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Music is a good thing. From the middle eight of Für Elise to the twinkly piano of Sweet Home Alabama, it keeps me amused. Much like performing monkeys, and three year-olds dressed as Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club band. And ducks, which, for all their feathers, manage to give the impression of a wry, knowing sense of humour.
I have often felt that a sitcom involving ducks would be a sure-fire winner. Mr Duck (Dave) could come home from work in a deerstalker hat, and smoking a pipe. His wife (Mildred) could make a witty wisecrack, and send their son (Chuck) to his room. All of the high quality acting could be done by a cast of unknown, yet highly-trained, acting ducks, from the Steppenwolf Theatre Company, a company renowned for its work with ducks from underprivileged pond areas, such as Queen's Park.
Here, ducks enjoy a difficult lifestyle: there is little running, or stagnant, water for them to play in. The education system is also quite suspect, since the Head Duck is rarely present and prone to nervous breakdown. The theatre people do so brighten up the poor ducks' lives, and have saved many from a bitter end at the hands of a car on Pollokshaws Road, a road often thought of as a metaphor for life.
It has a dubious beginning, a concrete middle, and an end close to nature. Though I cannot forget the many fast-food restaurants and clothing shops. The people who say this, however, have often been thought of as complete tits. But I digress, ducks...
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