Most people are unfortunately familiar with the Bee Gees' song 'Night Fever.' It's the one of those trashy, nineteen-seventies hits that sounds like a troupe of eunuchs arguing about how to operate a washing mangle. Which wouldn't be so bad if the "night fever" of the title was a reference to nocturnal visits by some huge breasted succubus; or if it was about a white colonialist's cold sweats and irrational fears induced by constant native drumming.
But it isn't. Apparently, Night Fever's lyrics celebrate dancing while wearing flared trousers in discotheques that stay open until the early hours of the morning. A singularly boring subject, if you ask me. Certainly not worth squealing about at ear-splitting volume.
Yet, like a spangled, hairy-chested earworm, Night Fever manages to wriggle its way into my head each summer. This is because I've suffered from the seasonal allergy colloquially known as 'hay fever' since childhood, with its embarrassing runny nose, disturbing cough, and weepy eyes; and I can never forget my cruel schoolyard chums, their voices pitched as high as possible, serenading me with endless choruses of 'Hay fever! Hay fee-ver!" while I fished around in my pockets for a clean handkerchief or unused tissue.
So every time my sinuses become congested, I'm reminded of Night Fever, albeit adapted by spotty twelve-years olds to taunt poor old sniffling me.
I once tried to tell this story to a table of mostly strangers at a wedding, where, for reasons best known to himself, the DJ had decided to play Night Fever twice. It was late June and both the ceremony and reception were held alfresco. Alas, nobody found my sorry tale remotely interesting. But I think that was at least partly due to my garbled narration, the result of repeatedly turning my back on my audience in a vain attempt not to sneeze all over their entrees.
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