FRIDAY: Brian May, the highly revered guitarist from soft-rock gods, Queen, appeared on the Late Late Show tonight. Seeing him prompted a conversation between the good woman and myself about whether Freddie Mercury was the greatest singer of all-time, or not.
I threw a post up on Facebook asking for opinions on the 'greatest ever singer' and answers varied from Michael Hutchence to Patsy Cline, Tom Petty to Elvis and Mick Hucknall to Bono. The conversation about who was born with the most pleasantly melodious set of vocal chords continued over the weekend with Freddie Mercury being the name most commonly put forward.
Personally, I'd put Roy Orbison up there with the best there has been due to the incredible vocal range that he was blessed with, but find the topic too subjective to ever try champion a definitive answer.
I also checked out a Top 100 all-time greatest singers list which was compiled by Rolling Stone magazine, where Aretha Franklin was perched atop, and I agree that while she was something special, when it comes to female vocalists I will always have a soft spot for Dusty Springfield. If you have any thoughts on the matter I would love to hear them at firstname.lastname@example.org
Saturday: I was on dinner duty tonight. I have a developed a liking for Asian noodles and decided to use up any vegetables lying about in the fridge to make the mother of all stir-frys. Having steamed the chicken to its succulent finest, I summoned the good woman, young lad and younger lad to their dining seats, and the meal began.
Halfway through the munching I caught sight of a bit of chicken on the young lad's plate which was not the usual colour a piece of chicken should be, and my heart sank. Being a typical man, I didn't want to show myself up in front of my other half so I surreptitiously tried to inspect his chicken more closely without alarming the good woman. His palms were spotless, and I knew I would have to come clean and call the meal to a halt.
Then, suddenly, he turned his hand around and there was the explanation. He had ink from a marker all over the back of his hand. It had spread its way onto his food and he gave me the most brazen look a kid of five could muster. I sighed with relief, and continued eating, while the good woman watched with suspicion to see what my next dodgy move would be.
Sunday: I had forgotten what it feels like to be devastated over a sporting event. The young lad, who began the football season unsure of which team he was going to follow (it was looking like Manchester United until Gareth Bale turned on the style and ever since there is a queue of 'next generationers' lining up to become Tottenham fans) watched Liverpool put Spurs to the sword today, when his world came crumbling down.
Well, for at least sixty seconds; by bedtime he was grumbling about Kian Egan over another wrong choice he had made with a contestant on The Voice of Ireland.
The last time a football result bothered me to the extent that I thought about it for more than a day, was when Spain beat the Republic of Ireland on penalties in the 2002 World Cup. Since then I have copped on to the soap opera that professional soccer really is; but boy is it entertaining.
If the young lad does nail his colours to the White Hart lane mast then I can only warn him of prolonged devastation once Daniel Levy decides to cash in on Gareth Bale. As history has proven, it will only be a matter of time.