So Janet's still unable to understand why men don't just walk up to her in bars and drive her off in 'funky cars' for a night of hard knobbing. So, let's try it. There she is in the corner of the Spread Eagle, pint in hand. "Excuse me Janet, fancy it? You do? Great! The Mazda's outside, leave your drink, I've got a Tennants cooling on the window-sill back at my mum's... I mean my flat."
It's just not that simple. What Janet fails to grasp is: you're bloody Janet Jackson, woman! You can't go to the lav without ten bodyguards to line the
cubicle. How's a bloke supposed to get past that? If anyone whisked you off in any vehicle other than your own bullet-proof limo the resulting security alert would be of Waco proportions. The unsuspecting suitors house surrounded by A.T.F. stormtroopers: "Put Ms Jackson's underwear down... step away from the bed!'
Still, while most of us (like Big Brother's Narinder) dream of being Janet, it's reassuring to know she dreams of being us. And providing she does it with the ever-enduring Jam & Lewis produced fluffy pop of 'Someone To Call My Lover' then who are we to complain?
Do you think Michael has similar yearnings for casual sex? Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase 'handled with kid gloves'.
Timothy Mark
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