But when I came back today.. well...there's over 2,000 hits.
It's pretty amazing. But..seriously.
What is WRONG with you people?
You either like the Wurzels as much as I do, which..obviously isn't beyond the realms of possibility as they are the best band who ever graced the planet, or you're into reading the deluded wafflings of someone who has a little too much time on her hands.
So..which is it? Leave a note, do.
Anyway. Now I've insulted you all, time to crack on.
Today's song, scientifically selected by a long and laborious process too complicated to mention is...
The Shepton Mallet Matador.
|Wot no matadors?|
|Adge's family album. And some pigs. And some Wurzels.|
|Tapas. And the point of this is...?|
Let's go in a little deeper, shall we?
Now Jacko was so happy, just workin' on the farm,
With the cows and the chickens, he couldn't do no harm.
For years and years he worked and he scraped and he saved,
To take one day the holiday he craved.
But now he'll never be the same again,
Since he took that holiday in Spain....
|A Wur- ..uh, an actual farmer, apparently.|
No wonder the poor guy needed a break.
But poor Jacko. Those long hours. Those years without any down time, scrimping and saving every penny have clearly taken a toll. While sunning himself on the beaches of Malaga or Benidorm, something in his brain just..pops.
|You're looking for a topless sunbather in this photo, aren't you? Dirty boy.|
Oh-ho, make way for that Timsbury torero,
..wait. What? Timsbury? That's bloody 13 miles away from Shepton Mallet.
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He's a real West Country Caballero,
The Shepton Mallet Matador!
Remember that chorus. It comes up a lot.
Now the boys in the village all think it's very queer,
The way that Jacko drinks wine instead of beer;
And they say he swapped his favourite cider jar
For a bottle of sherry and a thirty-bob guitar!
The first signs of his fractured mind are already beginning to show - wine instead of beer, well, ok. Probably not that big a clue, plenty of men of a certain age suddenly make the switch from Hobgoblin and Carling to a lovely Vega Sicilia and talking about "good acidity that blends well with the tannins", whatever that's supposed to mean.
|Yes. It's..definitely wine. Red wine, in fact.|
His friends reaction?
Nice one, "friends".
Chorus goes here.
Now the pigs and chickens are diggin' up the dirt,
When Jacko comes wavin' his old red flannel shirt;
And he's always chasin' round the old red cow,
'Cos he thinks that he's a real bullfighter now!
Ah. Alright. So now Jacko, was previously reasonably well-adjusted farmer who has spent much of his life doing normal farmer-y things. Now, all of a sudden he's standing in his fields waving a red shirt around and trying to coax the animals into a bullfight - even going as far as to chase around after a cow. Which, by the way, isn't the same as a bull.
|For the love of.. look. Do you SEE horns on my head? I'm a cow. Now go away.|
All stand for the chorus.
Now on the farm when you hear hoots and howls,
It's Jacko playin' Flamenco with the fowls
And every time he clicks those castanets,
Instead of eggs, the hens lay omelettes!
|An omelette. Looking like something you'd find on the pavement outside your local 'spoons on a Friday night.|
..except they're not laying eggs. They're laying omelettes. Which are, by the way, disgusting things. All rubbery and floppy and eggy. Vile.
Presuming that they aren't actually laying omelettes, which would take some doing (unless the chickens are roosting above frying pans on a hotplate, and have also been taught how to lay peppers and mushrooms. Or, I suppose Jacko could have genetically modified the hens so they were able to lay a number of traditional omelette fillings, such as ham, cheese, onions, prawns and herbs, by cross-breeding the chickens with mutant strains of cows, fish and plants in a secret laboratory in hi- .. Alright, look, the omelette is definitely a metaphor, ok?), I'm guessing this means the eggs the chicks are laying are abnormal.
|Abnormal eggs: The Phantom Menace|
Well, according to a website I just looked at, problems with eggs can be caused by anything from sudden shocks to the hens to illness, malnutrition, infection diseases and a lack of vaccination. So while Jacko's busy trying to goad his cow into a fight, he's neglecting his hens. Let's hope someones got the RSPCA on speed dial.
Heeere's the chorus. Twice.
Now the farmer's missus went wild with delight
When Jacko serenaded her last night,
And the farmer stopped him singin' Ceilito Lindo
With a bucket of summat he threw from a bedroom window!
And here's Jacko, roaming the streets in the middle of the night, trespassing on other people's homes and making a clearly inappropriate play for a married woman.
Dressed as a matador.
While singing a 19th century Mexican love song. Clearly he's not only suffering from some extreme identity issues, his musical history knowledge isn't that great, either.
In her home.
In the middle of the night.
While her husband is in bed.
She might've gone wild with delight, but if the only thing that Jacko got out of that was a 'bucket of summat', he was a lucky man. Most farmers have guns, for goodness sake.
|Bucket of summat. Still preferable to a shotgun to the face, though.|
And rather than face the sickness in our own society, we throw both metaphorical, and literal - crap at it, and hope it'll just go away.
Ladies and gentlemen, to play us out as you digest the majesty of this blog entry, I give you...
The Shepton Mallet Matador