Righteous Singing
There was a style of singing in the 70s which was really earnest. Overtly passionate performances, not matched in any way by the lyrical content.
The antithesis of Dylan, whose passion is all in the words.
Saying that, I love this.
I too would be equally passionate if I too lived in a capital I in the middle of the sky.
The following on the other hand, sucks balls. Dean Friedman and Denise Marsa. One of the cheesiest songs ever. Friedman also demonstrates another weird vocal affectation of the time, with his voice pulsing in and out like Radio Luxembourg on medium wave (one for the Gen Xers).
A lack of enunciation on the consonants too.
Tsk tsk.
“Your enDEARing MOTHer called toDAYYY. “
Meaningless drivel.
I would urge extreme caution before deciding to watch/listen.
I warned you.
Biggest Regret
About 30 years ago, somewhere in central London - possibly Leicester Square/Piccadilly Circus - I was minding my own business, and I felt gentle hands on my shoulders and a soft 'Boo' in my ear.
Turning around, expecting to see a friend, I instead saw a complete stranger. A large but harmless fellow in a bright pink shellsuit.
in a Black Country accent, he lent in and said "I saw you then, and just wanted to come over and say 'Boo.'"
He then started walking towards another street and said "Hey, you’ve got to come and see this. This is brilliant."
I politely declined, but I've always wondered what it was he wanted to show me that was so important.
After all, he may have been God in disguise!
That happens.
Come away, child...
...from the detritus of sots, lollygaggers, socialists and druggies with their mange-ridden hogs.
High on cannabis and government hand-outs.
Burdening the state with their flat screen televisions and Dr Marten’s boots.
Small twigs left in their wake, their abandoned nests replete with cigarette butts, bottle tops, broken glass and syringes with perfectly good heroin still within - wasted on them.
Poo, Grandmama! What a smelly man!
Do not look upon them Petunia dear, for they will sully you with the odour of badger and the wanton behaviour of The Krankies and such like.
One never sees this at Wimbledon or Henley!
Can you imagine?
Never read the Daily Mail, let alone The Telegraph.
Only ever entered a church to steal its pews for firewood or to defecate in the font.
Gussets filled with yoghurt and compost.
Armpits oozing with peat.
Not a single Marks and Spencers cardigan in sight.
Shame on you!
Bring back National Service!
No! This human is soiled.
Just shoot you in the head and be done with it!
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That'll learn them! |
"Don't be silly, Geraint."
The answer to everything I said when I was a child.
Can I have a mint choc chip and raspberry ripple ice cream together?
Can we get the musical instruments out of the cupboard please miss?
Can I put a curtain on the alcove to separate my bed from the rest of the room?
Can I buy some sweets please miss?
My feet hurt miss.
I don't believe in god.
Can I go to the toilet please?
I don't want to do dressing up. I don’t like it.
I hate it here. It's rubbish!
I want a pair of red jeans.
I don't want to go there. They smell.
This is a girls' comic.
This book is shite.
Keep me cool, fatty
Bingo wings on Beryl Cook women, flapping away as they attempt - in vain - to shoo the wasps away.
Not just in vain, but making the wasps angrier and angrier and more intent than ever on getting to their sugary crumbs.
At least the wind produced from their flappety arms is keeping me cool.
I don’t mind the wasps: cheeky little punk rockers.
In fact I admire their guile and tenacity!
The downside is those bingo wings are really putting me off my blancmange...
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'Ere! Mind they wappsez! |