Tony Mortimer has left the building....
TONY MORTIMER HAS LEFT THE building. With him have gone all ideas about being a top pop band, swagging Christmas Number Ones and scaring parents with their tough East End troglodyte antithesis to [a]Take That[/a]’s clean-cut boys-next-door.
Perplexingly, [a]Brian Harvey[/a] and, erm, the other two don’t seem to mind. Credibility being the curse of good pop, they want to be taken seriously. Mainly, however, they want to live out their fantasy of being an American R&B band.
They have no idea how to go about it. So they sound like a weedy Usher on ‘Sleeping In My Head’, they perform the obligatory ode to their offspring (‘Daddy Loves You’), but perhaps the cruellest irony is that, while once they stirred teenage hormones without even trying, now they are reduced to yelping hopefully, “Betcha can’t stop thinking about my love rock”, offering endless, insincere protestations of love and promises of a hundred different routes to orgasm. Pop being what it is, anyone who might have once cared will ignore these hopeless fumblings.
Howards to Mortimer’s Robbie, in the second coming of E17, the ‘ast’ is not the only thing that’s missing.