Over 50’s World Cup Cricket – Closing Ceremony at Kirribilli Club – Photos thanks to Duke Suren Ramachandran
Over 50’s World Cup Cricket – Closing Ceremony at Kirribilli Club – Photos thanks to Duke Suren Ramachandran
They tell us that French is the language of love, but there is nothing wrong in giving “Italian” the same status. As we all know, some Italian vocalists (and bands) are, without a shadow of a doubt, on the top rungs of the “musical ladder” of fame. Italians are among the best “tenors” in the World, Sophia Loren would still have to be one of the most beautiful “olderLadies” on our Planet, although I don’t think that she “sings” very much. Now, where am I going with this Series 17 ?. Oh, yes, I remember it now.
A friend of mine, made a name for himself, singing numbers mostly recorded by Englebert Humperdinck, and so, I have decided to put in an Italian song entitled ” Quando quando, quando” (Italian for, When ?, Woman, When ?). a question that, I suppose, ANY hetero-sexual man will ask of his woman at any given time/s. An absolutely handsome entertainer, now much older, of course, but still looking quite personable in his 80’s, Englebert gives us this “earlier” video clip of the song I have picked for our eLanka readers.
Please enjoy the song that was first recorded by Tony Renis and Emillio Pericoli, in Italian, (the Composers of the music), Alberto Testa wrote the lyrics.
This is followed by another great entertainer in Paul Simon, who, with Arthur (Art) Garfunkel, recorded many songs, although this particular one is what I would term a “Simon-Solo”. The title simply gives us what the song is about. Two complete “changes of cadence”, a great tune and written by Paul Simon himself, as far as I am concerned
“QUALITY” is the “tops”
It is certainly a wonderful “feeling”, a peaceful, easy one, as performed by a more recent group calling themselves the “Eagles”, a superb bunch of musicians from America, founded initially by Glenn Frey on vocals & guitar, and Don Henley (also vocals, and Drums), plus Bernie Leadon (another guitarist and backing vocalist), & Randy Meisner on bass & vocals, they became one of the most sought-after “groups” of the 70’s era, winning many awards along the way, but “lost” original founder Glenn Frey in 2016, but carried on with other members including Joe Walsh, Don Felder, & Timothy D Schmit, and still do the odd gig to date.
Because of the multi-talented individuals & songwriters in this group, there was obviously going to be some “divisions” as to their ideas, so, although I have picked “the peaceful, easy feeling” with which to introduce this story, this ideal existence wasn’t always present, but, as they say, ” the show must go on” & it certainly did, making the Eagles the 4th ranking top group in the music business era of the 70’s, selling over 120 million dollars worth of “Albums” during the period of about four or five years of “Eagles” epic years.
Following the Eagles, Linda Ronstadt once again comes into focus with a song titled “Perfidia” the Italian word for faithlessness, betrayal, mistrust etc., ), and so Linda warned everyone around her, that “perhaps” was the best way to think,in terms of any romance in their lives. I do believe her, myself, and anyway, I am sure that all readers of eLanka will enjoy this song from a wonderful Artiste.
Tony Brent Greatest Hits
Tony Brent created a splash in the music scene of the 1950s; his songs ring true even today Reginald Hogan Bretagne (Tony Brent) was born on 13 August 1926 in Byculla, India. He was the oldest son of Patrick Joseph and Irene Marian Bretagne, and had three brothers and two sisters. But he recorded in a few years what most contemporary singers would record in a few lifetimes. Brent was good at Geography, English and Urdu but, like many of us, was scared of Mathematics! He was a champ when it came to football, cricket and his favourite, hockey. But closest to his heart was knowing more about cars. Fortunately Reg’s father was a Ford dealer, giving him the opportunity to pursue his hobby. He reassembled post-war jeeps, Dodge weapon carriers and military vehicles. By the age of 18 he had a great knowledge of mechanics and went into business with his father in the Ford dealership. He Moved to UK It was in England that Brent discovered his talent for singing. A talent scout from the BBC, London spotted him and arranged an audition with the Bert Ambrose Band. The audition was successful.
