Vox Inhumana

The BBC’s had a tough year; forced to sell off its most iconic property; the fallout from whole Jimmy Savile whitewash, and The Voice. Once trumpeted as a ‘credible’ rival to Cowell’s all-conquering X-Factor, the reality proved somewhat less compelling.  And yet, despite all the bad press, here we are again, as the BBC offers us a new series, the way a cat might present an eviscerated pigeon carcass – it seemed like an endearing gesture at first, but now we’re just freaking out about the blood on the carpet.

Even the continuity announcer is struggling to get her excitement on, sounding more like Susie Blake being forced to deliver the Wallaby hops for a pair of 13 year-old twins. “Time to spin those chairs,” she gravely intones, as I consider doing just that and staring at the corner for the next ninety minutes.  And then there they are - Danny, Tom, Will and Jessie held in place by spinning lasers, like Zod, Ursa and Non awaiting sentencing from the jury of Kryptonian elders.

In a curious cost-saving measure, they seem to be rerunning last year’s footage of the judges being complementary to each other. Danny’s bigging up Jessie J’s vocal prowess, and we’re told that Will.i.am is a legend because “There’s nothing he can’t do.” Except maybe sit still. Reflecting back on the show’s debut, the other judges refer to Tom as the champion, since none of them could be arsed to Google Leanne’s full name. Still, they’ve got 100 years of experience between them. Admittedly, eighty percent of that belongs to Tom. But they’re channeling it all in a pitiful rock ‘n’ roll medley. The audience gamely clap along and attempt to dance on the spot, all doing their best to look like they’re not just waiting out the wet weather in the Hi-De-Hi ballroom. By the time Will.i.am comes in with Lulu’s Shout we’re reminded ironically of that earlier comment about his multi-hyphenate skillset. As the quintessential jack-of-all-trades, his voice has all the power and presence of an asthmatic wasp after a half-marathon. Meanwhile, Jessie commandeers the mic to shout “Are we gonna have some fun tonight?” On the strength of this opening number, it’s by no means a certainty.

Even less visible than they were last year, Reggie and Holly pop up to explain how it all works. With all the various rounds and gimmicks, it’s all starting to sound a little complicated. Don’t be too surprised if they introduce a new round this year where the vocalists have to take it in turns to perform the Randy Newman songbook while gargling with egg whites. Time to check in with the judges one last time, mostly so that we can ensure that Will.i.am still has that ridiculous side parting. You know, the one that resembles a bypass carved into a hillside. Only now it’s been paired with a giant kirby grip that seems to be oxidizing the hair around it. And let’s not forget lovely old twinkly-eyed Tom, who’s patiently sitting there - a fresh dusting of snow on a fruit bowl full of tangerines. We’ve got ten contestants to get through tonight, and the clocks go forward at 1am, so we’d best crack on.

First up is Ash Morgan, who does art sessions for kids with special needs. He makes a big deal about being from The Valleys, but I guess everywhere looks like a valley when you’re built like a hillock. He’s clearly struggling with his nerves, so Holly helps out by reminding him that he’s going to be singing in front of the world’s biggest superstars. And Danny from The Script. Despite the fact that he speaks with a wheezy shortness of breath, he’s fine when he’s singing. Less than a minute into his impressive performance and already Jessie J is making it about her, leaping out of her chair and spreading herself all over the stage. Will tells him his heart is as big as his voice, but it’s probably best to steer clear of too many size references. Jessie wants to work with him because she’s real, and as she rushes up to hug the first of her 12 acts, we get a close up on her awful green fingernails. My best guess is that she’s been fiddling with the rotating mechanism in her chair and needed to wash her hands with Swarfega.

Danny County is new to music, and only did his first open mic night last year. This is only the third time he’s ever sung in public, and he’s chosen to do his acoustic version of The Sugababes’ About You Now. At first, this is about as incongruous as Damien Rice having a go at B*Witched, but it works because he’s got a nice tone to his voice. It’s all going great until we hear his speaking voice, which is just as slurred and lackadaisical as when he performs. Danny thinks they’d get on like a house on fire. Backdraft with the guy out of The Script? Keep talking Danny. The Irish frontman’s pitch involves “sitting around in the studio, few beers, with the lads…” which now has me actively planning the arson attack myself. In the end, the hopeful warbler picks Jessie as his mentor, which makes some of the other judges jealous. In the discussion after the fact, Jessie gets defensive and complains “I’m not JUST a great singer…” True, she’s also a gratingly immodest shrew.

