I wasn’t intending to post anything else under this title, but my post yesterday seems to have caused quite the stir.
I went to a barbeque at one of my mate’s yesterday afternoon, and a couple of friends who read the guff I write here made reference to it. One (hello!) has often commented on my voice, regularly comparing me to Eastenders’ Frank Butcher, asking me to say “Do you think I’m some kind of a doughnut?” to him.
For the record, he has never asked me to stand naked, bar a revolving bow tie. Yet.
There have also been a couple of enquiries via the Comments section as to whether my singing voice has the same deep qualities.
Well. Yes and no. I would never claim to be the greatest singer in the world. I’m no Billy Bragg. But, once I have a few drinks inside me, it’s true that I do like a bit of a sing-song, as anyone who has sat and got drunk with me will doubtless attest (much to their annoyance).
So, here’s a song which, when seven sheets to the wind, I do love to sing along to (mostly because it’s just talking, for the large part of it); to be clear, I’m not saying that I sound like the great man, but I can give it a bloody good go:
When the conversation happened in work on Friday, after the laughter had died down, my boss Kay described my voice as “a higher Barry White”, which I guess makes me a Love Seal rather than a Love Walrus.