This was followed by radio broadcasts and a recording contract with Columbia Records. He joined the BBC Showband in 1951 and took on the stage name Tony Brent. That very year the couple had their first child ~ Kevin Patrick. His first taste of success came in the form of Walking to Missouri. Of his 104 records, 29 made it to the hit parade. In 1953, the year Tony went on a world tour, Karen was born In 1961, the Brents shifted to Sydney where he joined Eric Jupp on his television programme Magic of Music. Cory says, “In 1964, Tony’s other talent surfaced ~ cooking Indian food. So, the family opened a restaurant called Rajah’s in Crows Nest, Sydney. They sold this restaurant after two years to buy a slightly larger one in Chatswood naming it East India Restaurant, central Sydney calling his new restaurant New India Curry Cellar,their final move to their largest and most lavish restaurant ~ which included a nightclub. Situated in the basement of the AWA building in York Street, Sydney, Tony christened this restaurant “Shalimar”, in 1981 when Tony’s wife Noreen died at the age of 50 having suffered a slight stroke after Noreen’s death and also having been diagnosed with diabetes. He bought a mobile home and travelled extensively around Australia until in 1990 he joined his daughter Karen and me in Queensland and retired.”
In 1996, Cory and Karen flew to India with Tony’s ashes, which were scattered in the Ganges. The sad part is that not many record companies released collections of Brent’s music. The most popular one is The Magic of Tony Brent, which was released in 1999. Brent is dead but his music lingers. But how many times do we mention the person who gave the eternal hit In My Little Room, Don’t save your Kiss for a Rainy Day or Every Time we say Goodbye? There will never be another person who would sing Pleading My Love with all his heart, enough to make you fall in love, over and over again.
writes Mathures Paul
We sit in our allotted places for breakfast. For every meal. Alfredo* is to my right, Alice eyeballing me from across the table, Theresa on my left. My mother’s stricture, “A place for everything and everything in its place”, comes to mind. The table’s not much larger than a card table, so finding a space for all our plates, jugs, cutlery, cups and glasses, containers for butter, salt, jams and spreads provokes a silent battle of shifty placement.
Before I can sit down, Alice moans, “There’s not enough milk.” She clutches the plastic jug to her breast and repeats her protest several times. She does this every meal. The jug holds about a litre of milk. Alice only uses it in her coffee, a couple of thimblefuls. She seems to have a lactose problem. After a month of calling the place my home, I realise she would demand more milk if none of us used it. It’s a psychological imperative. She’d be hollering for milk if a mob of Jersey cows with overflowing udders filled the dining room.
“I’m going out with a song on my old cracked lips, a spring in my limp.”Credit:Getty Images
As Alice protests, Alfredo takes his place. Alfredo is an Italian of my age who has been in Australia since he was 12, but the Mediterranean runs deep in his veins. He shakes hands every morning and evening and, sometimes, in between. He has a shock of white hair and a fervent manner. When the food arrives he begins saying grace, sometimes silently, sometimes in a low-key mumble. It can take several minutes and multiple signs of the cross, and he doesn’t miss a beat as he pours his coffee mid-way through. Theresa has now joined us.
Theresa could break your heart. She’s a little mouse, European, about 50, who has lost her way in the world. Theresa cannot get through a meal, or anything, without help. She confuses her knife and her fork. Or her knife and her spoon. She looks lost when one or another of us guides her through each meal. She says a humble “thank you” after every helping hand and sometimes, “You are very kind.”
Some residents will tell you Theresa is retarded. I don’t think that’s the case. She’s a woman, I believe, who has suffered some deep trauma that’s closed down her mind. We hang around after we’ve finished eating to make sure Theresa doesn’t start spooning with a knife again. She could easily gash her mouth. I go to my room and hold back a tear.
I shouldn’t be crying. I’ve just moved into an aged care home in Sydney. One of the good ones, run by caring people who smile and laugh a lot. I don’t think it is put on, though some of the residents would demoralise a saint. They sit in the garden, staring into space. They’re in some other world, cut off from communication. Unapproachable, unresponsive, mostly men. They sit in the lounge room watching television, a row of metal-framed walkers parked in front of them.
There are some sorry cases among the residents, men bent over, almost doubling on themselves, women whose legs and feet are so bad they can barely shuffle along. But it’s the silent ones I find disturbing.
I moved in here on an emotional high. It’s time, I told myself. I’m 82 and multiple vital parts of the body are starting to fail. Parkinson’s has slowed my gait, my reactions, my mind. I’m beginning to grasp for the right word, my voice has softened and often comes out confused. My eyes are failing through macular degeneration and glaucoma. My hearing has been shot for years. The doctors have told me of other failings: Barrett’s oesophagus, hiatus hernia, swollen legs and a whole list of conditions I don’t understand and really don’t want to.