Leanne has done the holiday clubs circuit, but is now back at home, working in an office and sleeping with her mum. Don’t get any funny ideas, it’s just that they’re sharing a tiny flat. She refers to herself as “little old me” which is a sure sign of a psycho diva in the making, or someone who spent too much time watching Penelope Pitstop as a kid. She gets all four judges to turn around, thanks to a strong voice and that likeable Stacey Solomon vibe, and in the end selects Will.i.am.

Louis Coupe is a sixteen year-old musical prodigy, who can play about eight different instruments in an ugly school blazer. He spends most of his time sitting in his room listening to old records, and tautologically adds that he’s a bit of a nerd. He’s picked Learn To Fly for his big song, and Jessie looks furious. I’m guessing it’s because she doesn’t know the lyrics, so is unable to sing along and draw the camera’s focus onto her. Sadly, no-one turns around, which is a bit of a shame, because the pop world was crying out for its own Gareth Keenan. As a conciliatory gesture, Will advises him to write a musical, to which he replies “I already have done.” Of course he has. He then gives the judges a burst of Jerry Lee Lewis and skips off to hug his family.

Next to perform is Andrea Begley, a Civil Servant from Northern Ireland. She lost her sight to glaucoma, which gives the concept of a blind audition a novel twist. She’s a lovely girl with a great voice and a refreshingly honest sense of humour, it’s just a shame that her family don’t try to keep her away from the perming solution. Performing Sarah McLachlan’s Angel, her nerves have given her an irritating vibrato, but the voice itself is pure and clear. The nicest moment of the show so far is when she admits to the judges that she’s visually impaired, and wasn’t entirely sure whether anyone had turned round. Jessie stirs a little condescension into the mix, by applauding Andrea’s courage, as if she rode a flaming motorcycle onto the stage.

Kirsty Crawford is an attractive girl, like Sarah Harding in a cheap Nikki Minaj wig, but she’s dressed as if Jason Voorhees just chased her through some wet laundry. The vocal is way off and the tune never really kicks in, so it’s no surprise when none of the judges turn around. Jessie offers some feedback “from female to female” as though the ability to menstruate means her advice will be more meaningful. Danny talks about how he bottled it on Ellen, which sounds like post-watershed talk to me, but he’s “still rocking and rolling.” Jesus.

Every show needs a decent twist, and tonight’s comes courtesy of Mike Ward. We see lots of footage of him hanging around in Manchester and practicing some truly awful raps with his be-hatted brother, like a pair of Mancunian Lee Nelsons. The Eminem background music was setting us up for something gritty and urban, but what we’ve actually got is Glen Campbell in an Adidas tracksuit.  His pitch is all over the place, but the judges are won over by the incongruity of his performance. Danny tells him that country singers are rare, which may be true in Moss Side, but not where people actually buy country music. In the end, he picks Tom as his mentor. Cut to a quality exchange with Holly in the green room: “Can you actually believe it?” “I can’t believe it.” Brilliant.

Katie Benbow is obsessed with all things vintage, but her ‘at home’ footage looks more like an opium-induced nightmare from The Woman In Black. Her vocal technique is as irritatingly unconvincing as her era-straddling image, as she keeps swapping pitches and keys like a swinger on a campsite. Her seriously ill grandma is waiting in the green room, so she asks Tom to give the old bird a wink. Tom goes one better and sings a few lines to her – a risky move as it happens, since she looks in danger of losing her oxygen cannula. Jessie’s ever so excited, boasting “there’s so many things I can teach you.” Week one, they’ll cover Oxbow lakes and irregular verbs.

Here’s Anthony Kavanagh, who was a teen star called Kavana back when the Spice Girls were still pretending to like each other. He even managed to beat Gary Barlow for the title of Best Male Singer back in the late nineties. At 21 he became an actor, but that never really took off. He tells us that he’s had some massive highs, but that’s backstage at the Smash Hits Poll Winners’ Party for you. The vocal is terrible, and no-one turns around. To be honest, he should probably be thankful that they didn’t just make a break for the fire exit.  

