It does sometimes occur to me that I might, inadvertently, have strayed into an obscure dialect of a defunct Indo-European language of which even I have scarcely absorbed the rudiments of syntax or morphology. Particularly when I ask why the fuck are people talking about me?

But no, I have checked this thread (at least) and confirmed to myself that I have addressed consistently the topic of what and who Lawrence / Frank was getting at in the fake thread and what results was he hoping to achieve.

I could, of course, (as previously noted) be entirely wrong, but a wild guess would be that he wanted GEFFs in ill-fitting anoraks to consider, just for once, how their blinkered, entirely unreal, ill-considered (ahem) renditions (and scribblings) damaged the image of tradarts to the outside, "normal" world and to assess how they might do just a little to untarnish it.

But no, they're still talking about me and not about what I said (because they haven't read it or else are unable to assimilate it), oh no, just variations on what they imagine I might have said, though wouldn't think so if they actually knew me.

Earlier today I saw that an especially dim nurse had inscribed across my notes that I "communicated well in English". I said that yes, of course I do but would you like me to communicate with you in some other language and if so, which? I could ask the same here.

Entirely off-topic alert:

Although the bulk of my journalism has been of an industrial and political nature, I wrote my first music pieces for English Dance & Song and Club Folk over 40 years ago. I was a Morning Star music writer (among other things) for nearly a decade between Trevor Hyett before me and Karl Dallas after me. I have freelanced for more publications than I can be arsed to list and got a host of dancers and musicians onto children's telly programmes (whether they wanted to or not). All of which is almost entirely irrelevant except that it does indicate that I do know what goes on in the real world of music as opposed to the singaround at No- Farting-Under-The-Haystack.



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