SENSES OF SHAME
People often ask me if I would be happier deaf. That is the kind of sensitive talk that passes as conversations in the gin-haunts of Bloomsbury and Finsbury, and yes I suppose if music and banal conversation is all I get then deafness might be the way forward. However, I like the soft whispers in the night, the roar of a fully-laiden bus up the Pentonville Road and the sound of my own voice shouting at incompetents playing their din too loud next door. No, deafness was an option I disregarded a long time ago.
Anyway, it is not as if music does not infect the other senses. The writhing of dancers on so-called music television. The tap tap of syncopation along with dunderheaded drum solos. The smell of leather trousers as worn by greasy heavy metal males. Even taste, the sense that should be safely housed within my mouth is tainted by the terrible taste of anyone who likes music. Especially house music.
So I over the next five days I shall present to you my five senses of shame. And maybe a sixth sense too, since I can magically sense if music is terrible. The clue is, it exists.