Today we went on our one and only Christmas holiday day out. The kids and I went to Birmingham to meet up with my friend Kate and her children and our friends Rachel and Chris and their children. It makes for quite a house full. There were thirteen of us altogether, nine of us were children. Which nine, it was sometimes hard to say.
We talked and ate and laughed and ate, and ate and ate and laughed.
It was great.
What was not so great was that on the way there and back I had promised we could listen to Oscar’s new CD that he got for Christmas. The amazing instant classic, Pop Party Ten.
He had told me that he wanted this CD long after I had purchased all the Christmas presents he would be getting from me. He suspected as much by the way he introduced the topic:
‘Mama!’ (said in plaintive voice, eyes wide, as big as soup plates) ‘I would loooovvve to have Pop Party Ten for Christmas, because it has Gangnam Style on it, and I loooooovvve that song soooo muuchhhh, and I hope Father Christmas brings it for me…(huge, pregnant pause)…or someone who really, really loves me because I want it soooooo much.’
Luckily his granny took pity on him and it duly arrived in our house, where Gangnam Style has been played unrelentingly and at ear splitting volume for days and days and days.
My entire life these days is played out against the sound of the children galloping around upstairs enough to make the light fittings shake, while they bellow the line:
“Heeeeeeyyyy sexxy laydeee’
I agreed to having the dreaded CD in the car, because moaning about pop music takes my mind off nearly being killed by articulated lorries on the M6 all jostling to see which of them can drive 1 mile an hour faster than the other, and clogging up two lanes of the motorway for bloody miles.
I also reckoned that as I was nearest the controls, I could veto listening to Gangnam Style 300 times in a row, and there might actually be some slightly more tolerable tunes on there.
They were an improvement on Gangnam Style, but by this stage in the holidays being beaten over the head with a stake whilst being forced to listen to the entire Ring Cycle would be, so it’s not really saying a lot.
I found myself arguing with the lyrics as we drove, much to the amusement of the children, and my consternation. I am actually just turning more into my mother with every day that goes by. When I start saying that those One Direction boys look a bit like they need a good wash, that will be the end for me.
Wait, I already said that.
Anyway. I have decided I despise Ne Yo, because not only is his name stupid and makes me suspect that he probably wears his trousers belted round his knees and has his arse crack showing, but he does those long, wobbly lines that fit into short, pounding musical ‘lines’.
So the lyric:
‘I wannnnaaaaaa beee youurrrr loverrr baybeeeee girrrlllll because you look cute and blah blah blah’
Fits into the musical line: ‘dee dum dum’
The musical equivalent of putting an anaconda into a shoe box.
I despise Justin Bieber because, well, he is Justin Bieber. But also because he pinched Nelly Furtado’s bass lines, which I didn’t like much even when they were hers. Then he adds the words ‘gennulmen’ nine trillion times, and writes songs with Buzz Lightyear in.
I also have issues with Maroon Five. I quite like them in general, despite them being a modern beat combo, but that song Payphone?
I’m at a payphone trying to call home
Firstly, where is this place he’s in? I haven’t seen a payphone for about eight years, certainly not one that actually has a working phone in. Mostly they are in people’s gardens festooned with hanging baskets full of petunias these days. No wonder he can’t call home.
‘Dilys? DILYS! Come quickly. There’s a man singing in our phone box.’
‘I said; THERE’S A MAN, SINGING, IN OUR PHONE BOX.’
‘What does he want to do that for then Arthur?’
‘I don’t know. I think he might be on drugs.’
‘I know he’s making a right bloody mess of those hanging baskets, Arthur. Call the police. It’s never been the same since they shut down the basket weaving department in the local hospital.’
‘I’m calling the police now Dilys. You keep him at bay. Turn the hose on him, and if he gets any nearer, sprinkle him with Miracle Gro.’
Seeing an actual, working pay phone, that might be longer, fifteen years maybe. We used to have to be ready for emergencies as Brownies and always have 2p in our pocket in case we needed to call someone from a phone box. That was in 1982.
Also, he’s an international pop star. Hardly likely to be waiting to use a pay phone, even if he has found one that actually works. He’d just use his mobile, or get a minion to do it. I hear all international pop stars have minions these days.
All of my change, I spent on you
Right, because he’s got 2p in his pocket in case he needs to call someone in an emergency.
And so it goes on.
I can’t like it.
In the end I banned the children from singing Gangnam Style, and sent Pop Party Ten back to the bedroom of a small boy where it belongs.
The children, denied access to new pop have tried to appease me by singing their other favourite holiday song; ‘Rock Lobster’ by the B52s.
Their favourite line, which they sing with full emphasis in all the right places:
‘Everybody has….matching towels.’
Not at all silly. No stupid lyrics at all.