'Daggy' is a great adjective in the Australian vernacular. It's often applied to something that is awkwardly inept and uncool, and from this author's observations, has an almost grudging affection behind its use as a label on things that are naff or substandard on the scale of what is deemed socially acceptable.
On the flipside, I was thinking about the word today in context with a song that was played on the radio as I was driving around. It is one I recall from my high school years, and when I was in high school during its heyday, I didn't like it. And you know what? The years have not mellowed my intense dislike of this asinine tune. You are no doubt wondering to what tune I refer, so wonder no more: Shy Boy by Bananarama. Why do I dislike it? It's daggy, and not the good kind of daggy that can be a fun and kitschy guilty pleasure. This song blows. It's just a boring tune that occasionally deviates from boring to pissy. Listening to it is like wading through a morass of banality, almost toppling Wings' Mull of Kintyre for its power to simultaneously annoy and send you into a catatonic state through its boring mediocrity. It takes meh to a new low level of meh-ness.
The dagginess of that torpid tune flatlines when compared to the show my husband and I partially saw on the weekend. I say 'partially' because we only saw part of it. We left during interval because it totally broke and recreated the paradigm for sheer dag. I don't want to give too much away, in the interests of privacy, but after seeing an advertisement for a show, we were under the impression there would be a band and singers performing classic pop tunes from the Fifties and Sixties - a tribute show to the era. What we were given was two singers (possibly a married couple) with a karoake type machine. Let me tell you, my friends: It...was...CRINGE. The banter between them was embarrassing, and the woman's stage movements made Peter Garrett looks like Nureyev. They exchanged lamentable witticisms and executed dance moves that conjured up visions of tacky drunken aunties and uncles at a wedding. Don't get me wrong, they were fantastic vocalists. We couldn't fault that aspect of the show. But the tide of ignominy became too torrential to navigate and we did not want to drown in that dreadful sea. When the lights came up at halftime, we scarpered for the exit. When we were safely away from the grotesquerie, I said to my husband, 'What a pair of dorks!'
Yes, I do like a bit of dagginess at times; I'm a woman whose iTunes playlist has Paper Lace and the De Franco Family. Put on YMCA, and I will be there busting out the moves. But the dagginess to which I have lately been subjected is at level so alarming, I fear crutching may be required.
