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...
So come on all you A&R boys! Snort that coke and grab your Biros and sign us Steps-klones up by the groaning truckload. Steps Lite! Uber-Steps! Steps 3000! Steps Pistols! Step-Un-Wulf! Yeah! Two gurlygurlies and two gurlyboys – ten weeks with a choreographer, 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! Top pop product aimed at the hearts, minds, reptile-brain stems and permanently soggy gussets of the hideous hordes of luvverly little ladies aged between six and 17 who actually buy 94.897 per cent of all records bought in the world and are thus responsible for the parlous state of pop as we know it. The bastards!
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!