In which the pond has a late Friday singalong with our Henry ...

 

In all the excitement of the day, the pond couldn't forget the hole in the bucket man. 

Sure, it means he's tucked away in a late Friday afternoon slot, the moment when anyone in politics does a news dump of detritus that hopefully no one will notice, but at least the pond has done the right thing, shown respect and interest, tugged the forelock ...

You see, this day our Henry got quite excited about a song, and the pond did so want to invite people to sing along with Ein Loch ist im Eimer ...

Ein Loch ist im Eimer, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto
Ein Loch ist im Eimer, Karl-Otto, Ein Loch
Verstopf es, oh Henry, oh Henry, oh Henry
Verstopf es, oh Henry, mach's dicht
Womit denn, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto
Womit denn, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto, womit?
Mit Stroh, oh Henry, oh Henry, oh Henry
Mit Stroh, oh Henry, mit Stroh
Das Stroh ist zu lang, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto
Das Stroh ist zu lang, Karl-Otto, zu lang
Dann kürz es, oh Henry, oh Henry, oh Henry
Dann kürz es, oh Henry, Mensch, hack's ab
Womit denn, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto
Womit denn, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto, womit?
Mit 'ner Axt, oh Henry, oh Henry, oh Henry
Mit 'ner Axt, oh Henry, mit 'ner Axt
Die Axt ist zu stumpf, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto
Die Axt ist zu stumpf, Karl-Otto zu stumpf
Dann schärf sie, oh Henry, oh Henry, oh Henry
Dann schärf sie, oh Henry, mach sie scharf
Womit den, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto
Womit denn, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto, womit?
Mit 'nem Stein, oh Henry, oh Henry, oh Henry
Mit 'nem Stein, oh Henry, mit'm Stein
Der Stein ist zu trocken, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto
Der Stein ist zu trocken, Karl-Otto, ist zu trocken
Hol Wasser, oh Henry, oh Henry, oh Henry
Hol Wasser, oh Henry, hol' Wasser
Worin denn, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto
Worin denn, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto, worin?
Im Eimer, oh Henry, oh Henry, oh Henry
Im Eimer, oh Henry, im Eimer
Ein Loch ist im Eimer, Karl-Otto, Karl-Otto
Ein Loch ist im Eimer, Karl-Otto ein Loch

Now has that put everyone in the right mood, everyone in the right frame of mind? 

Good, please take your seats and Henry will begin his song, and no coughing or signs of the sweats, please ...

 

Oh dear ... the pond can remember the days when an anthem really meant something ...

 

Colonialism, the empire, imperialism, the war in Vietnam, and the days when television stopped before midnight, and ethereal strains of the mother country wafted over the ether ... and children had earlier been sent off to bed by some hideous creature the networks thought wouldn't produce nightmares ...

The pond also remembers refusing to stand for the British anthem. It was once the done thing, and oh how the hissing and muttering and gesticulating at the pond was emotionally rewarding and fulfilling ... and yet they knocked the Capitol theatre down in Tamworth in the middle of the night, and no one cared a fig ...

Given all that, the pond thinks Henry's beef about a silly song is a tad tame, but is up for anything that excoriates SloMo ...

 

Newsflash for our Henry. Does anyone apart from our Henry give a flying fuck? Has there been a storm of controversy?

Not really, though one thing is true: the current anthem is a form of torture, though it's at least arguable that's the entire point of anthems ... to be a form of torture. 

It's not just the words, girtingly silly as they are, musically it's a bit of a stretch to sing along properly, at least if you sing like the pond, and know what you should be sounding like, but instead manage to imitate chalk on a blackboard, or a saw on a hot tin roof ...

Still it's refreshing to see our Henry quoting old Henry ... perhaps we could make this our national anthem?

So we must fly a rebel flag,
As others did before us,
And we must sing a rebel song
And join in rebel chorus.

We'll make the tyrants feel the sting
O' those that they would throttle;
They needn't say the fault is ours
If blood should stain the wattle!

Oh maybe not, maybe Freedom on the Wallaby is a little old hat ... do go on, but preferably by quoting a leftie historian who infamously wore that Order of Lenin medal, and set the Major Mitchell off on a life-long quest to find it ...

 

Dear sweet long absent lord, our Henry quoting greenie Judith? And worse, not even naming the poem, which is, let's face it tremendously evocative of Henry himself as he contemplates the Australian landscape ...

Beside his heavy-shouldered team
thirsty with drought and chilled with rain,
he weathered all the striding years
till they ran widdershins in his brain:

Till the long solitary tracks
etched deeper with each lurching load
were populous before his eyes,
and fiends and angels used his road.

All the long straining journey grew
a mad apocalyptic dream,
and he old Moses, and the slaves
his suffering and stubborn team.

Then in his evening camp beneath
the half-light pillars of the trees
he filled the steepled cone of night
with shouted prayers and prophecies...

Bullocky away here, but surely that's our Henry, old Moses that he is, on a long straining journey, with his shouted prayers and prophecies and mad apocalyptic dreams.

No, no, let the original song stand ...

 

Actually all this is more storm in teacup than hole in bucket, but the pond is up for anything that excoriates SloMo and sees our Henry cite a flock of lefties and greenies of the Wright kind ...

Will it still be worth singing? Sad to say, the pond never bothers to sing the current offering, with or without word change.

As for the country finding a lyrical voice for a song worth singing, who knows? If Henry and the other reptiles have their way, all new year resolutions will quickly be forgotten ...

But why not a song worth singing?

Farewell the colliery worker, the muffler and the cap
Farewell you Rhondda Valley girls, we never will come back
The mines they are a-closing, the valleys all are doomed
There's no work in the Rhondda boys, we'll be in London soon. (in full here)