This one go plunk: Ye Olde Pubbe Piano(e)

Or as they say in French: Celui dit "Plonque!", c'est le piano préhistorique du café.

Seasoned readers of this blog will know that I like nothing better than to quote the wit and philosophy of the immortal Nigel Molesworth; especially when this allows me to nick his gags, rather than think up some of my own.

This sinisterly unsocial animal, which usually lurks darkly and silently (mercifully) in the least remembered corner of the Cafédefa, is a dead ringer for the skool piano, that cranky old grid with Midle C that go plunk on which molesworth 2 hav learned to pla that grate piece Fairy Bells . . . chiz.

I have pictured the alleged piano doing what it does best; holding up display copies of some local author's book. It also supports a mean plant pot and the occasional lamp from large blue and yellow Swede-place just outside Toulouse.

Although normally shunned and avoided by all but bored small children and the chronically drunk, it has been known to pounce on unwitting players from faraway lands.

It all started the day that Dave the Underdog (formerly known as Barman) tried to nip out for a fag and met an enormous wooden projectile coming through the doorway that nearly flattened him. It was being propelled by some hairy bod from nearby Limoux, the tuner and owner of many pianos, who for some reason thought that we would like to be landed with this one.

Dave was just recovering from the shock when a manically sweaty German cyclist appeared and offered to play the piano for the evening if only he could use the shower. The deal was sealed amid a deafening cacophony of plunk-and-twang tuning noises, which indicated that for a few short minutes in an otherwise atonal life, the piano might become playable.

Marie, l'adorable chef, returned to ask exactly what a manic but recently unsweated German was doing in her shower. She was less surprised by the piano, having fought a sustained rearguard action to avoid it. Unfortunately she hadn't told Dave so the piano man managed to sneak it in while she was out.

Trillian (or something like that, or am I getting confused with the Hitchhiker's Guide?) the German turned out to be a dementedly brilliant pianist, sort of Cabaret with synchronised carpet-chewing, bulging eyes and exotic medication. I think his very serious family wanted him to become a chartered accountant and this was his way of saying nein.

He also established that the best way to deal with the piano was to be very firm with it and beat it to death. But Trillian went on his way and the piano . . . well, some old pianos just don't like staying in tune.

And so the cranky old grid stayed largely forgotten until an agreeable Aussie pianist got hoodwinked into joining our last jam session. Coming all the way from Oz, Simon could be excused for not having his own keyboard but couldn't be excused the piano.

Actually it didn't sound so bad except some prong (er, me . . .) had piled it up with bits of PA and other crap so we couldn't get the lid up to make it loud enough. I suppose I lacked the moral courage to thrust an SM57 instrument mike deep into its unsuspecting entrails. I must be getting squeamish.