The other day, I watched, behind a pillow, an old clip of two singers doing an awful rendition of an old classic, live on TV. One was a now old man who had in his childhood been a national star. The other, a fame academy reject. The scene was carnage. So I woke up with this in my head. Enjoy. I didn't....
The Burn Out
She watched in horror as the stage filled with humiliation. Around the grand piano the burnt-out glory and the hopeful wannabe, grabbed hold of the notes from a song that should have been left to history. Splitting them in half, a glowing, bearded, cemented man stands proudly as the owner of the spectacle. This is his show and he is not afraid to drain the little life that’s left out of the national memory.
They each choose a key and stay in it, unable to accommodate the other in their own peculiar melody. She cringes at every turn of the song, a smile stuck to her face like tar, her eyes lost in the space behind them.
At the other side of the screen she can only imagine old people. Reminiscing with this chant of a time when they had been flexible and their children small and near; perhaps only people looking for the remote.
Perspiration now gathers over the hopeful wannabe’s forehead, only at this moment aware that this hard attempt for fame will unquestionable sink his sinking ship that much further. The burnt-out glory’s voice is hoarse and ancient but his stance knows better than to give anything away – to the rest of the world he’s having the time of his life.
Rough tarmac on skin, would feel better than this. Knees finding the pointy edge of the coffee table would be received with more cheer. Not this. This is horror, vandalism, a circus! One with Christians and lions, whips and swords and we’re all watching as the poor souls toil aimlessly to revive an old tune people used to hum in the 50s.
‘Make it stop, dear God. Make it stop…’ – everyone taking part is thinking it.