Tonight’s final contestant is Matt Henry. He does something with dogs, but I really can’t tell you anything about it, since my Jack Russell barked through this entire segment. His performance of Ray Lamontagne’s Trouble is great. Jessie tries to create a beguiling pose on her spinning chair, only to almost be flung into the audience when she misjudges the speed of the rotation. The other judges have picked up on his likeness to Will.i.am and force him to wear Will’s ridiculous Timmy Mallett glasses while they pitch their respective mentoring skills. Danny promises a combination of experience and wisdom, because he’s a modern day Aesop. Will says he’s a palm tree and they never fall. This makes almost no sense at all, but it’s now 2am and the delirium is kicking in. Matt says he’s been “dreaming about this moment for… you don’t even know how long.” The show’s only a year old, so we know exactly how long. Next week, more of the same. 

Not so irreplaceable after all

To be perfectly honest, I’ve never really understood the appeal of Beyoncé. More of a rounded performer than a singer of any note, she’s a titanic monument to self-belief, perched precariously on top of a spectacular pair of legs. And yet, ever since she disbanded Destiny’s Child to focus on her one-decent-song-per-album solo career, she’s been lionised to an unhealthy degree. People are willing to overlook her shrill, reedy voice, disingenuous stage persona and gratingly repetitive back catalogue, preferring to label her as the ultimate Independent Woman.

At least, they were until last week. Suddenly, all the single ladies (all the single ladies) are wondering why they ever pledged their platonic troth to such a conceited egotist. What once seemed like assertive empowerment now comes across as grasping entitlement. "Bow down bitches" she says in her new single. "Poke it up your arse," her once-loyal subjects are starting to shout back.

Not that any of this should come as much of a surprise. Isn’t this what always happens whenever a famous woman gets too successful? We pick them apart and condemn them for not living up to the unrealistic standards that the rest of society has chosen for them. Rihanna gets plenty of stick for shacking up with the guy who treats her the way Paul Hollywood handles his shortcrust pastry. Tulisa’s still trying to live down a single sloppy blow job that her ex-boyfriend decided to shop to the press. And then there’s Taylor Swift; a woman so wholesome that she shits Hovis; yet she’s regularly depicted in the press as some kind of guitar-wielding succubus. I swear, women are running out of role models at such a rate that by the end of 2013, there'll only be Lorraine Kelly and the ginger one out of Girls Aloud left to set the right sort of example.

Then again, what do I care? After all, I'm a man. The last time anyone picked out a role model for me, he wore a green beret and showed me how to fasten my woggle. So rather that lamenting the fact that Beyoncé is no longer an exemplar of modern womanhood, we should be asking why society has decided that women need famous figureheads to rally around.

In many ways, this obsession with role models is really no different than the age-old double standard about promiscuity. How would you rather be defined - as a legendary swordsman, or a skank? Similarly, most of us would prefer to simply get on with whatever it is we’re doing, without having to worry about whether or not we’re setting a good example.

The difference, of course, is that the role model problem is more subtly pernicious. People who talk about female role models foolishly assume that they're somehow doing women a favour. Dress like Audrey Hepburn if you want to achieve timeless stylishness. Check out the way Karren Brady has managed her career in male-dominated world. And only pay attention to Claire out of Steps when she's back on the Atkins.

The implication here, is that women can only envisage their own potential if it's in relation to another woman. No wonder, then, that so many magazines use the byline 'Steal Her Style' to talk about current fashion trends. Women are being insidiously conditioned into perceiving each other as targets or threats. The media would have us believe that they're incapable of planning a career, a night out, or even an outfit, unless it's already been endorsed by a woman in the public eye.

We all aspire to be influential. We hold ourselves to a higher standard, and we'd like to think that other people would do the same. But no-one sets out to be a role model. It's an unrealistic objective, not to mention an unwieldy burden. The most we can do is our best. And if we fuck up, we just hope that no-one's watching. Women like Beyoncé, Taylor and Rihanna have no such luck.

There's life in the zombie genre yet

It's been a long time coming, but zombies are finally fashionable. For too long, they've been relegated to the shadows, bumbling around idiotically like contestants in the Take Me Out green room, while their more dynamic contemporaries hogged the spotlight. In the world of cinematic monsters, the living dead are seldom little more than props - barely animated piles of meat, occasionally shuffling into shot so that they can be crudely dismembered. They lack the raw sexuality of the vampire, the inner turmoil of the werewolf, or the unfinished business that keeps ghosts hanging about on this mortal plane. Horror writers have long since realised that there's not much you can do with a brain-dead protagonist who's in charity shop rags, unless you fancy dramatising the Jeremy Kyle Show.

