26
Jun 06

Day 78: Lost In France
AROUND THE WORLD IN 80 LOUSY DAYS

I Hate MusicPost a comment • 452 views

Waking up in a hedge is never a pleasant experience. Waking up in a hedge with a turncoat like Crispian De Savary, a man who tried to sell me to the MAN, (or at least THE FRENCH MAN) was intolerable. It took an awful lot of self restraint for me not to batter his head in there and then.

The only thing tat stopped me was the fact that Crispian spoke French. I decided that this skill might be useful for us to find our way in this country where English is the language of pop music and imbeciles. You can see that they may have got that the wrong way round, but their reasoning was sound.

Instead I put a makeshift collar and chain on Crispian and sent him off to discover three things:
a) Where were we
b) how were we going to get to England
c) Where I could get a decent pint of Gin and Tonic (Tanquerry 10 if possible).

LOST IN FRANCE – Bonnie Tyler

A middle aged, big haired ginger Welsh woman in overtight leather and a voice like a cement mixer. Ladies and gentlemen I give you Bonnie Tyler, the worst thing to come out of Wales since Tom Jones left that welcome in the valleys. The foghorn of soft rock, almost genetically engineered to shred your nerves with her voice like a werewolf trying to escape from a room made of blackboards.

Did Bonnie ever ask why she was lost in France? No she was too busy flitting around in the morning rain, with a million stars a glowing, with a street band playing and a crowd all dancing? The reason was someone had bundled her in the back of a van too, and dumped her somewhere full of catholics, who would clearly assume she was the spawn of the devil and burn her at the stake. Perhaps this is why she could not hear what the band was singing, her ears were too busy singeing.

Lost In France is nowhere near as offensive as Total Eclipse Of The Heart. It didn’t spend months at number one in the first place, and is jangly rather than bombastic. But you can still hear the vague creak of leather, the smell of sweaty lace and hair like the Bride Of Frankenstein on a bad day. Which when you think about it, is a really, really bad day. Leave her in France I say, preferably in a soundproof booth.

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