The Eskimo Kissing Song

Mr Blobby, the Crazy Frog, Barbie Girl, the Cheeky Girls, Bob the Builder, ScatMan John, the Fast-food Rockers, and me. What a party that was!

I list these names because they have all been involved in novelty hit songs. I have created (in my not so humble opinion) a novelty hit song, and in the future I hope that this song will earn me as much respect and reverence as is afforded to these other aforementioned esteemed luminaries of the novelty hit song world. Well you’ve got to dream big.

Yesterday I explained (as best as I could) how this song came about. Today I do not intend to write a great deal, because I want you all to listen to my song. I will then give you the weekend to digest what you’ve heard, and then I shall be back early next week to discuss how we progress from here. As I said yesterday, we need a video that will go viral and I want you all involved.

Download the Eskimo Kissing Song here.

Lyrics

Some couples they like to French kiss,
But me and my girl we’d rather give all that a miss,
We’d rather kiss the Eskimo way,
Rubbing our noses is the perfect foreplay.

Because we’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
You’re my Eskimo girl, I’m your Eskimo guy,
Touch my nose, don’t be shy,
Nosey Nosey!

I’ve been with so many girls who’ve rubbed me up the wrong way,
But the way that you rub me, you know I’m always gonna stay,
We’re gonna demonstrate our love like the Eskimos do,
We’re gonna stick together just like igloo.

Because we’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
You’re my Eskimo girl, I’m your Eskimo guy,
Touch my nose, don’t be shy,
Nosey Nosey!

Well it’s been such a long time because you’ve had a bad cold,
But now you say it’s cleared up and so are passion takes its hold,
We’re rubbing our noses, girl you know how to please,
The moment is so magical until you start to sneeze.

She said she loved me, and then she sneezed; well that was mucus to my ears.

we’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
You’re my Eskimo girl, I’m your Eskimo guy,
Touch my nose, don’t be shy,
Nosey Nosey!

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Touch my nose, don’t be shy

I look around me. My palace is festooned with gold discs and trophies. A myriad of photographs adorn the walls. They comprise people of all ages, from all of earth’s countries. And all these people are engaged in the same activity.

There are thousands of celebrity faces: Hollywood stars, pop singers, politicians, sports stars. There are photographs of royalty; our very own queen of Britain even features, obviously not wanting to be exempt from this craze that has pervaded the planet.

I turn around and focus my attention on the large collection of photographs of beautiful women that fill this particular section of the room. They’re all smiling great big smiles. I recognise that smile all-too-well; that’s the smile of a lady who has spent some quality time with David Eagle. How many beautiful women have graced my life over the last year? I lost count after the first month.

As my eyes move around the room, I observe the immense magnitude of what I have created. All these people: politicians, pop stars, footballers, actors, beautiful ladies, children, animals – even the extra-terrestrial life form that we dramatically became acquainted with at the end of 2012 – all looking back at me, wearing wide smiles. And of course, everyone of them is engaged in that same ubiquitous activity: nose rubbing. Because 2013 is the year of the Eskimo kiss. And it’s all thanks to me!

A year ago today was when it all began; July 21st 2012. Who would have thought that this day would have been the catalyst for all the fame, all the awards, all the celebrity parties, all those women? Certainly not I, as I took my seat for what I assumed would be an innocuous and uneventful train journey. But as the train pulled away from Newcastle station and made its course to York, I was starting an altogether different journey, one which would prove to be much more significant and life changing.

There’s a part of this story missing. It will have to stay missing I’m afraid as I have no idea what it is. I am not aware of the event that caused what happened to happen. I assume that there must be some reason why my brain would suddenly become super-active and start rapidly churning out the lyrics to a song about Eskimo kissing. But I cannot imagine what possibly made such a thing occur. I had no plans whatsoever to write a song, and I had not been conscious of thinking about or hearing anything relating to Eskimo kissing, yet here was my brain spontaneously composing a whole song on that very subject.

I spent the first half of the train journey typing profusely on my laptop as I try to keep up with my crazed brain’s lyrical deluge. By the time the train had reached Darlington I had a document with pages of lyrics. At this point my brain eventually capitulated its relentless spewing, and I was able to look back over what the heck I’d actually written. I liked it; but I couldn’t possibly use all these words, there was too much.