Instead, film-makers have exploited the potential of the undead in exploring the darker side of humanity. The living dead may take every opportunity to chew messily on people's internal organs, but they're rarely presented as true villains. Even in his seminal black and white shocker, that inadvertently established the rules the modern gut-muncher, George Romero felt sympathy for his lolloping hordes. He was far more intrigued by the darkness in the hearts of his living protagonists, opting to focus on man's inhumanity to man, albeit with a few head-shots for good measure.

In recent years we've had Zombieland, Shaun of the Dead and Romero's patchy second trilogy, followed by remarkable cable drama The Walking Dead and last month's teen drama Warm Bodies. And now, with a supernatural hole in its schedule left by the dearly departed Being Human, BBC Three is offering up its own contribution to the sub-genre.

In The Flesh opens boldly, with a gruesome attack in a deserted supermarket, as a young woman in combats gathers supplies. For a moment, it seems as though she might be the lead character, until she stumbles across two zombies making short work of someone's scalp, who turn their attention to her and smash her head into a shelf. All in all, it's not too similar to my local ASDA.

Turns out, this was all a flashback – except the twist here, is that it's the male zombie who's reliving it. Meet Kieran Walker, presumably named in tribute to the show's transatlantic counterpart. Kieran is a reformed zombie, who's been sensitively rebadged as a sufferer of Partially Deceased Syndrome. As a consequence, he's been extensively rehabilitated, medicated and is now preparing to return to society, complete with a ready supply of NHS-provided contact lenses to mask his milky gaze.

Our pallid protagonist still feels guilt over his time as an undead killing machine, a fact that isn't made any easier given his regular nightmares of that scene in the supermarket. He even attends a therapy group to work through his anxieties about reintegration, where other PDS sufferers clash over whether they should be re-assimilating at all. One inpatient taunts another with an Orville impression that feels somewhat anachronistic for a show that’s presumably set in the near future. But we can forgive writer Dominic Mitchell for the occasional self-indulgent pop culture reference, since this is a show that could do with the occasional moment of levity.

Back in the real world, Kieran’s parents are trying to sell their house in order to move somewhere more remote, which is a little odd given that the village where they currently live makes Ambridge seem like a bustling metropolis. Complicating matters further is their antagonistic daughter, who wears camouflage, listens to the Ramones and has signed up with the Human Volunteer Force. The HVF is a militia group formed with the self-imposed authority to eradicate the ‘rotters’, who spend most of their time angrily regurgitating their own propaganda, like UKIP with sawn-off shotguns. In a clever commentary on reactionary right wing politics, the HVF are struggling with obsolescence, now that the rehabilitated undead are being steadily reintroduced into society. Previously hailed as heroes, they’re now in danger of losing their veterans’ benefits, like free pints in the village boozer.

Meanwhile, Kieran finally comes face to face with his family, who are shocked and disturbed by the synthetic complexion he’s painted on in order to smooth his reintegration. It doesn’t help matters that the local vicar is doing his best to mobilise the villagers in an angry demonstration against the government’s Domiciled Care Initiative. The voices of the crowd, led by Ricky Tomlinson, articulate every argument we’ve ever heard levelled at immigrants, asylum seekers, mental health patients, parolees and registered sex offenders. The problem here, is that the multiple allusions to real world issues threaten to undermine the allegorical purity of the concept.

But that’s not all - there’s another social issue that will presumably be addressed in the next two episodes, as it’s revealed that Kieran committed suicide over the death of his friend Rick. Something happened between these two that drove Rick into the army, where he was promptly dispatched by an IED in Afghanistan. We’ve already had a RomZomCom in the form of Shaun of the Dead – is the BBC preparing us for the world’s first GayZomRom?

Either way, some of the most interesting moments come in the subtle beats as Kieran attempts to fit back into family life. His sister bursts in to find her newly reunited family enjoying Sunday lunch, and refuses to sit down while “that thing” is at the table. It’s unclear which she’s most upset about – her undead brother, or their choice of roast: “You know I hate lamb.” Kieran’s got his own problems, as he goes through the motions of eating, moving his cutlery back and forth several inches above his plate. We’re not clear on what the PDS sufferers eat, but chances are, they don’t slather it in Bisto first. Later on, there’s another lovely moment as Kieran and his dad desultorily attempt to play The Game of Life, offering a stark commentary on this synthesis of an ordinary existence.

