I never ask how YOU’RE doing*. How ARE you? Keeping WELL?

Good, good.

I attended a funeral last week. Nobody of particular personal significance, you needn’t send your sympathies†. H’was a business associate from the years of yester. Pitiful service. One gladdens in the plausibility of the family’s denial in insisting that the meagre turnout was a result not of Penguill’s odiousness but of the travel strains imposed by the Sinovirus.

Penguill Penfold was not a likeable man. And until one of his nearest/dearest follows Funlimited on our(my) various platforms, I say that without reservation.

What’s more, those grieving chumps had the audacity to employ Sinatra’s “My Way” as the soundtrack to Peng’s end credits. I balk not simply out of revulsion of cliché. Nor gustatory aversion. Indeed, I have some fondness for the tune and the specular qualities of its libretto.

But few do it “their way”. If doing it one’s own damn way was so commonplace, Sinatra’s dogged affirmation’d’ve been met with a resounding ‘So what?’ Doing it “your way” is an exceptional if morally neutral undertaking. Qaddafi did it “his way”. You, like most, Penguill, kowtowed to management, genuflected before your wife and generally toed the damn line. Thinking about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if your dry-eyed widow selected the song ironically, peacocking to those of us in the know. Even in death, she mocks you.

One could perhaps accept “My Way” being chiefly regarded as a crooning dirge if it wasn’t almost always peppered, infested, PUTRID with delusion.

Enjoy the podcast.

*Amicably ignoring the fact you never ask me.

†Amicably ignoring the fact you never would.

Oh, and the contributor what contributed the error in the first has asked me to point out that he meant Be Cool, not Get Shorty. Pillock.