TANYA’S RAINBOW OF RUBBISH: The Green, Green Grass Of Home – TOM JONES
Oh, he’s a right leather-faced boyo is our Tom Jones. A real eighteen carat charmer. Actually, I have confession to make. That renaissance he had in the eighties, when The Sun ran the story about women throwing their knickers at him – that was started by me. In an honourable cause though. I had the raging shits for days and it was my form of dirty protest against the man who has apparently got snake hips. Snake don’t have hips anymore. They were so appalled at being compared to Tom Jones that they evolved rather than being thought of in the same breath.
To the rainbow though, as I daresay Virginia Woolf would have said if she had filled her life with such an important project like this of mine. The Green, Green Grass Of Home, so green they named it twice. The song is a eulogy from a man to his home town, seeing his Mama, Papa and a young sweetheart Mary who had the misfortune to be born with lips like cherries. Still with lips made of fruit you would have a tough time singing, so I’m on Mary’s side. I just hope she dumped Tom before he let loose his god-awful bellow on the world.
However all is not peachy in Tom’s world for it transpires that the first two verses were all a dream. You know, that rubbish plot device that at school you were told off for using? Well its all a dream because Mr Jones is actually in prison. For once I punch the air, for this is quite obviously where Tom ought to be – high security in C Block for his crimes against crooning. Not only that but it turns out that the very next morning he is going to be hung by his turkey neck to die. Die I tell you. At least until Trevor Horn and his Art Of Noise decided to breathe some life into the old corpse and make everyone lose their dinners watching a very old man gyrate and talk about kissing us.
I hate the Green Green Grass of Home because there are only two logical conclusions to it. Either Tom Jones lied and was not actually sentenced to death for the crimes has most patently committed. Or worse. That he is some form of undead, cursed to continually do cover albums with his countrymen, foisting and reinforcing the evil of bands like the Stereophonics and Catatonia for eternity. Do you blame me for throwing some crap at him?