SINGALONGAMAX

God, I’m glad that’s over. There’s a limit to how much enjoying yourself you can take at one sitting. Being sparkling and witty really takes it out of me. Not to mention the eating and drinking. And eating. And drinking. And drinking. I have partaken of beers Belgian and English, wines white, red, sparkling, fortified, chilled, hot, spiced and at room temperature, vodka martinis shaken and stirred, banjos, genever, juniper, bloody Marys, muscle Marys, Hairy Canaries, Christmas Fairies. My liver feels like it’s gone three rounds with Mike Tyson.

I’m now having a sober evening in with a glass of Madeira on the rocks and a Jools Holland “Later” DVD. I don’t normally watch “Later” as it’s on even later over here, with the hour time difference, and by the time it comes on I’m usually in the land of Nod, curled up in bed with my tartan comforter. I now realize what I’ve been missing, and a big thank you to whoever had the presence of mind to put it all on a series of DVD’s.

I knew of young Jools, of course, in fact I used to be great friends with his Aunty Miriam in Golders Green. But he has opened my ears to a whole new world. There was me thinking there was no decent music any more, only silly boys in baggy jeans and anoraks “rapping” or techno trance rubbish, and found myself drifting towards strange sounds from exotic lands due to lack of intelligent contemporary western music. Now I find it was there all the time, only on the box late enough to stay hidden from old fogeys like me who go to bed early.

Jools has filled the gap left by John Peel and Whispering Bob Harris as a showcase for new talent. "Later" is a sort of Old Grey Whistle Test for the new millennium. But it caters to all ages, which is nice and inclusive, and mixes new blood with old jazz-club-nice favourites such as Richie Havens, Bryan Ferry , David Sanborn and Dr John, who keep me company in my dotage. Some of the young singers seemed strangely familiar, then I realized I was a fan of their dad, as in the case of Rufus Wainwright or Norah Jones. That’s a bit depressing.

I’ve always been a bit behind the latest trends. I remember back in 1986 (twenty years ago! Ye gods) getting quite excited about a band with two very good looking young front men, only to find I had been watching the Wham! farewell concert. I usually wake up to talent shortly after they’ve broken up or died. That’s why I tend to stick to old favourites like the Rolling Stones. I know they’re pensioners now, but they’re not going to spring any surprises on us like changing style or anything. In my opinion that’s where it all went wrong for David Bowie. If he’s stuck with Space Oddity he’d still be popular.

Now I shall be a regular watcher of "Later" (unless of course the series has just been axed, which would be par for the course). I am quite taken with Antony and the Johnsons. And Amy Winehouse. And The Blue Nile. And the Zutons. Gosh! It’s like coming out of suspended animation. Except, sadly, unlike Austin Powers, I don’t have a body twenty years younger than my memory. As was proved recently when attempting to dance to Rod Stewart and nearly suffering organ failure.

I have a theory that as we get older, our musical tastes draw us inexorably towards our parents’ and then our grandparents’ musical tastes, and eventually Max Bygraves. It starts when you catch yourself smiling at a Jim Reeves song as you’re driving on the motorway and thinking “He did have a beautiful voice, didn’t he?” and the next thing you know you’re dancing round the ironing board to Tijuana Taxi, going into a hypnotic trance when Strictly Come Dancing is on, and reaching for the Sanatogen. My old flame Lancelot Coot is a case in point. I have a vivid memory of the UV lights picking up the flying dandruff as he played vigorous air guitar to Smoke on the Water at the school disco. Now he goes to Jamie Cullum concerts.

It’s a funny thing, but even though some people in old people’s homes are the same age as Bill Wyman, and would have only been in their early 30's at Woodstock, and in their 20’s when The King was doing Jailhouse Rock, you never hear Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd or even Elvis played in pensioners’ homes, do you? It’s always Mantovani, Rolf Harris or … Max Bygraves. Songs from the war years are always popular, even though most of the residents were babes in arms at the time. The ladies all favour the same grey curly pensioner's special shampoo-and-set and the men wear their beige cardigans like a uniform. Is it a precondition for a state pension? Or is it some kind of audiovisual Ritalin, so they don’t get overexcited? I think I’d rather be a stylish bag lady and dance to reggae in the street. I might take up smoking dope in my declining years. I think skinning up at the pensioners' lunch club might liven things up a bit.

If anyone ever catches me singing “I’m a pink toothbrush” and looking like I’m enjoying it, you have my permission to shoot me.