Invisible Stranger


Invisible Stranger

Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond

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Little Tinker

Currently clicking:
- bboyblues
- bitful
- blue witch
- diamondgeezer
- glitter for brains
- london calling
- naked blog
- troubled diva

Usually Playing:
- ute
- neil and chris
- peter and anna
- june
- kurt

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Thursday, September 25, 2003
Sing-along-a-stranger
So the Family von Blogg children were sitting on a mountain, avoiding the attentions of the very lonely goatherd who lived high on the neighbouring hill.

"Sigh," sighed Terracotta Sausage, "I am so depressed."

"I agree," agreed SlutEngineAGoGo, who was just as depressed. "If only Master Stranger were here."

"But we all know that he has returned to the monastery," Paradise Passage pouted petulantly. "Old Father Bloggit thought it best for all concerned."

"I know," said Ephemeral Gyrations. "But if Master Stranger were here now, then he would surely know how to cheer us up, wouldn't he, Sausage, dear? What was that very silly thing he did last time to put a smile on all our faces?"

"I remember with fondness," remembered Sausage with fondness, "he used to sing all about his favourite things!"

SlutEngineAGoGo clapped her hands in delight. "I remember too!" she remembered also. "I say, might it not be a jolly good idea to sing Master Stranger's song now? Perhaps that might make each one of us a little more merry!"

"Rather!" agreed Paradise Passage. But before any of the Family von Blogg children could start to sing, they heard a familiar voice singing a familiar song; and the familiar voice singing a familiar song was coming from a nearby hillside (but thankfully not the high one on which the lonely goatherd was living).

"Oh, Sausage!" cheered Ephemeral Gyrations, as she spotted the happy figure gallumphing over the hills to greet them. "Could it be? Could it really be he?"

"Oh yes, Ephie, yes, I think it is!" And, even though he was a boy, there were tears in Sausage's eyes, as the singer's voice grew louder and ever nearer. "It is Master Stranger, coming back to us, singing about all his favourite things:


Show tunes and muscles, blond Germans with tit-rings,
Bicep-straps, Clarins, and songs that I can't sing,
Mysterious potions that make me go zing,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Barbie dolls, Baywatch, and Carry On Matron,
Daleks and drag-queens with inch-thick foundation,
Bitching and boasting, going out on the wing,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Old-style polari and Compton Street sinners,
Nights at the National, each seat just a tenner,
Dancing the fool with some boy half my age,
They're all a part of my favourite days.

Sexy straight Latins, designer black stubble,
(Just one more Stella and then I'm in trouble)
Giving advice when I don't know a thing,
These are a few of my favourite things.

When the post's done, archives gone west, Blogger's down for days,
I simply remember my favourite things, and then I don't feel so dazed.

Geezer and Diva, Dave, Darren and Karen,
Guinness in Camden, high-jinks in a coven,
Disturbingly naked in Port o' Leith bars,
These are a few of my blog's guiding stars

Posting a comment, then wishing I hadn't,
Checking each blogroll to see if I'm on it,
Telling the boss what I'm doing is work,
And internet access a professional perk.

Cool clicks, and top tips, vicarious living,
Straplines, site meters, and wishlists for giving,
Top sites I rate where the content is king,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Baring my soul to this whole blogging nation,
Flame wars and group memes (and screw enetation),
Whoring my way to a top Google rank,
(Make me your link and you'll get one as thanks).

When the blog's done, comments won't come, links don't work at all,
I simply remember my favourite things and then I feel ten feet tall.