Colours eh? Or Colors as Ice-T would have it talking about the horrific habit of LA gangs to kill other youths merely for the bandana being worn. All terrible Mr T, but you would be a crazy fool to think writing a lousy rap about it is going to make the situation any better. It wouldn’t surprise me if said gangs stopped shooting each other over what colour they wore and instead started exterminating any tasteless person who had the temerity to buy Colors.

Anyway, as you know I hate music – but I rather like other types of art. Take visual art, I was down the Tate just the other day – admittedly marking time before the pub opened – but the resolute silence of the place really cheered me up. The Turner Prize exhibition for instance I really liked, that fella who just turns a lightbulb on and off managed to improve massively on Jean-Michel Jarre’s schtick by not having any rubbish synth-symphony accompanying it. A gallery is a place without music, unsullied by aural cacophony – only a well stocked bar short of heaven. At least that is what I thought until I wandered into the pub afterwards and some bastard had come and mended the jukebox I had deliberately rammed some chewing gum in the money slot of the week before. And what were they playing? Red, Red Wine by UB40.

It then struck me that even that most visual of things – the rainbow of colours – was not free from the hideous taint of music. Not least Rainbow themselves, prog’s also-rans (which when you consider the general success of most prog bands, is saying they were particularly poor). Lists of songs with colours in flooded my mind to haunt me, and there is only one way to exorcise them. Yes dear reader: over the next week or so, I present a spectrum of shit, a paintbox of poor pop, or – as I think it should correctly be termed, Tanya’s Rainbow of Rubbish.