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And when I was twelve years old, sopmeone showed me the interweb, and told me of all the wonderful mailing lists, and bulletin boards, each with its butterfly panoply of threads, a stream of posts in each one.


And so I looked. And as I sat there watching the marvellous spectacle

I had the feeling that something was missing.

I don't know what, but when it was over,

I said to myself, "Is that all there is?

Is that all there is...?"

I must say I fear for the mocklet's future. He was playing with the DAB radio in the bathroom the other day and stumbled upon some jazz and actually started boogying.

Now the only thing that stops him jumping up and down on my head when he joins us in bed at 6 o'clock of a sunday morning is if I give him my phone on the jazz radio thingy. He puts it to his ear and nods sagely.


Mind you he'll throw it away if there's any hint of a slap bass, naff synth or wanky utterances a la 'yeaaaurghy' or 'get daaaaaaaooown'; he only likes what my mate calls 'the plinky plonky stuff'

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