Every Sunday night for the past few months has been spent like the Sunday nights of my childhood: watching 'Countdown'. Only as a woman of mature years I am watching the specials and having a good laugh, and a good cringe. Music is so evocative of memories both sweet and bittersweet. Last night's episode focused on the year 1986, which like so much of the Eighties, had some horrifically sucky tunes.
One of the first clips played was The Damned's cover of 'Eloise'. Look, I actually find their cover passable. I was living with an aunt at the time, along with some of my cousins, and we taped it off 'Countdown'. For those of you under twenty-five: sitting in front of the television or by the radio, holding a Sanyo tape recorder and with our fingers poised over the 'play' and 'record' buttons was how we downloaded music in the olden days. So far gone is this era, it should perhaps be treated as a proper noun and I should class it as The Olden Days. But anyway, I kind of liked singer Dave Vanian's voice. Thought him a touch weird looking; perhaps his mother was a vampiric succubus who boinked Pepe Le Pew. There was a posh lady up the road from where my aunt lived, and she had a mane of jet black hair swept back from her forehead, and a broad streak of white contrasting the blackness; my cousin and I used to call her 'the bloke from The Damned'. The original of this song by Barry Ryan shits copious amounts on the cover, but the cover on it's own ain't too bad, in my humble opinion. As I sipped my sangria last night, I reminisced about sitting in my cousin's bedroom playing the song she had acquired by the magic of taping, without the rightful copyright owners' knowledge, on her tape recorder. Fun times. Last night I was nostalgic for a time when I didn't have to adult too much, like I do these days.
Unfortunately, I was reminded of some total troll's tripe, too. Dynamic Hepnotics, for one. Shit, I found myself losing my will to live. And then came The Thompson Twins, and I drank more sangria thinking just what a pack of donkey fellators they are.
Why do I do it? Why do I watch breakfast television? It's like inviting the Devil for a twirl around the dancefloor and then complaining there are hoof-shaped scorch-marks in the parquetry. I always end up rolling my eyes and/or feeling aggravated. This morning's woeful reporting was about an article written by a Captain of the Australian Army wherein the notion of sex workers as a form of stress relief for those serving might have merit. Okay: one, two, three: CUE THE OUTRAGE! It's my understanding the original article has been removed from the online place of posting, so it stands to reason most of those commenting haven't even read it. By the way, you slugs at 'Sunrise', the preferred term is 'sex worker'. The way you lot sneered 'prostitute', as though the word was a mouthful of someone else's phlegm, was condescending and infantile and pathetic. Grow the fuck up, all of you. Of course, the fact the original article's author is a female captain is another reason for the clutching of the pearls, and the howls of outrage (because God forbid a woman have what might be a pragmatic solution regarding sex, instead of a romantic one, right?).
I don't have too much of an opinion because, you see, I didn't get to do this really important thing which was READ THE FRICKIN' ARTICLE! It's often advantageous to do this sort of thing because it's good when you can give an opinion that's informed. Also, the captain is in the army, so she might be in a better position to actually comment on what it's like at the front line, and any issues of morale the serving soldiers are facing. Prima facie, I'm not bothered in the least by the notion being proposed. I've got other things to worry about than whether or not consenting adults are fucking, exchange of currency being involved or not. Things like bills to pay, and that my house is still shambolic post-flood, and that I'm not a best-selling novelist (although you the blog-browser can change all that!).
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