The Hits appears to be having a “Cheesy Pop Day”, consisting, as you’d expect, of all those ludicrously poppy choons nobody likes to admit to liking, regardless of how fabulous they may actually be. An hour after I switched on, I can’t help but wish, if only for the sake of my macho image, that they’d play one single solitary song that I don’t own.
I may well have to sit here until something comes along that I don’t have in my collection, but considering we’re promised “Timmy Mallett’s 50 Utterly Brilliant Summer Hits” at 3, you may well not be seeing me for some time.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to get back to the telly and all its Ooh Eee Ooh Ah Ah Ting Tang Walla Walla Bing Bang goodness.
There’s no point in trying to fight against some stereotypes and if we’re honest I usually revel in the few to which I am party. But having found myself at a loose end for a while and being, as I was, too lazy to do anything that involved moving about, I’ve just spent a good hour playing various videos from the mighty Steps, Scooch and Samantha Fox on You Tube. “Gay” just doesn’t begin to cover it, does it?
But if anything cemented, for me, the realisation that I’ve definitely strayed into Old Queen territory, it was my immense joy at stumbling across the following…
Officially The Best Artist And Song Ever, incidentally. Oh dear – I’m very much afraid that listening to this always brings a tear to my eye. Time for me to pack my bags and head for the Home for Resting Poofy Boys, I think.
People with long memories and short tempers will be unsurprised and probably more than a little depressed about the main source of my amusement this evening, but, as luck would have it, I don’t care.
Just before 8 this evening, as The Saint drew to a close on ITV4 – where an ad break isn’t an ad break unless it happens in the middle of someone’s sentence – I was, as usual, left in a slightly bad mood at their butchering of the end theme music (an edit so painful I can only presume it was achieved by giving the film can and a blunt razor blade to a blind elk with severe arthritis, but I digress). So far, so very depressing and we weep with pity for your sad existence, Adam, I hear you say. Don’t worry – it gets worse. Continue reading
And just why, exactly, I ask you, shouldn’t I have an imaginary left-handed violin? Hmm?! It’s the Leftist mafia again, I tell you – the bloody Leftist Mafia!