And lo, poor Patsington (and Mr leedy) found themselves facing four C***ys, transformed into a terrible folk part-singing combo. This song has been engrained into me and leedy since we were in the womb, thanks to my parents' rather sweet habit of singing it on a regular basis, so as soon as the first spindly little Summerisle-esque notes wafted out of the speakers, we were off. The song goes on for about five years (well, not really, but it's long), and by the end Patsington had been sucked in and was singing along too. It really was good fun, though, and we were all in fine form when we bellowed the final notes.
"And now we're going to do 'Summer is Icumin In' and find someone to burn in our giant wicker man," I said.
I have a feeling that few men could stand being linked to a family that sang demented old English folk-rock songs after dinner. I'm rather lucky that the delightful Patsington is one of that few.