Half an hour later, the train pulled into York. I closed my laptop, satisfied that I had managed to redact the reams of words down to a three verse song.

As I walked out of the station and down the street, I ran through the song in my head. I knew it off-by-heart; it was as if I’d known it for years. I felt fully alive and energised by this odd event. But what to do about it? Surely I am too busy to spend time recording a silly song about Eskimo kissing. But I couldn’t get the song out of my head, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to ignore its hold over me. This whole experience had been too potent for me to simply ignore and do nothing about.

I arrived at my friend Ben’s house. We were meant to be going out in York for my birthday, but when I arrived at his house and he asked me what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go, I instantly replied, without any deliberation “I want to record my novelty hit song, and I want to go to number one”. And so, instead of celebrating my birthday by going out drinking, we spent the night and early morning recording the song that a few hours ago hadn’t even been conceived. And Ben no doubt mused on why he couldn’t have opted for a normal friend who was happy to just go out on a Saturday night and drink himself almost to oblivion.

So that’s the first part of my plans kind of achieved. The song is recorded. Getting to number one will probably be a little more tricky, and take a little bit longer. I say that I have “kind of” achieved the first part of my plan, because the recording of this song is probably only going to be the demo version, as it was recorded in a bedroom in 8 hours. But it’s a good place to start. If I’m going to get to number one though, we’ll have to make a professionally produced pop recording with an accompanying music video.

On Thursday evening I will upload the song and release another blog post. Then I will await your thoughts. Then we’ll take it from there. I have got ideas for the video and I want you all involved. I shall explain more when you have heard the song.

In the meantime, enjoy your final day of sanity before you are thrown into the brave new world – a world that is united by the Eskimo kiss. Mark my words: in 2013, the Eskimo kissing song will be everywhere. But tomorrow, it will be hear, for the first time. So, until tomorrow friends …


We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
We’re Eskimo kissing tonight,
You’re my Eskimo girl, I’m your Eskimo guy,
Touch my nose, don’t be shy.

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My Near-Ironic-Death Experience

I had barely arrived at the bus stop before an old lady approached me and began to talk to me about her cat. This seems to be what old ladies at bus stops do, or at least the old ladies at bus stops in Billingham anyway. I used to travel this bus route on a daily basis for a year, and rarely would a week go by without an old lady talking to me about her cat.

I’m convinced that some of these old ladies don’t actually ever get on any buses; they just wonder over to their local bus stop of a morning if the weather’s nice, to spend a few hours chatting (generally about their cats). They have seemingly researched all the bus numbers and time tables, but I don’t think they’ve done this for the conventional reason; I think they’ve armed themselves with this knowledge purely as a means of providing them with a suitable conversation opener. All they have to do is wait for a moment of weakness from someone, such as a glance at the time table, a puzzled look, or a person quietly musing about when their next bus is due, and they’ll be straight in there. They’ll give you the information you were looking for, but you’ll get it at a price, that price being a litany of superfluous trivia about an old lady’s cat.

Being blind, I am perfect prey for these old ladies. As soon as I approach the bus stop, they are on to me. They want to help me apparently, but I know their game. “Which bus are you wanting?” they ask, affecting interest. I tell them. “O dear, you’ve just missed one”, they gleefully inform me, “which means you’ve got plenty of time to listen to a couple of anecdotes about our cats”.

“oh, I haven’t seen you at this bus stop for a while” said today’s old lady. I explained to her that I now live close to where I work and so generally I don’t need to make the bus journey any more. “Oh, OK”, she said, and then, without a moment’s pause, began, “Well, you’ll remember my cat bobby of course”. This was not a question; it was a statement. She seemed to have no doubt in her mind that I would remember her cat Bobby, and that I would obviously be looking forward to receiving an update on him. Incidentally, if you should find yourself in a similar situation to the one I’m describing, here is some advice that you would be wise to heed (take note, I am not a novice in this matter): do not ask questions, or offer thoughts; just let the cat-talk wash over you while you think about something more interesting, and believe me, thinking of something more interesting will not be a challenge. The old bus stop cat ladies are not interested in your opinions; they simply see you as a transient passive recipient for their cat anecdotes. If you half listen to what their saying and simply smile, nod or frown depending on the nature of their tale, then you should get away relatively mentally unscathed.

