Trashed elbow

I'm not a big fan of jazz music: I like proper songs with proper chords, not C major with a crappy ambiguous 7th. Commit yourself to a chord, jazz boy. Three damn notes. Grow some testicles. (I particularly don't like the jargon- it's very difficult to come up with a authentic-sounding immitation for purposes of satire.)

Not only is my new flatmate, Jamie, a jazz musician: the two friends he has staying at the apartment tonight are also jazz musicians. Jazz musicians on tour, to be precise.

I have visions of these musical pariahs staying up until the wee small hours, playing non-commital chord progressions on the guitar and name-dropping (mercifully) obscure saxophonists.

Example of how detached from reality these people are: with the aeroplane duty-free trolley at their mercy and an embarassment of riches to choose from, the whisky they plumped for was Johnny Walker Red Label.

Seriously, what the fuck.