The shows final few minutes kept the shocks coming, as a fake-out tip-off made viewers think that the Walkers had been rumbled, when in fact it was Ricky Tomlinson’s wife who was dragged out into the street and shot. Similarly, it was revealed that Kieran’s friend Rick is coming back home, causing consternation for his father; founding member of the HVF.

Credit must go to the show’s designers for giving the show an impressively bleached look, giving it the same cold, washed out appearance as its undead cast. Likewise, the moments of dark humour prevent the tone from getting too despairing early on. Standout moments include a shot of Kieran’s mum standing on the landing brandishing a chainsaw, and the community nurse lamenting the extensiveness of her three weeks’ training on administering PDS medication. It’s still no barrel of laughs, but then, it is a show about death, grieving and intolerance. Finally, here’s a show that gives zombies the starring role they deserve. After fifty years of playing second fiddle, it seems that the walking dead are finally de rigueur-mortis.

Public NMEs

Being a teenager is no fun. It's a decade of badly-dubbed Clearasil adverts, the aching shift of orthodontistry, and poorly choreographed kissing. What's supposed to be the best time of your life, is actually a never-ending purgatory where you're too big to sit at the kids' table, and too immature to join the grown-ups on theirs. It's no wonder that these are the years when most of us first come to music, whether that's for expression, release or escape. Along the way are a series of milestones. There's the first album, followed promptly by the first piece of kit to play it on. Then come the recommendations and sharing. Soon, we've amassed something of a collection, and we're wanting to see our favourite acts in the flesh. And so it goes.

The funny thing is, that pattern is pretty much the same for everyone. Sure, the names and faces adorning the bedroom walls will change every few years, but the behaviours are constant. So it's curious to see how often people forget these universal rites of passage, and rush to condemn the folly of youth for their naïveté and poor taste. Even more worrying, is the tendency for the self-proclaimed arbiters of taste to attack the very acts that shoulder the responsibility for bringing the next generation of fans into the musical fold.

This week, NME held its annual awards ceremony, and with all the good grace of an ousted Tory councillor, announced One Direction to be the Worst Band, and Harry Styles 'Villain of the Year'. Predictably, the press were all over this, commenting that Harry had "beaten off stiff competition from David Cameron" which has left me with a bunch of mental images it'll take hypnotherapy to shake. Equally predictable, were the tedious comments left under each of the stories 'reporting' on this non-event, which suggested that much of the animosity toward the boys comes from the improper appropriation of the word 'band' to describe their musical collective. The second most popular argument for the pandemic of playground bullying is the fact that One Direction don't write their own songs. Now, I can't be arsed to Google it, but I'm willing to bet that Elvis never got compared to Ferdinand Marcos, just because he let the songwriters get on with it.

The problem here, is that it's far too easy to dismiss anything that isn't to your taste, as shit. But all art is subject to interpretation - one man's Pollock is another man's leaky bin bag. I don't care if Niall, Zayn and the lads have never picked up a guitar, because I don't see guitar-led rock as the only musical genre worth listening to. Great pop music is about so much more than the ability to play live instruments. Great pop happens when the sentiment, the melody, the singer(s), the charisma and the production all intersect in the perfect confluence. Berry Gordy Jr knew it. Benny and Bjorn knew it. And Stock, Aitken and Waterman knew it. Over the last fifty years they've all been criticised for daring to 'manufacture' music, as if an industry demanded anything other than a production line. Their output was condemned for being disposable, but since tastes change, that was never a problem for the people listening to it. Any enduring appeal was never calculated, it was simply a nice bonus if it occurred.

Take the 'Hit Factory' for example. While NME and its contemporaries were sneerily adding an 'S' to their monicker, they were busy churning out smashes with a success rate that would make Emeli Sandé feel like a workshy underachiever. When the criticism finally started to get them down, they wrote a 'fuck you' song about it. They gave it to a pair of hopeless Scousers as their debut single, and shot a video on the cheap of them dancing their way around Albert Docks. 'I'd Rather Jack' spent three months in the charts, because it understood how kids felt about having people talk trash about the music they enjoyed. It spoke to them on a level that wasn't condescending or contrived. Isn't that what music's supposed to do?

