Another one for the list of songs to not attempt to seduce with, as commented on my last post by my friend Matt, is 'Do You Wanna Make Love (Or Do You Just Wanna Fool Around)?' by Peter McCann. Look, I am ambivalent about this. On one hand, it is an incredibly embarrassing guilty pleasure of mine. The guy has a really nice voice, and the song was recorded when I was about eleven, and at the age of eleven, you still like to think the world is safe and you have no worries, other than your budding bosom as you're hitting puberty, and the fear of starting high school soon, where all the big kids are, and will you fit in or just be a square peg. The answer from me is the latter. I always believed myself to be a total fuck-up throughout my school years, and it wasn't until I was on the committee for my school reunion (go figure!), and tracking down people via Facebook, I learned the people whom I'd always believe detested me actually rather liked me! Wow.
But back to this song. The guy singing it, despite the nice voice, actually reminds me of this pervy old creep of a teacher I had in high school (again with the high school reference). And he sounds like he's taking himself more seriously than he should, and then he sings the line, 'We can take it seriously, or take it somewhere else...'. What the hell? ('You'll find the lubricant in Aisle 4, Sir'). He also reminds me of a bed salesman in Bondi back in the early Nineties. I had decided to get rid of my waterbed (they were de rigeur in the late Eighties, so haul your mind out of the gutter) as it was a nuisance to move around, back in the days when it was necessary to move to a new flat once every year or so upon expiration of a lease, or unreasonable hike in rent, or the flatmate suddenly grew a third eye and developed a propensity for squashing the big hairy Huntsman spiders and eating them. I knew some who swear by waterbeds, and I did enjoy sleeping in mine, but I disagree they are a breeze to move. They are a nightmare to drain. I remember moving flats with my older sister, and she complained, 'What did you have to buy a bloody water bed for?', and I fired back the good old standby that is often used in filial arguments: 'Because I just bloody did, okay?!!!" So, after several terse sessions of draining the fucker, I decided it was time to get rid of it and buy a mattress ensemble. So I went to this place in Bondi, and spoke to the salesman who looked like the bloke singing that song (only his moustache was less bushy). He radiated a miasma of ick, and spoke in a fruity Mr Burns of 'The Simpson's style (you have to imagine this, okay?) and his voice had undercurrents of sleaze. I sat on one side of the bed, and he lay down on the other to prove the resilience of the springs. I decided the bed was fine, stood up and said I would purchase the product, and thanked him for his assistance. He purred, 'It's a pleasure to test a bed with you, Miss Bailey', and it was all I could do not to shudder and go, 'Eeeuuuuuuw!' in the shop. But I bought the double bed, it lasted me just fine until I met my husband, a man of 6'1", and realised it was time to upgrade to a larger sized bed.
But yeah, when attempting to make and court sweet woo, don't play that bloody song, okay?'
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