Forced hiatus chaps. Just as I was getting into my science stride. Ah well, “Clouds Across The Moon”, and “She Blinded Me With Science” will have to wait. I have just escaped from being kidnapped and tortured by Elton John, and am feeling a wee bit clapped out.

The self styled Captain Fantastic, and about two of his fans, have taken umbrage at my laying all of Elton’s lyrical woes on his doorstep. And so in the dead of mid-morning, some diamante studded Commando’s stormed my gin palace where I was dozing after a particular heavy night on the mosaic and dragged me off to his secret hideaway.

“Tanya”, saith the berugged one. “I don’t write the lyrics. Bernie Taupin does.”

I tried to reply but he had hand-maidens force feeding me Victoria Plums (‘The most expensive fruit in Tesco this week’ John told me with glee). After nipping out to buy the entire stock of Tower Record for his five homes and converted volcano, I finally got to talk to him.

“Reginald,” I said – because there is nothing I like better than showing up some pumped up prissy pop-star by using the name they were born with. “I know you do not write the lyrics. But you sing them. And I cannot help but notice you lavishly luxurious lifestyle which seems to be at odds with the poverty of said cod poetry.” I could not help but notice since whilst I said this very sentence he had thrown another bank-roll of tenners on the fire. Presumably to see Charles Darwin go up in smoke: Elton has always felt bitter about his place in the evolutionary ladder as some kind of Cro-Magnon throwback.

“You would think with your predilictation of wasting money wherever you go, on wigs made of Hedgehog Pubes f’rinstance, that you could hire the worlds best lyricists to pen your words for you. Then at least the dazzling wit of the poetry would at least detract from the artistic shortfalls of your major key bombastic piano stomp alongs which belittle even Billy Joel’s keyboard obviousness.”

This made Elton rub his chin for a moment (it not being wise to scratch his head). Then he rubbed a fake chin made out of the entire world stocks of Beluga Caviar.

“You have a point there Tanya – one which I already dealt with when I collaborated with Tim Rice. No?” He tried to look all superior, which is very difficult for a man who’s goggle eyes and slipping rug makes him a poster child for computer nerds everywhere.

“Elton,” I said, “that’s like swopping constipation for bloody stools.”

Oddly he seemed to know what I was getting at. He truned away haughtily and I I just settled into the torture which involved poodles pissing on old Johnny Cash records.

I Hate Music