First of all, I feel I should apologise for my last post. It wasn't big and it wasn't clever.
Of course we've got a lot to thank Nelson and Jools for. If it wasn't for Nelson, I'd be eating snails stuffed with frogs' legs in a creamy white wine sauce and I wouldn't have washed my armpits since last Christmas. If it wasn't for Jools, Beverley Knight and Sam Brown would be on the breadline and Tom Jones would be in a home.
So Trafalgar 200 and its finale of Brittania ruling the waves and three cheers for Nelson and his column (about time he got himself a blog), neatly flows into sixties sex and pop.
Of course, they wheel out the obligatory Philip fucking Larkin poem, this time the one about sexual intercourse starting in the sixties, not the fucking one about your mum and dad fucking you up which was in the fucking Darcus Howe documentary last week.
Sex all starts with the sexual explosion that is Elvis. Bill Haley is too pug ugly to get Cilla Black's juices going, but Elvis? What a man!
So "young aspiring Elvises roamed the coffee bars of London" like sexed up zombies . And here is Larry "Mr" Parnes "Shillings and Pence" taking the best looking ones under his wing: Billy Fury. Joe Brown!
And from now on, the sixties is one big shag fest. For musicians and their groupies, that is. The same old stories are regurgitated. Marianne Faithfull and her fictional Mars Bar. Super Groupie, Pamela Des Barnes. The woman who still polishes her plaster cast of Jimi Hendrix's cock. The Beatles, The Stones, The Who, The Kinks, The Animals, Cynthia, Yoko, Rosie Boycott, blah blah blah. Dusty is a lesbian, shock horror. Drugzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Cream with Eric Clapton. A nice cup of tea with Eric Burdon. The pill revolutionizzzezzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..............sorry, did I fall asleep there?
Best footage is of a 17 year old David Jones (now Bowie) who is self proclaimed chairman of The Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Long Haired Men. Apparently, the cruelty involves members of the public taunting the long-haired men with the word "Darling" and the question "Can I carry your handbag?"
"It just has to stop," says David.
Bring back National Service, I say.
Shaman’s Crossing by Robin Hobb
28 minutes ago
Not wishing to be picky, but would you mind watching some of the programmes that I watch, so that I can join in the debate here?
ReplyDeleteIt's very lonely in cyberspace.
yazyfle - the art of having a totally original taste in televisual entertainment.
I believe you're referring to Cynthia Plastercaster. I once asked her if she did discounts.
ReplyDeleteVicus - I don't want to be lonely, either. But I have successfully isolated myself socially, and I think the same pattern is emerging in the blogging world.
ReplyDeleteWyndham - Is the cost based on amount of labour or materials, or fame of the model? Is it best taken first thing in the morning when the man is asleep? Did Cynthia continue into the seventies, do Stevie Wonder, and plastercast a masterblaster? If so, what did he think of the result?
wmtuqqgc - the sound of a machine manufacturing replica plaster penises.
I think the song Plastercaster by Kiss will answer all those questions.
ReplyDelete