My local pub is like home to me, in that it’s full of younger people who ignore me, the TV is rarely on a channel that I want to watch and I continually have to hand out money.
Last Saturday night my local had a touch of cabin-fever-release about it, as the thaw in the weather brought in a larger than usual clientele as we all ventured out for the first time in ten days. As often happens when there’s a large crowd a sing-song started, and as often happens the singer realised part of the way through that he didn’t know all of the words. As he was a friend of mine and obviously struggling I joined in with him to encourage him along, and it’s not hard to guess what happened next. We ended up like athletes in a relay race as he firstly ran along alone for a while, then we ran together each holding one end of the baton for a shorter while, then he let go and dropped out, leaving me with the choice of lamely pulling up or heading, solo, towards the finish.
It’s not the first time I’ve sung in public (for example just two weeks ago I sang “Sweet Caroline” at the staff Christmas Party, and again, it hadn’t been my idea), so I finished the song (it says a lot about the evening that I can’t remember what it was) and went back to whatever I’d been talking about. And there the story would end, were it not for a long-held and often expressed belief of mine.
I don’t like sing-songs in my local, as I have previously informed the entire internet by writing this. Of course this shouldn’t be a problem, no-one in my local knows anything about Tinman, his blog or his anti-caterwauling prejudices.
Well, ok, some of them do. After snorting my way scornfully through one gigantic sing-song earlier this year I said to a couple of people “I’ll show you what I think of sing-songs” and the following day sent them links to that post. To be honest I was big-headedly looking for praise, which I duly got. I was also thick-headedly looking for trouble, which I have also now possibly got. A friend who knows about the blog texted me on Sunday evening to say one of my other confidantes was happily telling everyone something like “and he was singing, yes, even though he says he hates it, he wrote it on his blog, it’s called Worth Doing Badly, he calls himself Tinman”.
I don’t think any of them will look it up. I’d be more certain of that, however, if it weren’t for the fact that apparently four people have clicked on the “About Tinman” tab this week so far. This is an increase on the usual weekly number, which is, well, zero.
If, of course, they did look up the blog then all they’ve found out is that yesterday was my birthday. Unless they read back for months and months they wouldn’t have found the post that they were looking for.
Mind you, if they left looking it up until this evening or later they’ll find that I’ve now provided them with a helpful link above. They’ll also read today’s news for the rest of you, which is that I have another appointment with my psychiatrist in the morning.
You might think that the discovery that I’m mad will alarm them, cause them to ostracise me or think of me as different. If so you don’t know my local, or many of its customers.
I think I’ll fit in more than ever.