Many years ago, twenty-two and three quarters to be ever so precise, all was calm and well in Moominsville.
But that blissful day, when the skylarks sang, while the grasshopper hopped a merry jig and the water babbled along gently in the river, all was about to change.
To the beautiful sounds of nature all around came another sound, that of a baby expelling its first piercing cry.
“Whaaaaaaahhhh!!!”
Yes, Mummy Moomin had given birth to a little baby girl.
“Owwhh!!!” she exclaimed in a high-pitched wail; “she’s perfect. But whatever shall I call her?”
A huge fan of all time drug-induced hit children’s classic, The Magic Roundabout, Mummy Moomin had planned to call her first-born son Dougal Dylan Moomin. The very fact that Dougal had turned out female threw a spanner in the works.
“Ermintrude is such a lovely name but I can’t call my daughter after a cow!” thought Mummy Moomin aloud.
And so she rubbed her chin, pondering, for a good six seconds before the light bulb finally pinged.
“Owhhh, how silly of me!” she continued, as she remembered the lead female protagonist of the show. That big lollipop-head, that little button nose, the luscious brown dreaded locks and impeccable dress sense – what more could one wish for their child?
“Child-birth has made me ever so forgetful,” mummy Moomin mused, “I shall call her Florence. My beaaooowwutiful little Florence,” she trilled with the affection only a first-time mother could muster.
Sadly Mummy Moomin wasn’t well versed on the unwritten rules of the land. Unbeknown to her, to be a fan of any other children’s animation was strictly forbidden in Moominsville and punishable by death.
So when she skipped merrily to the registrar to officially name her first-born child, it will come as no surprise to you, reader, to hear that Mummy Moomin was tackled to the ground, handcuffed, blindfolded and hurtled into the back of a riot van with an almighty THUD.
The van threw her to and thro all the way to Moominsville town centre, where she was shot multiple times by a firing squad in front of an audience of thousands, including her newborn infant.
Now everybody knows that newborn children have delicate ears and even the drop of a feather could well leave them audibly impaired. So to be as close to the firing squad as Florence was had a detrimental effect on the vulnerable tot, who heard the first gunshot clear as bell.
“Boooooooooooommm bannnnggghhh!!” the shot rang out. But the following rounds were as clear as mud “duff…dufff…dufff” came the muffled shots. And so to the sound of her mother’s untimely end, Florence’s eardrums were perforated beyond repair.
As she grew it quickly became clear that poor deaf Florence would never blossom into the beauty that her late mother had intended.
Her nose was enormous, even by moomin standards, and not as rounded as one may have hoped. And her fiery ginger locks, in Moominsville, suggested foul play and witchcraft.
Thus it was not long before Florence was ousted from the land and left to perish in the dark, dark woods with nothing but the rags on her back.
So Florence walked and walked, living off nuts, seeds, bugs and the occasional dead squirrel. Poor feral Florence was incapable of hunting. Being deaf she made too much noise, stomping through the twigs and leaves, as her meal scurried off into the distance.
To keep herself entertained, Florence hummed and muffled hum and by the time she reached civilisation, approximately three and a half weeks later, this had become so loud and profound that the townsfolk ran to see what this strange, wailing creature could be.
They all gathered round as Florence emerged from the woods wailing as she came.
“Are you in pain?” they asked. But of course Florence couldn’t understand them so they called for the doctor anyway.
Cleared with a full bill of health, the doctor failed to notice Florence’s inability to hear, instead misdiagnosing her misfortune as that of a child raised by the wolves.
Soon the paparazzi arrived and followed her for a fortnight or more and Florence was soon under the impression that the townsfolk worshipped her strange humming noise. She was given a council house, enough benefits to feed a family of six and a plasma screen television, which took up an entire wall.
What luxury!
So Florence whiled away the hours watching MTV all day long. But one day, as she watched Girls Aloud, it suddenly dawned on her…
If all these people could take their strange facial expressions to the stage, get paid for it and gain global notoriety, then why couldn’t she?
After all people had been in awe of her when she first arrived in the town.
And so Florence’s dreams were realised. She was snapped up by a record label, took to the stage and quickly rocketed to stardom.
The music critics praised her eclectic diversity as “one of a kind” and the musical bible, NME said to its followers “thou shalt listen and be happy.” And so they did as they were instructed.
And that, my friends, is the story of the fall and Rise of Florence and the Machine.
