Posts from 14th February 2003

Feb 03

Patsy Montana- I want to be a Cowboy Sweetheart.

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Patsy Montana- I want to be a Cowboy Sweetheart.

It hasn’t been camped up or reclaimed by anybody and not really known as well as it should be, considering it was the first song written by a woman to sell a million copies. Its not ironic and its not desperate, the song is about how she wants an equal, one who can work side by side to bring food to the table.

The yodel is a rebel yell, an indication that her talent and skill sustains her, but does not make her warm on a cold night on the prairie, and the soft voices in the middle verses tell us that she can be as calm as we need her to be.

I’m playing this today, because really, only country assuages a broken heart, and its my first valentines in almost a decade with out a boy and like Patsy, I want a cowboy sweetheart.

Ahem. The counsel for the defence says…

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Ahem. The counsel for the defence says: I would have loved to be sitting close enough to the ashtray in order to use it. Or indeed to have been sitting at all in a very crowded pub on a Saturday night in the centre of town. It is far more antisocial to lean across people deeply engaged in conversation, waving a still-burning fag stub mere inches from their faces, in order to put it out than it is to put it out on the pub carpet which is clearly a special type of carpet designed to withstand the onslaught of fag butts / beer stains / mud from working men’s hobnailed boots / unidentifiable marks. It is also far more antisocial to insist on putting assorted detritus from your pockets / pub snacking into the ashtray which 99.9% of non smokers insist on doing. OI! It’s an ASHtray, not a crisp packet tray or a bus ticket tray. If I had been able to get near the flipping thing no doubt it would have been overflowing with pork scratching packets. Grumble grumble woe is me…

C90 Go: Number 7

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The Ultimate Fop-Pop Explosion

When I hit the astroturf I knew it was serious. By the time I got to Battersea the next morning, my ankle resembled the Graf Zeppelin and each gear change felt like an angle grinder slicing through my leg. Only another 400 or so miles to Paris. I left A’s Beetle in a side street, hopped to a bus stop and headed straight for casualty, where a brusque Indian doctor told me what I already knew – no weight on it for two weeks, chew these and collect a pair of crutches from reception.


The Most Ultra-Romantic-est Songs in the World… EVER!

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The Most Ultra-Romantic-est Songs in the World… EVER! I’m guessing no-one reading this is likely to celebrate Valentine’s day by buying their Signif. Other (or anyone they happen to want to get jiggy with) a double CD compilation of Classical Love Themes, Reggae for Lovers, Soft Songs for Hard Hearts or whatever. But they’re being advertised all over the shop — full page ads. in the broadsheets, and TV too. Do people buy these things? And why do I feel queasy about them (notwithstanding the likely quality of the tracks)? Just plain old snobbery, I guess. But also, it’s a lingering worry about something so personal as love is supposed to be, being expressed through such a mediated form. But then as I argued in an over-written and under-thought Freaky Trigger piece a couple of years ago, the whole concept of ‘love’ is nothing but mediated: so where’s the problem, Thomson? I was going to add some personal stuff in here about being happy romance-wise at the moment, but I think I’ll leave it.