The Clue's in the Name

I'm lucky in that I have a reasonable long-term memory.  Of course the longer you live, the more there is to remember, but while, like a lot of  my generation, I often mislay my glasses or the car keys, I can recall a lot of what went on in the sixties.  This is because I was a young teenager and as far as I was concerned grass was something green that grew in fields and hash was made from corned beef.
We wore mini dresses, straightened our hair between sheets of brown paper on the ironing board and listened to Cream, the Beatles and the Stones on the radio.  Popular too were the individual singers, the most famous being Tom Jones and Engleburt Humperdinck. 
Personally I'm not keen on crooners, but Engleburt and Tom were all over Top of the Pops which was required viewing in those days.  Even the mums and dads and maiden aunts quite liked them (while professing not to approve of Tom's gyrations but casting covert glances at  the telly all the same).
And you've got to admit, the pair of them have staying power.
They are masters of re-invention, not only in their careers.  Tom is now on The Voice and our Engleburt has reached the dizzy heights of Eurovision.  And being a good citizen I wish him well, but quietly wonder if he were chosen so we could avoid hosting the whole shebang next year.  Post Olympics we might not be able to afford it.
But Engleburt's re-emergence into the spotlight has reminded me of a little friend I had in the sixties.  He wasn't very big, only lived for three years (in my bedroom, because of the cats) and was named Bungleburt Hamsterdinck.
He was a great little chap, full of heart and a real Houdini.  No barred cage was going to keep him in and safe. He wanted to be out there in the wider world of the bedroom, the hall, and on occasions, the kitchen.
This was dangerous.  'I've lost the hamster', I'd shout more frequently than was reasonable and the whole family would set to and look for him.
He actually lived behind the cooker for a week and how he avoided being eaten by the cats I don't know.  Occasionally we would hear scurrying and pull out the appliance but we were always too slow.  He would retreat under the sink which then gave him the run of several cabinets and because of the layout, out onto the floor. There'd be a sudden flash of brown and white, somebody would make a dive towards him but he was quick.  Too quick.  But then, just as suddenly, his spell of freedom came to an end.  No, it wasn't the cat, it was my stepmother, wielding, with great dexterity, a dustpan and brush .  Caught.  And I was grateful.  I didn't want to see him end up as lunch.
Like Engleburt, he lived to a ripe old age and the little hamster was still at the top of his game until suddenly he was called to the big wheel in the sky. 
So when Engleburt comes on stage and sings his heart out for Britain, remember my little friend Bungleburt.  He won't  be here to watch the competition but I'm sure he would have been thrilled to bask in some reflected glory, should Engleburt claims the prize.