Song Lyric Sunday: Inside Our Heads

The prompt for Song Lyric Sunday from Jim Adams is Brain/Mind/Think. The song must contain one of these words in either the title or the lyrics.

I would like to write something witty and pertinent, but I can’t. Today is Valentine’s Day and in Bulgaria, this has bugger all to do with love. Because for Bulgarians this is the feast day of Trifon (also known as Trifon Zarezan), the patron saint of vine growing and wine-producing.

This involves meeting at a friend’s house for a ceremonial cutting of the vines, followed by drenching the plant roots in red wine. Then whoever had the best harvest is crowned king or queen, and everyone retires indoors to eat their own body weight in food and drink way too much wine for a Sunday afternoon.

So, my brain has closed up shop because my mind is spinning and I can’t think straight.

The only song that springs to mind is Tom Jones’ 1968 hit Delilah. A sweet ditty about a person driven out of their mind by a cheating lover. Who can resist this karaoke classic about obsession and jealousy? Not forgetting a violent death.

I saw the light on the night that I passed by her window
I saw the flickering shadows of love on her blind
She was my woman
As she deceived me, I watched and went out of my mind

My, my, my, Delilah
Why, why, why, Delilah
I could see, that girl was no good for me
But I was lost like a slave that no man could free

At break of day when that man drove away, I was waiting
I crossed the street to her house and she opened the door
She stood there laughing
I felt the knife in my hand and she laughed no more

My, my, my, Delilah
Why, why, why, Delilah
So before they come to break down the door
Forgive me Delilah, I just couldn’t take anymore

She stood there laughing
I felt the knife in my hand and she laughed no more

My, my, my, Delilah
Why, why, why, Delilah
So before they come to break down the door
Forgive me, Delilah, I just couldn’t take anymore
Forgive me, Delilah, I just couldn’t take anymore

Songwriters: Henry Katzman, J. Shirl, Jack Mendelsohn & H. Manners Pseud.
© Double Vinyl Music, Universal Muzik Taksim Ed. A. S., Donna Music Ltd

And just for a laugh here’s a version by Bruce Dickinson of Iron Maiden fame…

Discover Prompts: Dish or The Last Supper

Three days before lockdown, we received an invitation to supper. At six in the evening. The party started at eight. This is not an unusual occurrence because Bulgarians live to socialise and grab any excuse to enjoy a massive meal with friends and family.

At ten to eight, Mr & Mrs Neighbour collected us, and off we toddled. As is the Bulgarian custom, we bought along a small gift. Only to be outdone by the neighbours. They had a dish of mushroom risotto and a saucepan full of kofte, rabbit, sausage, and pork chops. We had a box of chocolates.

We arrived to find our host, Plamen, in fine spirits, singing along to Tom Jones on a karaoke machine in his summer kitchen. Now, we were afraid, because that meant Yancho was here. This is a man who knows how to party. With mounting trepidation, we followed Plamen into the house.

For once, we didn’t have to remove our shoes. This is unheard of in Bulgaria. But when we saw the floor, or lack of it, we understood. Plamen had ripped up the old floors and planned to lay laminate in the next few days. This may have been the reason for the impromptu bun-fight.

We joined the six people already sitting at the table, and Plamen set plates of salad before us, along with platters of chopped salami and liver. He encouraged us to eat the liver while it was still hot because it isn’t so nice cold.

(Note: a Bulgarian’s idea of hot is somewhere to the left of tepid).

We duly ate some liver (tasty and tender) and started slowly on the salad to prevent our plates from being refilled. Ditto for our glasses.

Even though the rakia was a ten-year-old oak-aged liquid nectar, one shot is enough, no matter how good it is. Yancho produced a bottle of what he claimed was homemade wine. I have never had a drink that can make my eyes bleed before. Didn’t make me cough, because it caused temporary paralysis. When I could move again, I discovered my rakia glass was full to the brim.

Halfway through the second course, the aforementioned risotto, two ladies arrived. We all bunched up to make room. One lady tucked into her salad with relish, but the other just stabbed at her plate with a fork and chain-smoked. No worrying about smoking between courses for her, she smoked between mouthfuls.

It was at this point my dining companion asked if I needed the toilet. Cue all the females in the room, grabbing torches and exiting. I thought we would walk around the house to the outdoor loo. Silly me.

We traipsed into a field where one of the party promptly fell over. I hoisted her to her feet, and we both fell down. When the other women stopped laughing, they came to our assistance. Then we all found a spot and had a mass squat. God smiles on drunks and fools because I managed not to wee all over my feet or fall in the puddle I just made.

Back in the house, Plamen handed me a plate loaded with mashed potato and more meat than I eat in a week. I foolishly thought this was to be shared between two or three. No, this was all for me. I loosened my belt and dug in with a groan and galloping indigestion.

I was saved from a Mr Creosote moment when the dancing and singing started. Shoving my still overflowing plate aside, I joined in with a glorious mix of east and west. We danced traditional право хоро (line or straight dances) and sang along with more Tom Jones and a lot of Frank Sinatra.

By now, it was midnight, and time for pudding, which involved three kinds of cake and ice-cream. After this, we said our thanks to Plamen and waddled off into the night. Only for Yancho to catch us up and insist we go back to his place for a nightcap. And like idiots, we went. All of us.

More rakia appeared, and Yancho offered to make banitsa, “it only takes an hour”. Mrs Neighbour convinced him not to. So he made mish-mash instead.

The second party ended at three in the morning.

I miss these evenings.