The home organ of doom

When you see two men carrying a Hammond home organ into the room, you know you're in trouble.

It's something like watching evil clowns pile out of a tiny car or suddenly noticing the milk you put in your coffee was two weeks out of date. My life started flashing in front of my eyes, reminding me of all the other bad Hammond experiences I've ever had. Like Anzac Day ~shudder~

The latest Hammond Incident was at an official sort of dinner I attended recently. The company was delightful, the food was tasty and the vino was abundant. But the entertainment. Oh Ford. The entertainment.

Why entertainment (and I use the term very loosely) was necessary was beyond me. It was a dinner with a guest speaker and a rubber chicken-clutching MC who rolled out every stale old joke under the sun. Luckily, he became funnier as my wine glass emptied.

The singer, on the other hand, was a horror. It was just like the Australian Idol auditions, except I couldn't change the channel when my ears started to bleed and Dicko wasn't there to tell her how irredeemably arse she was. Her mum was accompanying her on the Hammond and I think between them they might have found three true notes.

The lassy was a soprano and obviously everyone in her family was very proud of her. And very, very deaf. She sang a few churchy things and a song from a horrible musical that she'd been in with the local No-Talent Musical Society.

Then there was a singalong. The words were on the back of the menu.

There I sat, with a forced smile on my face that must have borne more than a passing resemblance to rigor mortis. The only thing I could do to defend myself was drink chardonnay. I hate chardonnay.

And the only thing worse than drinking the chardonnay was realising the bottle was finished BUT THE "MUSIC" WASN'T. I turned the bottle upside down hopefully, looking for a false bottom, but no dice.

In the end, I just hung on to the glass, hoping if I shielded it from the shock waves of sound, it wouldn't shatter and take out someone's eye.

Dicko, where were you when I needed you, you great Pommy git?