I’m a cocky old coot. The night I began calling the home my home, I sent out an email to friends and former colleagues to keep them in the loop. Forget my former name, I told them, forget the byline I used all my working life, from now on I wished to be known as the Dalliance Alarma. Don’t be alarmed if you can’t reach me, I’ll probably be in deep meditation. I mean no disrespect for the Dalai Lama, whom I admire. I just want my mates to recognise that I’ve slipped into another phase, the last of Shakespeare’s seven. I’m going out with a song on my old cracked lips, a spring in my limp
So, how’s it going? I’m at the start of my seventh week and life is closing in on me. We catch the same creaky lift down to the dining room, make the same jokes with the same people about it crashing one day. That’s with the people who talk to me. Some residents have remained mute from day one. After a sustained campaign of hello-ing them cheerfully for four or five weeks, I’ve given up. If they want to be miserable, that’s their problem.
I’m trapped in the minutiae of life. What’s coming up for lunch, what for dinner? Is Alfredo going for a walk today? Will he get wet? That’s of course if it rains. There are various competing opinions expressed on that possibility.
There are some sorry cases among the residents, men bent over, women whose legs are bad. But it’s the silent ones I find disturbing.
We have a crucial conversation about the butter. For weeks it’s been on the table in those little wrapped pats you find in hotel-room fridges. It’s cold and hard but there are strategies to soften it, to make it more spreadable. My tactic is to trap one little pat between the two pieces of warm toast I always have. There’s nothing I can do at the top of the pile, though; just soldier on, ramming hard butter against soft toast.
Three days ago there was a butter revolution: a different brand of pat that spreads like water on a flood plain. Our joy is matched only by the disappointment of today: back to hard butter, not even wrapped … they’re tiny squares hacked from a big lump of the stuff. Hard. And cold as charity.
I almost lost it with Alice at lunch today. Went within a whisker of reaching across the table, grabbing her by her turkey throat and squeezing the life out of her. Never have I met anyone so self-absorbed. “Tania,” she cries, when the nurse wheels the medications trolley into the dining room. “Tania, I’ve finished eating.” As if Tania hasn’t enough on her plate, dealing with 50 people with varied pills, capsules, drops and liquids. “Tania, I’ve finished eating.”
Alice switches her attack to Stella, who is ladling out the minestrone. “Stella, I haven’t got my soup.” And when Stella responds with a plateful, “I don’t eat that soup. I want my soup.” Nearly all of Alice’s diet is Alice-specific. Her special soup. And eggs at almost every meal: pallid scrambled eggs. Sometimes she shovels them all down, sometimes abandons the task after a spoonful.
I’d like to know more about Alice but I’m wary about becoming a confidant. She hints of a murky past. She knew Lenny McPherson, onetime crime king of Sydney, and she speaks of working around the club scene. She sometimes visits the cemetery where one of her husbands and two of her infant children were cremated.
Alice has a tragic face, which possibly might once have been beautiful. To get around she uses a walker, which precludes her from going out; she’s afraid it might take off with her down a slope. She’s a smoker who frequently runs out of cigarettes. In my second week here she asked me to buy her a single cigarette – that’s right, one lonely little fag – from a supermarket down the road. It hasn’t helped that I turned her down.
Today she turns her attention on Matilda, who is sitting at a neighbouring table in direct line of fire. “Matilda, will you go and buy me a packet of cigarettes?” Matilda tries to ignore her, but Alice is relentless. She repeats her request maybe a dozen times before Matilda capitulates. It makes no difference. Alice continues to nag her even though Matilda has buckled.
Alice turns on Theresa. That’s what almost tips me over the edge. Alice does help Theresa, there’s no denying, but it’s the help you might give to an irritating pet dog.
“Now eat your bread, Theresa.” “Put your cup down.” “Not with the knife, Theresa. With the spoon, Theresa, not the knife.” “Tuck your napkin into the top of your blouse.” “Put the glass down, Theresa.”
For god’s sake, shut up, Alice. Shut up and become a silent helper like the rest of us. Alice looks at me malevolently across the dirty dishes. I’m sure she knows what I’m thinking. All of this may be very unfair to Alice and to the sad-faced silent men who watch me pass every day without a flicker of recognition. Some of these people have been here for years, waiting out their time on earth.
