My correspondent John Fletcher, who is a professor of French
Literature, writes to correct me about that Berlioz symphony: seems it was
actually all about a different insurrection; the one of 1830. Sorry about that.
In the same message he mentions a colleague who, in spite of
a slight defect in his sense of humour, (he was German you see), was good at
making up rude limericks in English. Reading this must have tripped the
micro-switch on the limerick engine at the back of my brain/mind, because
around 2.30 a.m. when, as usual, I couldn’t sleep, the following popped out:
A musician who hailed from Madras
Stuffed an ophicleide right up his arse.
He suffered for art,
But his F minor fart
Was heard right up the Khyber Pass.
Stuffed an ophicleide right up his arse.
He suffered for art,
But his F minor fart
Was heard right up the Khyber Pass.
Ophicleide? I’ll tell you next time I write about Berlioz,
but meanwhile here’s a picture of one:
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