will come.

(5) First, as you know, there was my Dermeze classic, sung to the chorus of 'Jolene'.
(6) (As sung to 'She's a piss-pot') Belongs to Casso, through and through; the bike's a bastard so they say, and he's being ridden by Mikey even those it's station'ry;  It's going down, down, down, down etc.