Many of you may have had to endure the tribulation of taking piano lessons during your delicate, impressionable, formative years.
You were to receive instruction after school on say, Wednesdays, which you positively dreaded, and pretended to be deathly ill every Wednesday morning, to no avail.
You also repeated this ridiculous ploy on Sunday mornings to avoid Sunday School..which was also an excercise in futility.
She did this to avoid the wrath of your Music Teacher who lived down the corner in a pristine, little, cottage with a white, picket, fence that barely contained the meanest, f*cking, dog in the neighbourhood.
As you changed into your Sunday Best you started to feel your sphincter clamp and your hands became clammy. By the time you sat down upon the freshly, oiled, bench in front of the Piano, sweat began to trickle down your nose...and your heart started beating like a rabbit!
((KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK))
always, always, always, exactly three every time
who you privately referred to as Couldn't-stand-her..
but only in your head.
She was a stout, dour, woman of no fixed Eastern European descent who reeked of Cabbage and an assortment of other unidentifiable smells that could not compete with Cabbage.
She was a widow perpetually enveloped in something black whose husband had died decades ago during the Great War, you didn't know which, and it was never fully disclosed whether or not her dearly departed had fought and died for the Kaiser or against him. Nobody was brave enough to ask.
She never smiled, took off her coat, or asked about your grades. Mrs. Kudintstandher sat down beside you, her humongous brusts were bigger than your head and levitated inches from the Piano..
seemingly defying gravity out of sheer stubborn willpower.
She folded her hands with those HUGE knuckles, and yelled at the top of her lungs something that sounded like this..
"Fangen Sie an zu spielen wenig Scheiße.. Jetzt Arschloch!"
Which loosely translated means.."begin to play it now you little asshole."
Most of my memories of her have been locked away deep in my subconscience, but years later I did come to understood why any competent Parent would thoughtlessly introduce their children to the glorious world of Music with a souless, terrifying, witch like Couldn't-stand-her.
Not only must they have thought that their shiftless, little, thick as a brick, twats somehow deserved to be tortured by the firm hand of a tyrannical monster, and be subjected to the tortuous, sensory deprivation of countless, tedious, hours of rote-'o-rooter type instruction... but,
they also want to destroy any fanciful notions of becoming a famous Rock Star, making Million$, and enjoying a perfectly wonderful life filled with illicit excess.
Recently I came upon the archaic, turn-of-the-century Music book that we used.
I had forgotten how dys-frickin-functional der Finger Family vass.
He was a little blurry and bleary eyed because he came home from the Pub everyday demanding supper and looking for a fight. He'd been drunk every day since he was laid off at the factory.
She was a textbook enabler who pretended that everything was fine and she pointed out that Father was just tired and a little upset because his Team lost again...and you needed to whisper while Father had his nap in the front hallway.
The middle finger..say no more. He hated the world, and made your life a living hell. He would be blackmailing you until he finally made it into the Juvenile Correction Facility..and your Mother would make you visit him on Weekends!
That was you.
You'll never amount to anything because you're lazy and stupid!
Your little f*cking brother. Oh how the Sun shone out of his ass. He could do no wrong. He got everything that he wanted because he sucked up to Mother and Father. He was their favorite..little shit.
So there you have it. A little stroll down memory lane and a decent explanation of why I am not a famous Rock Star.