Jumping for Misery

What goes up......

To the Canary Wharf Jazz Festival over the weekend with Mrs K and a picnic. The headliner was horn player Courtney Pine, known for mashin’ up the classics, as they say.

Courtney was determined to get down with the kids.  “Hey London” he shouted, “What’s all this sittin’ down? Get up and shake your booty!” The twenty-somethings round us leapt up like a warrenful of rabbits being chased by a ferret. Not wishing to be party poopers, we said “Oh, alright” and staggered up.

“Now wave your arms and pump your fists!” roared Courtney.

I was balancing a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon in one hand and an olive on top of a knob of Roquefort on top of a chunk of bread in the other. No go, Courtney.

Things improved as he began to play some actual music. After a couple of Ellington numbers even the girls next to us dropped their iphones to clap, though they may well have been simply dialling into smaller phones.

But Courtney wasn’t content. It was all getting too listen-y. He wanted everyone to jump on the count of four. By now I had added ¾ of a can of Polish Lager to the wine inside me. Jumping was out of the question. So was counting. Mrs K and I raised our eyebrows instead.

Courtney still was unhappy. He wanted us all to do ten jumps. Then a hundred. Then a hundred and ten.

I was quite keen to stay on familiar terms with the anchovies, the Roquefort, the sausages, the bread, the olives, the wine and the beer.

I’ve seen Jimi Hendrix. I’ve seen the Rolling Stones. I’ve seen Bob Dylan. Never did any of those people tell me to jump.

Jumping is done by teenagers, ballerinas and circus dogs.  Jumping fuses your intestines with your liver and causes cancer. If God had meant us to jump He wouldn’t have made beer sloppy.

After fifteen minutes of being jostled by leaping girls, Mrs K said “He’s not going to play any more music, is he?” so we took the train home where another delicious can of Polish beer awaited. Ice cold, and to be drunk on the sofa.