Calculating

...and December flits by like an Anna's hummingbird: here for the blink of an eye, then vanished out of sight, leaving nothing but a sound rather like a clicking abacus.

This is the first Christmas in some years where I have felt Christmassy for a sustained period. It's probably because we're Christmassing our new dwelling, marking it with the holidays, much as a cat rubbing around my ankles.

Elder daughter has returned to be with us for twenty days. It's the eighteenth day. Already.

It's also the seventh day of Christmas, as we tremble with trepidation on the threshold of one far too interesting year into the, as yet, blank face of 2020.

I wish you and yours all the possible joy of it, and that much joy may be possible, all evidence to the contrary. Perhaps it's better if we pass through the evidence, and create some better evidence. Whaddaya say? Who's with me? (What's that clicking noise?)

Ying-tong merrily on high

As November drifts out the back door, and Christmas barges in the front - wasn't Advent supposed to be a time of fasting and reflection? - we find our social life is picking up, which is something that never happened in Hades.

As a result, I was in the kitchen, having hauled out a simple recipe for an appetizer to take to a neighbours' do. The trouble is, there's no such thing as a "simple recipe"; they all seem to require a deal of chopping, so I fired up a CD I'd borrowed from the library - yes, I am a dinosaur - and eased the cutting time by listening to a blast from the recent past: a collection of the corniest and slyest from A Prairie Home Companion's latter years, interspersed with such choral offerings as "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" (Monty Python - yes, yes), "Be Prepared" (Tom Lehrer - yep, yep), and then, I positively paused in my chopping in bafflement. A tenor began with what sounded like an Eastern European lullaby, before the choir careened off into a frantic gabbling of nonsense, interrupted periodically, by horse whinnies, raspberries, and explosions.

As the track faded away, and I stood slack-jawed, I could just make out Garrison Keillor explaining to the audience that this had been "The Ying Tong Song" from the Goon Show.

Okay, that explained a lot.

Vocal Essence on A Prairie Home Companion - March 2012

I was aware of The Goon Show, mainly because I knew the Beatles were fans, and thus rather excited that their producer George Martin, and their film director Richard Lester had had dealings with Harry Secombe, Peter Sellers, and Spike Milligan. I'd had a listen to the Goons from time to time, but found their break-neck speed bewildering.

The song is damn catchy, though. I'm including the lyrics below, because they will be of no use to you whatever, but so you can sing along if you want, although I don't recommend it.

In fact, I suggest you skip this video altogether.

Why? Because this song is an insidious ear-worm, that's why.

I walked out this morning, and caught myself singing: "Ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-iddle-I-po..."
Bloody hell.

This is not a song you want to be singing to yourself on a public street. You get some hard stares.

Apparently, Spike Milligan had a war buddy, jazz musician Harry Edgington, and Harry Secombe had trouble pronouncing "Edgington", so Milligan would yell "Ying-Ton!"

I guess you had to be there.

I also gather, from the comment-field for this video, that "The Ying-Tong Song" has been used more than once at funerals, because of its sombre beginning that quickly veers into that crazy, demented chorus.

Imagine those poor mourners, finding themselves, days afterward, murmuring: "Ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-ying-tong-iddle-I-po..."

Diabolical.


Tenor: There's a song that I recall
My mother sang to me.
Spriggs (off): Oh! (a sigh)
Tenor: She sang it as she tucked me in
When I was ninety-three.

(harp plays a rising chord...)

Spriggs: I diddle, I. Who was that bum?

Bluebottle + Spriggs:
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po,
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong (bluebottle drops behind)
Ying tong iddle I po
Spriggs: Keep lad up. Keep.
Bluebottle: Keep up lad up.


Both: Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po
Spriggs: lad
Both: Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po (lad)
Iddle I po (lad)

Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong (Spriggs: iddle) (Bluebottle: ying tong)
Ying tong iddle I po
Ying tong ying tong iddle

Bluebottle (spoken):
Ying tong iddle I po!
(short raspberry, Secombe)

Both: Oh!
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po
Iddle I po!

(trumpet bit)

Bluebottle:
Ying. Ying tongy tongy.
Ying tong iddle I po.
Ying tong iddle I po.
(Secombe under this: What a lovely lovely boy!)
(or Secombe under this: What a lovely melody devine!)
Ying ying ying tongy tongy.
(Milligan: Get out the rifle, sir.)
(or Milligan: Get off the record.)
Yeeeng.
Ying tong ying tong d'gy-n'o.
Ying tong d'ga.
(Secombe: Get away.)
D'g d'g d'ga.
Ying tong iddle I po.

Seagoon:Hear that crazy rhythm
Driving me insane.
Strike your partner on the bonce (bonk?).
(thump)
Eccles: Ooh. I felt no pain.
(Seagoon screeches)

Seagoon, Bluebottle and Eccles:
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying...

(harp chord rises)

Soprano: Take me back to Vienna....

(Raspberry section, probably Milligan)

Bloodnok: Ohhhhh!
Eccles: Oh!

(harp chord)

Soprano: Take me back to Vienna, where the....

(crash!)

Seagoon, Spriggs and Bluebottle (far off):
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong ying tong
Ying tong iddle I po

And so on, and so on....