Day 14: Massachusetts

Jail. Four walls holding me in. Bars on the window. Really rather oppressive. Not a place for a sophisticated girl like me. It turned out that they did not have the kind of specialist holding facility (pink ladies jail) in Maine, so they shipped me a couple of states down. It was all movement as far as I was concerned.

One thing about women’s prisons, is that you are not quite so afraid to drop the soap in tea shower. However I advocate the use of shower gel anyway, which gives a far more pleasing lather. Of course I would have preferred a bath with waiter service, but I did get a meal, a shower and a kip ina room which handily had a toilet in the same room. Just as well as the food went right through me.

Apparently tomorrow I will be shipped to the big city to stand trial in front of a judge. They asked if I wanted to see a lawyer, but that seemed a terrible waste of my time when the facts of the case (ie I am not Angela Lansbury) are so apparent. So I’ll just spend an idle evening in this Massachusetts jail, trying not to listen to every other female prisoner who seems to thinks he is some kind of Whitney Houston.

That said, a jail for over active songbirds. Now that appeals.

THE BEE GEES: Massachusetts

Teeth. I’m all for teeth in general. They provide a good solid barrier to sound coming out of the larynx and if clenched properly can almost completely stop singing all together. Unfortunately in the case of the Bee geek even their prodigiously large gnashers could not stem the tide of never ending banal hits from their mouths.

Are they English, are they Australian? Neither country seems to want the Gibb brother, and would you blame them. Falsettos that could make tins of paint spontaneously combust, chest hair that is guaranteed to turn the stomach of any girl. All of the Bee Gees package is so shoddy, so suspect that it is remarkable, nay suspicious, that they had a career at all.

Loathe as I am to suggest a conspiracy, their involvement as some sort of acceptable face of Disco smacks of some sort of racist whitewash. Used as unknowing (clearly unknowing as they barely had the capacity to know anything) a band who hitherto showed no affinity to slinky dance beats suddenly soundtracked THE disco movie. Saturday Night Fever, an affliction I still get when I walk past a club, should have been soundtracked by Chic or Ottowan (well it should have not existed but…) No, this is a conspiracy of the highest order.

As for Massachusetts. What do these boys of Empire know of the place? Again nothing. At least the band have finally split up, by dint of dying off – nature can be kind some time. Still, I have it on good advice that the remaining Gibbs can be hunted down in the West Country. Apparently its the only place they can still see Maurice Dancing. All those harmonies have impaired their thinking.