110:punk, pubes and Stockholm syndrome

Kevin can’t come to the blog at this time.  He is asleep.  Please leave a message and he will blog back later.  Or he would if he could, but he can’t so he won’t, so he’ll plod along one word at a time until the inevitable unsatisfactory conclusion.  At work while completing the joyous end of day task of scrubbing a pissy pubey urinal and changing weighty shitty nappy bins, I had the unfortunate experience of having to listen to I Wish I Was a Punk Rocker with Flowers in My Hair by whoever it’s by. 

Now before you all exert a collective groan, I’m not going to be attempting to wittily deconstruct the seemingly idiotic lyrics to this song.  That was done by every writer, professional and amateur, years ago.  No, I’m going to confession.  I did something bad.  Worse than cleaning fetid porcelain and faecal-filled pampers, I actually enjoyed the stupid song.  The music is a subtle percussive mix feature a repeating timpani-thing beat which I find quite arousing, and the lyrics aren’t as staggeringly shit as I had previously imagined.  It’s made clear from the start that she isn’t implying she thinks 70s punks wore flowers; she is clearly exploring the music from before her time and the lyrics are about mixing images and traditions.  I like it.

However, given that I was nose first in a bag of shit, and thrusting my gloved hands into the effluence of many, perhaps my enjoying the song was merely in relation to everything else.  Perhaps it was a manifestation of Stockholm syndrome whereby a hostage begins to feel empathetic and close to their captor.  Or it could just be that I’m making the whole thing up; that I wasn’t nose or hand deep in anything and really I was just giving the place a quick wipe down.  And it could be that even though it’s a crap song, it is also a particularly inoffensive one, and not really deserve a mention.  Any of these things may, or may not be true.  Hey, don’t look at me; I never claimed to have any answers.  I’m just a guy, writing a blog about the first thing who pops into his head.  I’m not the Dalai fucking-Lama, and neither are you.

And then what happened, Mr. Kevin?  Not much really.  I coughed a bit and went to bed.  And you should too.  On another note, I’ve noticed my blogs are getting shorter on average.  This isn’t to be tolerated.  If we tolerate this, what will be next?