How will I be in five years if Parkinson’s or some other stealthy malady hasn’t claimed me, if I’m immobilised, bitter and resent my fate? I wish I could answer that question. I want to remain stoic and good-humoured no matter what. I’ll do my best but there are no guarantees. The black dog can creep up on you unawares. I think that furtive, depressive animal is chained permanently to many of the men who lie in the sun on recliner chairs for hours on end every day. Their lives have become a waiting game. They’re not waiting for friends and relatives to drop in. It’s bigger than that. It’s their endgame and they don’t wish to be distracted.
When I moved in, I asked a staff member about visiting hours. The question caught her off-guard. “Oh, we don’t have visiting times,” she said. “We’re not a prison. We welcome visitors at any time. We love to see them.” So do the old folk. All too often they wait in vain. It’s a long, long time since some of them saw a friendly face from the outside. When they do, it’s often a fleeting appearance and a source of embarrassment for both parties.
Occasionally, a ray of sunshine breaks through. There’s a little bloke on level three whom I’ve mentally labelled the Jockey. He never speaks because he can’t. He points to his throat; something’s wrong there which has sentenced him to permanent silence. He grins and waves his arms, c’est la vie. He’s the Jockey because he’s small, thin and wiry, strong in the arms, as all jockeys must be.
He reminds me of Mel Schumacher, the audacious rider I interviewed many years ago. I watched the Jockey in the dining room a few days ago guiding another resident into his walking frame. The man was huge and made clumsy by his medical condition. The Jockey patiently stood him up and fussed over him until he was sure his friend was secure. They stood side by side for a moment, one towering over the other, David and Goliath united in friendship.
I’ve reviewed my life many, many times. I’ve found that the result of my musings has varied in line with my mood of the moment.
For the moment, I make comparisons with other oldies and count my blessings. Will I be able to do that when I’m on the wrong side of the ledger?
I’ve been thinking about old age, how I will handle it, for 10 years or more. I guess most people would say I’ve been in denial; that starting at 72 I’m already there, now at 82 I’m past it. As former Israeli prime minister Golda Meir said, “Old age is like flying through a storm: once you’re aboard there’s nothing you can do.” Many notable, and not so notable, people have weighed into the debate.
I’ve come across some of them in my research. Bette Davis, the tough-talking actor, said: “Old age is no place for sissies.” That quintessential Frenchman Charles de Gaulle seemed to be agreeing with her when he described old age as “a shipwreck”. American writer Philip Roth was on the same wavelength: “Old age,” he said, “isn’t a battle, it’s a massacre.” Bette’s Hollywood contemporary Marilyn Monroe mused that sometimes she thought “it would be easier to avoid old age, to die young, but then you’d never complete your life, would you? You’d never wholly know you.” As it turned out, she had no choice in the matter. Leon Trotsky shared Monroe’s misfortune. The runaway Russian revolutionary labelled old age as “the most unexpected of all things”.
He died in Mexico when a sneaky assassin drove an ice pick though his skull. He was 60. My thoughts on how to handle advanced age have swung through a wild arc, from the dismal to the absurd. I’d like to think I could live up to US literary critic Louis Kronenberger’s goal “to say or do at least one outrageous thing every week”. On a real high, I see myself in the same light as science-fantasy writer Roger Zelazny, who explained: “While I had often said that I wanted to die in bed, what I really meant was that in my old age I wanted to be stepped on by an elephant while making love.” Socrates said that an “unexamined life is not worth living”. I don’t know that he’s right. The old Greek philosopher was a bit of an elitist. Only male citizens came under his scrutiny. Women and slaves, of whom there were many, didn’t count.
When I look back at the people I have known, those in amiable, good-humoured relationships seem the most contented. They haven’t necessarily sat around and examined their good fortune. Most of them have taken their lot as the way it’s meant to be.
Self-scrutiny, in any case, can be a chancy business. I’ve reviewed my life many, many times. I’ve found that the result of my musings has varied in line with my mood of the moment. Like Kronenberger, I’ve had times of outstanding stupidity, incidents that have sent my career, or whatever, into a nosedive. But then, they have been the memorable events of my life. The bottom line is you can’t beat your nature, you can only try to curb it a little. Socrates in the end took a draught of poison hemlock rather than be banished from his country. Was it a decision based on an examination of his life? I wonder what Mrs Socrates had to say about it?
