There’s not been much new on here lately, has there? That bit between the end of the season and the start of the World Cup is rubbish, and it’s too early for all the transfer talk of come and get me pleas, swoops and warchests. I’d like a warchest, that would be great. I don’t know what I’d do with it, but I’d like one all the same.
At least when the World Cup* starts we can all wibble on about naive Africans and the new ball** moving in the air. So in the absence of much United stuff going on, here are some observations I made of ludicrous musical writing recently, while I was finishing off washing the car. I’m going to call it “Waxing Lyrical.”
The Who, Pinball Wizard – “he ain’t got no distractions, can’t hear no buzzers and bells, don’t see no lights a flashin’, plays by sense of smell.”
Now I’m no pinball wizard myself, but I don’t reckon it’s possible to play pinball by sense of smell. What has happened here is Daltrey has clearly been humiliated by the local disabled and is clutching at straws by ridiculing his lack of sensory capabilities. Of course he can’t hear no buzzers and bells you tit, he’s fucking deaf. Not content with this stating of the bleedin’ obvious, he insinuates that our hero is actually a pinball cheat who is a bit of a ritual self-abuser with his “there has to be a twist, got such a supple wrist” snidery. Maybe Roger would have been better served keeping an eye on Pete’s browsing history, instead of bullying those less fortunate than himself.
Queen, Killer Queen – “to avoid complications, she never kept the same address. In conversation, she spoke just like a Baroness.”
I moved house 6 years ago, and it was a pain in the arse. It involves all manner of correspondence and organisation and doesn’t avoid complications at all. I fail to see how never keeping the same address would help at all, it would cause more complications if anything. Ordering a curry would be a logistical nightmare, and schooling for the kids would be farcical.
As for speaking just like a Baroness, what’s the point of that? I assume that the never-ending stream of house moves is to avoid this so-called Killer Queen being held to account for her murders, yet finding the local oddball who speaks just like a Baroness in Spar would not be beyond the capabilities of even GMP, I reckon.
This is making me look as old as that old pirate who goes on about Stokes being offside, so I’ll include a more contemporary lyric now to appear down with the kids.
The Courteeners, Take Over The World – “I looked into her eyes and I swore, I’ve never written a cliché before”
Birds don’t like that, you know. When you look into their eyes, you’re not meant to swear. Few things can ruin a romantic moment like you piping up with “fucking hell, it’s only started pissing raining, I washed the bastard car earlier” or something equally crude. Profanity is the crutch of the inarticulate Fray, you stick to having affairs with Doncaster and the like. I’ll tell you what women like, and that is fine wine and Belgian chocolates. Think on. To be fair, I like The Courteeners, I’ve just shoehorned this one in a pathetic effort to look a bit younger after my 70s ramblings.
*the World Cup will be shit, as all World Cups since 1982 have been.
**the new ball will be shit, as all balls since the adidas tango have been.
I must stop listening to kerrang! Radio.