But if, on the other hand, the bug [I]didn't[/I] bite and everybody was really pissed off because they'd forked out thousands of precious drug-vouchers to so-called IT experts...
Time. Ing. Is so important. In pop. Isn’t it? And never more so than in the perineum of the year. The what? The perineum, it’s the curiously sensitive stretch of skin between sexual organs and the anus and is therefore a fitting metaphor for the period between Christmas and New Year, you dig? It’s a strange place and it is cluttered with singles released by no-hoper bands, tin-pot record companies and burnt-out old has-beens who see a chance to sneak a quick Number One smash with an obscure pile of shit past our defences while the rest of the music biz lies lobotomised by cocaine and immobilised by a surfeit of turkey, Brussels sprouts and brandy-drenched figgy pudding. The pigs. And, as usual for this time of year, the [I]NME Singles[/I] drawer is stuffed with these pathetically half-arsed sad little bastards. Oh joy.
Yes. Time. Ing. A novelty single about the dreaded bug. Oh. Dear. If the bug [I]had [/I]bit and civilisation had collapsed and we were all huddled in our formerly cosy suburban semis, barricaded in against marauding packs of [I]Mad Max[/I]-style mutoid scavengers, then we’d hardly be able to pop down to our local Woolworth and buy this record, would we?
But if, on the other hand, the bug [I]didn’t[/I] bite and everybody was really pissed off because they’d forked out thousands of precious drug-vouchers to so-called IT experts and then spent the rest stocking up on bog rolls, candles, tinned tuna, fish sticks, satsumas (and let’s not forget a couple of pallets of Chum With Extra Marrowbone Jelly for Mr Ashcroft, the much loved family dog) then this record would look really, really, really, really, really fucking sad, wouldn’t it? Yes.