Aah, the nineties. The decade of people power. When anybody who pleased the eye of the British public could become a star. Sexy Take That. Sexy Spicy Girls. Nice faces, nice bodies. Except perhaps for Gary Barlow, but one bad apple don't spoil the whole bunch, girl.
Of course it all started with Ecstasy and raving rock musicians driving round and round the M25 until they saw a field with a couple of cows who looked like they needed a bit of company. The Criminal Justice Bill in 1994 sorted out all that nonsense.
Ecstasy made everybody who took it 'loved up'. Best men would hand it out at weddings. Pall bearers at funerals. I remember being so loved up at the council tip that I rolled on the ground with a dirty old vacuum cleaner.
Then Brit Pop came along to put the mockers on things. Androgynous leather jacket, Brett Anderson started it all. "The initial vision for Brit Pop that Suede had was akin to a Mike Leigh film," he says in his eloquent Hayward's Heath drawl. "And I think it was hijacked by various crap bands who turned it into a Carry On film." If anybody could explain any of that to me, I would be most grateful.
And Brit Poop begat Blair. Brett's old girlfriend, Justine Frischman says "Whatever you think about Blair, I like the fact that he'd been a bass player in a punk band. He had a genuine interest in music."
Sorry, Justine. Margaret Thatcher's favourite song is Telstar which trumps Blair's dodgy taste in crap hairy seventies rock far too easily. Cool Brittania? The man couldn't even out-cool a 150 year old woman.
Finally, the decade ends with Robbie and Kylie. Sex and pop has come a full circle. And I'm worn out just thinking about it.
How about driving and pop, next?
Geoff's Thumb Rating: Up for unmentioned Dance, Down for BritPop.
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