Scooch : More than I needed to know
Ten days with a hairdresser, ten hours with a publicist, ten minutes with a producer and ten seconds with a songwriter and bosh! Bobsyerfackingunklefacker! Sorted...
Except that this is brilliant! It's like, hey, what if Steps didn't eagerly suck pus from a maggot-infested and hideously noisome festering sore situated halfway between Satan's spike-studded scrotal sac and his gnashing teeth-filled anal crack, hmmm? Then they'd sound exactly like Scooch. So step forward the sinister Svengalis lurking in the shadows behind this obviously (ugh) 'manufactured' so-called 'band'. Oh no! It's them! Mike Stock and Matt Aitken! Two-thirds of the evil triumvirate that gave us Kylie, Mel & Kim and Jason, too! The bastards! This deserves to be Number One for weeks and it probably will be because it is a joyously mindless romp through every Abba-esque cliche in existence delivered at a breakneck pace by a lass with massive blacksmith's bellows for lungs and it rules, it rules like Ghengis Khan ruled - remorselessly, ruthlessly, frighteningly, tyrannically but absolutely irresistibly. Love it. Fear it. Worship it. Obey it. Or DIE!
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