I HAVE gone all nostalgic and been listening to music of 50 and 60 years ago. The reason is that reader Kagey very kindly sent me two CDs.

One was Sinatra At The Sands and the other a series of male-female duets – both released in the 1960s.

“Relax for an evening with your good lady and a nice bottle of nectar and drift back to your halcyon days,” said Kagey.

I used to have the Sinatra album on vinyl but haven’t heard it in years. And it was while listening to it that I suddenly started questioning the words.

Count Basie provides the wonderful orchestral backing and Francis Albert has never been in better voice. It’s brilliant. Until I actually listened to the lyrics of Come Fly With Me.

“Let’s fly, let’s fly away. If you can use some exotic booze, there’s a bar in far Bombay.”

I ask you?

If you are that much in need of a drink, there’s an offie round the corner.

The lyrics in some of the songs were just daft. Then I dug through my own CD collection and came up with the double album Memories Are Made Of This, packed with popular songs from the 1950s and 1960s, and encountered more duff rhymes and song titles.

This was when Eve Boswell seemed to think the way to inveigle a chap into a romantic encounter was to invite him to a barbecue where they could jointly indulge in Pickin’ A Chicken. Who knew where a chicken leg might lead to, she seemed to suggest.

Matt Monro was painting a Portrait Of My Love and said she was so stunning that anyone who sees her, will forget the Mona Lisa. Not exactly Shakespeare.