Lately my satisfaction pendulum has been swinging more often to the bottom of the arc, to Shakespeare’s assessment of the seventh, and last, age of man as “second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything”. It’s troubling that Shakespeare was right about so many things.
For the moment, I know I’m in better shape than Moira, a lifelong friend who has creeping dementia, and knows that the disease is cannibalising her brain. She’s had a good mind which was mostly engaged in helping other people. She’s only 18 months older than me and what she feels most sharply is mortification. “Who would have thought it would happen to me?” she says.
* Names have been changed, including that of the author.
To read more from Good Weekend magazine, visit our page at The Sydney Morning Herald, The Age or Brisbane Times.
Sri Lanka Library
4 December 2018
Renowned holistic health and wellness consultant and Chairman and Managing and Medical Director of SOUKYA Dr Issac Mathai has called on Australian health, wellness and wellbeing experts to consider holistic treatments and methods during his recent trip to Australia. Addressing two high-profile boardroom luncheons in Sydney and Melbourne recently, Dr Mathai highlighted holistic solutions’ role in restoring the natural balance of mind, body and spirit.
Dr Mathai said: “In recent years, there has been growth in western research into complementary and alternative health products and services. For example, it is heartening to note that UTS has recently added a research centre on complementary and integrative medicine.”
“As a truly multicultural melting pot, Australians have the potential to lead the world through embracing complementary and alternative health products and services. For many cultures their traditional medicines are their primary health care providers. We often find that people from other cultural backgrounds are comfortable using these treatments and prefer them to the purely western medical approach.”
Among the high-profile attendees of the boardroom luncheons were:
Dr Mathai is a holistic health consultant to the British royal family, with the family frequenting the private health resort. Located in Bangalore, India and awarded ‘Best Wellness Centre 2010’ by the Government of India, SOUKYA’s one-of-a-kind residential facility combines modern medical advancements, ancient medical techniques and complementary therapies used worldwide to help in patents’ healing and rejuvenation process. SOUKYA offers traditional Indian cures for conditions from hay fever to diabetes. Procedures include massage, yoga, mud baths, and ayurvedic detox among others.
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For further information on SOUKYA and Dr Issac Mathai, please visit:http://www.soukya.com
To schedule an interview with Dr Mathai, please contact email@example.com
It was such a shock to receive a phone call from a close friend bearing devastating news of a work place accident in which her father had received severe and life threatening burns to his body. My friend as expected, was crying hysterically worried about the safety of her father which made me drop everything and rush to her side. Her father, as I got to know then, had sustained severe full thickness burns to most of his body when a mixture of paint and thinner ignited while he was working at a building site. After a stressful few hours sitting in the waiting room of the burns unit of the Royal North Shore Hospital, my friend was prompted to speak to the doctor in charge. The doctor had instantly put her mind at ease. Her stress and fears were soon washed away with the reassuring words of the staff. “The doctor looking after your father is a miracle worker and the best person to take care of your father,” they had said with confidence.
Throughout the lengthy period of recovery where my friend’s father spent two months in and out of the intensive care unit and subsequently another six months undergoing reconstructive surgery done for his burns, we never lost hope. The faith the staff had in the doctor who looked after our patient was more than enough for us to hold on to hope. We actually understood why everyone in the burns unit was so confident about the work the doctor did when we ourselves saw the amazing results in my friend’s father as he gradually recovered from the horrific injuries caused by fire.
With constant references made about the doctor and the many lives he had been instrumental in saving, my friend couldn’t help but admiringly refer to him as the “Lifesaver”. We all had faith and never lost hope that the “Lifesaver” was going to make things right and he did: when our patient, a burns victim with severe burns to 80% of his body walked out of the hospital in a completely recovered state we could hardly believe our eyes. The Lifesaver had truly made the patient as good as new! Imagine how grateful and proud I felt when I finally met the doctor dubbed the “Lifesaver” in person and realized he was a fellow Sri Lankan.