I hope you are not going to be disappointed by my exclusion of the old lady’s cat update. I was not really listening. It had something to do with a trip to the vets, but I’m assuming by the lady’s tone that the cat survived this experience, which is a pitty because this means she’ll have future cat anecdotes to impart. If you are interested to hear the story though, then I’m sure you’ll be enlightened if you hang around the bus stop opposite Asda in Billingham. Just go up to the old ladies congregating around the bus stop and ask if any of them are the owner of Bobby the cat. You’re bound to find her. Perhaps if Dave Gorman still reads this blog (because he definitely used to) then he may take it as a challenge to find this lady. Going around the country to track down characters that he reads about in blogs is the kind of thing he would probably do. I would advise him to put this particular episode somewhere in the middle of his book; it’s hardly the big opener or grand finale.

During the woman’s lengthy disquisition on her cat, my bus pulled up.

“Well, it was good seeing you again, and thanks for telling me about Bobby. Give him my best”, I said as I moved towards the bus. “Oh yes, I’ll tell him you were asking after him” replied the old lady, without a trace of humour in her voice.
“I’m glad to see you’re still doing well” she said as I reached the front of the bus queue, “we were wondering what had happened to you”. “Well don’t worry, I’m fine, as you can see I’m not dead”, I heartily responded as I stepped on to the bus. And fell face first on to the ground. I had my accordion with me, as well as my laptop and other stuff for work, and I had forgotten how much weight I was carrying. In my haste to get away from the old cat lady, I made a clumsy step on to the bus. As I stepped up my bags slipped. I tried to straighten my bags and somehow got my cane caught in between my legs. The cane tripped me up and the combine weight of my bags sent me down.

I tried to rise as gracefully as possible, then turned to face where I had just come from and shouted, “Don’t tell Bobby about this. I wouldn’t want to become a figure of fun amongst the cat community”. I thought a bit of humour might alleviate people’s concerns, but all it seemed to do was cause confusion and further concern among the passengers, especially the passengers behind me who had just heard me shout something about cats in their faces. The woman had probably already gone, running home to tell Bobby the good news that I was still alive. The passengers probably assumed that I had knocked my head during the fall, and that I’d started spouting nonsense about cats in my semi-concussed state.

As I settled in to my seat, I began to chuckle to myself. This probably helped confirm people’s suspicions about my sanity. The reason for my chuckling however was due to me imagining the irony of the situation, had my fall been fatal and resulted in my death. It would have been a pretty ironic way to die. I had just pronounced with a grin on my face to the old cat lady, “as you can see I’m not dead”. I then promptly fell face first on to the ground. Had this fall resulted in the end of my life, these haunting words would have been my last.

“Can you tell us what happened just before he fell please madam?” the policeman would enquire of the old cat lady, who would have been sighted as a key witness.

“He said … he said … as you can see I’m not dead. Then he fell on the ground, dead”.

“Haha .. ahem. Well, thank you Madam. We will be in touch if we require your further assistance in this matter. Thank you, you’re free to leave”.

“Thank you inspector. But before I leave, you’ll want to be hearing about Bobby of course. Well he’s been to the vet, just for a checkup you understand, and …”.

Obviously I didn’t die, as you’ve presumably realised, given that I’m writing this blog. So I suppose the incident was a bit of a none-story really. If I had died then this blog post would have been much more exciting, because there would have actually been something of note to have told you. But I wouldn’t have been able to have written the blog had I actually died, so I’m in a no-win situation with this post. Still, this blog entry could have been a lot worse; at least you didn’t have to read all about Bobby the cat and his trip to the vet.

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The Young’uns Podcast 109 (Tony Chestnuts is Fantastic)

The 109th Young’uns Podcast is available to download.

This week: We play a track from the Young’uns new album ‘When our Grandfathers Said No’, which is released in September on Navigator Records. We also give an insight into the recording of the album. Our special guest is Rebekah Findlay; two songs from her new album and a chat on the phone. We commemorate the Jubilee celebrations in our own unique style. We tell about how our folk music nearly killed a couple of children. Sean Cooney teaches us some primary school songs. It’s the first instalment in a new drama series exclusive to the Young’uns Podcast: we present the story of Iggy-Jiggy-Barbar the dancing sheep. And a Young’uns Podcast wouldn’t be a Young’uns Podcast without a few puns thrown in for good measure; this week it’s salad and pig puns – now we’ve got your attention.

Download the podcast here.

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