THE CURE – Friday I’m In Love
Some cynic has just e-mailed me to say that this whole worlds worst week of pop was constructed so I could get yet another dig in at the corpulent kings of goth rock. To you sir I say – you can never bash Fat Bob enough (that amount of gut protection makes him difficult to bruise), and secondly do you really think a grown man should be going round in an outsize jumper knitted by someone without fingers. To shame.
I will leave aside though the faux whimsicality of the track, the catawauling singing and the thesis of the song which suggests that Bob cannot be in love any other day of the week (he just don’t have the stamina of Craig David). With Bob its Saturday…Wait (delayed/no ejaculation), wheras Sunday always – ahem – comes too late. Only on Friday can he synchronise his sexual ability. But all that is rent assunder by the glib admission that on Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s he always has a heart attack.
As loathe as I am to save an individual pop stars life, I am no believer in the death penalty. Not even for All The Cats Are Grey. That said, if you are regularily having heart attacks on two days of the week I think a trip to a cardiologist is in order. Of course its easy to guess what said heart doctor will say when he sees the lumbering form of Mr Smith loll toward him. “Mr Smith, your constant heart murmurs taking place on a nigh on weekly basis is probably due to the fact that you appear to have eaten all of the pies. Cut back, slim down and maybe we can restrict the heart attacks to once a week, or even once a month.”
He might also enquire if Bob has a history of some form of motor neurone disease, or the early onset of Parkinsons, since his lippy seems awfully messy.