When the “Lifesaver”, Dr Aruna Wijewardana, introduced himself, my journalistic instinct recognized a good human interest story and I requested for a formal interview with the good doctor. It was indeed fascinating to hear the many stories of care, compassion and survival that Aruna so willingly shared while always adhering to the patient’s privacy. The most surprising bit of information for me was that fact that the gentle, soft spoken soul sitting in front of me, who had performed over four thousand reconstructive surgeries on severely burnt patients during the last thirteen years in Australia , still lived and worked here on a temporary visa of this country which he so willingly serves and wishes to call home one day.
Aruna, had been attached to the burns and reconstructive unit of the National Hospital in Colombo, the burns unit in Lady Ridgeway Children’s hospital in Colombo and also had held several other important positions in Sri Lanka, before assuming duties as a fellow at the Severe Burns unit at the Royal North Shore hospital in 2007. Ever since then he had been serving the community silently with grace, compassion, determination and skill. He clearly was not expecting anything in return for the work he did, which in some cases was truly miraculous. As the day ended and I bid the doctor goodbye I wished him all the best for his future with a hope that he would be able officially call Australia home soon.
Once in a while you meet someone, quite randomly, who inspires you with his or her immense skills and often unrecognized and unappreciated services rendered to society that you feel the need to share their existence with everyone. Dr Aruna Wijewardana truly is one with immense skills and one who needs to be recognized for his services. All those who have met him never forget him and most of those who have received his care owe their lives to him.
Playing for pride both teams gave it their all at the Plate semi-finals between Sri Lanka (5th) and Canada (8th). Electing to bat at the iconic Old Kings Oval, the Lankans started steadily – 36/0 (7 overs) when a fine bowling spell by Rudy Gibson (4/35) saw the run-rate nose drive. A courageous Captain’s knock by Marlon Von Hagt (52) and some dogged batting by Roshan Ismail (35) and Boyd Parson (16 not out) concluded a respectable 163/8 (45 overs).
With a strong bowling attack and a win against the Canadians in the round robin game, the Sri Lankan Lions took to the field with hope. Brian Rajadurai (dual international Sri Lankan and Canada ICC), shone with the bat with a superb 58 not out. Well supported on the other end by Syed Rafiullah (27), Roy Singhe 15 and the stylish batting Jayasekera brothers Rohan (34) and Shantha (18 not out), the Maple Leafers produced an emphatic 7 wicket win (34 overs).
With many friends who played school and club cricket between these two teams, there was plenty of banter interspersed in this fiercely contested game. “The game of cricket is richer for the reconnections and forming of new friendships” commented Stirling Hammon (President of Over 50s Cricket & Sydney Masters Cricket Association).
Click on the link below for photos and scorecard thanks to Duke Ramachandran and Kapila Jayasuriya respectively.
And so, we come to “The Storyteller” as he was called.
Tom.T.Hall, born in May, 1936 in Kentucky, another multi-talented performer. He sang, of course, (in story-telling vein), played guitar, banjo, mandolin & even a saxophone, at times, started to be “noticed” by the Nashville hierarchy in 1963, and he wrote his first “hit” for Jeannie C.Reilly (the girl more likely), the called her, titled “Harper Valley P.T.A.” This song became a No1 hit for Jeannie & from then on, Tom also began to score his own hits, 10 of which, went to No.1, catapulting the story-teller into the Country Music Hall of Fame. He had 26 more songs climbing into the top-ten, got married to Iris Dixie Dean (who he fondly nicknamed Miss Dixie), and had one son, named Dean. Tom.T.Hall “returns” in this particular Series of mine, later on, but here is something that most of my readers wouldn’t know. If you watch him perform, he seems to be quite “laid-back”, holding his acoustic guitar up against his chin sometimes, as he plays his own accompaniment with chord-perfection, but the fact of the matter was that he was a perfectionist, rather difficult to work with, & sometimes gave his other backing musicians a hard time. This takes nothing away from the “Star” that he was. When he was not doing any stage-work, he was writing short stories, as a Novelist, or, as he now states, (in retirement), “Miss Dixie & I still write songs together”. The song featured on this Series 15 is :-
“Old dogs, children, & watermelon wine”.
This is followed by a lesser-known, but still enjoyable song by a Liverpool Group called “The Beatles”. John, Paul, George and Ringo, a song “credited” to Lennon/Macartney, but actually penned by Paul McCartney, the main songwriter of the group. The title of the song was a rather silly little family phrase of a friend of Paul, “Obladi-Oblada”, a catchy Latin/Rock rhythm, quite easy on the ear.