I had always found the Beatles' When I'm Sixty-Four a perfectly innocent song, quite nice to listen to whilst doing something not too mentally demanding, like solving the Ripper murders or coming up with a cure for that irritating cancer difficulty. But ever since Cherie Bliar massacred it in Japan (admittedly some time ago now) whenever I hear it I see her horrorstruck I-can't-believe-I'm-doing-this gob and hear her abominable staccato wail instead of the soft dulcets of that Liverpudlian chap, whichever one of them it was (they're surely interchangably annoying or dead these days, bar Ringo, who did Thomas the Tank Engine and so absolved himself of being irritating or dying, although somebody might've told Death about that). She's done for it what Niel Kinnock did for D-Ream, or whatever it was they were called. Can't be D-Ream, can it - that'd surely be the fourth bundle of five-hundred, wouldn't it? Anyway, what was I saying? It was going to be something about Pavlov's dogs and a cruel joke about the Prime Minister's wife. Tony Christie? On the subject of Tony Christie, I should like to say that I think it's pretty amazing that he's been so thoroughly rehabilitated already: acid-bath murderer to man-we-love-to-hate crooner in less than a century. Impressive, if nothing else. But the point! I had a point! Honest.
No. It's gone.
Topical, knowledgable, focussed: they're my watchwords. Usually.
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