Dear Eddie & The Hot Rods
As regards your being tired of doing day jobs with no thanks for what you do, it ought be countered that satisfaction at a job well done, the continuation of one’s employment, which is ‘’what they expect from you’’, and its related remuneration ought be praise enough.
One must also take issue with your claim that my optician ‘’tell me what I oughta see’’, in that at our Specsavers I am not instructed but ASKED what the lowest row on the chart is that I can decipher, in order that any change in vision since my last check-up may be determined and a revised prescription recorded
I sincerely hope, Edward and your simmering cylinder cohorts, that I have been able to ‘’Get Across To You’’ my concerns and that ‘’it aint me only who got something to say’’ about these matters
Asking any member of the current Hot Rods about the meaning of songs that they merely play is like asking the Stones why the Litlle Red Rooster is too lazy to crow today.
I must admit your polemic has me chuckling - the bottom line is that the lyric was derived from Aleister Crowley mantra: "Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law". In the way that "10 things I hate about you" derives from Shakespeare's "The Taming of the Shrew", Ed tried to update Crowley and got cursed by Jimmy Page for his sacrilege, which gives a good insight into Page's sanity . The fact that Ed, a cardboard cut-out sat on the side of the stage, managed to die might lead some of a more hermetic frame of mind to infer that magic works.
It’s a well-known fact that the inhabitants of Southend are, in fact, prisoners. Hemmed in by traffic congestion on the A13 and A127, they watch in sorrow as the big ships sail on the alley alley oh, right past the oil terminals of Skull Island. Some, occasionally, manage to escape and try to find the right path towards the sunset. It’s the only way because all other roads lead to drowning. These people are generally on day-release from life sentences for selling thieved motors.
When they escape, they don’t need to find any directional guidance, nor do they request spiritual solace. it’s highly amusing that no-one seems willing to offer unsought advice even from the depths of their experience. Instead all they say is “go here, do this, don’t bother me”, even when they are faced with direct enquiries.
The end result of this existential angst is that the early 20th century philosophers provided the only source of inspiration, notwithstanding the fact that words of longer than two syllables seemed to be written in posh-speak, widely divergent from Estuary inglish. Ah well! What can one do but follow one’s blind instincts to oblivion.