At a recent party I took a break from the session and went upstairs to take a leak (can you guess what is coming?). As the ‘job was completed’ and the relevent apparatus was being stowed my much loved generation slipped from my pocket and into the (un-flushed) bowl. 
After a good swill under the tap it was back downstairs and on with the session. Needless to say I did not share news of my misfortune with my fellow musicians
.
If you love you whistle nothing will stop you putting it in your mouth!

I have taken the liberty of composing a little ditty:
Lament for the drowned whistle
or…Whatever tune I try and play, all I get is ‘The smell of the bog’
Come all you whistlin’ gents,
And hear the sad events,
That have caused me such torments
With their outcomes so adverse.
At the session we was drinkin’
An amid the bottles clinkin’
My mind soon turned to thinkin,
That me bladder soon would burst.
As I went to find relief,
I was set on being brief,
Never thought I’d come to grief,
Never thought I might be cursed.
As I swaggered from my tipple,
Alas amidst the fetid ripples,
Fell my dear and faithful fipple,
And was dreadfully immersed.
So when retiring to the ‘closet’,
To make a small deposit,
Take your whistle from your pocket,
And stow her safely first.
But despite my consternation,
I give thanks to constipation,
That my precious Generation,
Doesn’t taste a darn sight worse.