Of course, the S.A.W. formula, with its Calrec Soundfield Microphone-enabled vocal treatments, now sounds more dated than a Choose Life t-shirt. But the melodies and messages are as strong today as they were when they were being introduced by a CGI rollercoaster on The Chart Show. Last year, Kylie Minogue marked her 25th year in music with an acoustic album recorded at Abbey Road studios. Almost half the album was built around dramatically reconfigured versions of those 'disposable' songs, and they work far better than anyone might have expected. Aside from the odd lyrical banality, which we'll forgive since we're equally willing to cough politely whenever someone brings up Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da, the songs sound fresh and timeless. You may still not like them, but in the end, that's your loss.

I find it hard to fathom why some music fans are willing to spend so much energy attacking pop. They want to portray Simon Cowell as some kind of high-waisted parasite, growing ever-more corpulent off the blood and sweat of ignorant teenagers, who dream only of fame and untold wealth. However much disdain you might have for the X-Factor and its ilk, it's important to remember that the baton has been passed to acts like Cher Lloyd, Olly Murs and One Direction, to bring new fans to music. I'm willing to argue that no thirteen year-old is going to make 'The Queen Is Dead' their very first iTunes purchase. Pop music is a gateway drug - its very accessibility is what gets young people in and allows them to experiment. Getting annoyed that people listen to pop music is like sitting in traffic behind a learner driver, and being angry that they don't already know how to execute a flawless three-point turn.

Pop music introduces people to the art form. It helps them define their tastes. Those kids who are heading out to their very first One Direction concert, are in the process of activating a lifelong love of live music. So does it really matter if Liam Payne thinks a plectrum is the fleshy bit under his cock-head?

The great thing about music, about all music, is that there's something for everyone. Some people find their way to Velvet Underground and Johnny Cash. Others, like me, got hooked on Dolly Parton and Swedish schlager. It's all part of life's rich pageant. If you've found the music that makes you happy, revel in that, rather than condemning the tastes of others. And if you hear something you genuinely don't like, then don't fucking listen to it. Find the off switch. Or the volume dial. Otherwise, you're no better than the pearl-clutchers who complain to the BBC every time they see a twat on the telly. And I don't mean Danny Dyer. On the other hand, if you like pop, be proud of that fact. Don't apologise for it, and stop trying to make excuses - I'm right there with you. Forget about guilty pleasures and drink-fuelled nostalgia. As a great pop star once sang, music makes the people come together. Let's try and remember that. 

Playing it straight-faced

It's been almost 30 years since the Pet Shop Boys introduced their tunefully deadpan blend of literacy and lyricism to the musical landscape. Back in the mid-80s, when they first released Opportunities (Let's Make Lots of Money), it was easy to dismiss them as yet another heavily synthesised duo, with tongues (and possibly something else) pressed firmly in cheek. And yet, despite a cultivated sense of ambivalence that suggested they could barely muster the energy to turn up for their own videos, something about this odd pairing of an architect and the assistant editor of Smash Hits caught our imagination. Remarkably, almost three decades later, the boys are still going strong, having seamlessly navigated countless pop trends, only to emerge as joyfully joyless as ever before.

Even after eleven studio albums, and countless other musical sidelines, there's still no sign of their creative muse deserting them. Rather than churning out repetitive derivations of their debut every year, the boys manage to maintain a relatively prolific output without over-saturating the market. As well as the live albums, cleverly constructed compilations and two enormous double-volumes of their collected B-sides, Neil and Chris have explored their artistry in a variety of unusual endeavors; amongst them a ballet, an instrumental score for Eisenstein's Battleship Potemkin, and a theatrical collaboration with playwright Jonathan Harvey. Unashamedly intellectual, and yet never less than accessible, their back catalogue is a testament to the power of great pop music. Tackling subjects as diverse as Catholic education and the Brown/Blair bromance, they create pop music that makes you think, and political statements that make you dance.

Their position as elder statesmen of pop was hard won, given the initial ambivalence that greeted their musical debut. Although electronic pop was as de rigueur as those airbrushed posters of a Lamborghini viewed through a Venetian blind, the boys' innate sense of ironic detachment left the tone-deaf critics confused. Others were so distracted by the formula, that they missed the wicked sense of fun. Over the years they've been spoofed by everyone from Raw Sex to Flight of the Conchords, but none of them were really able to see beyond the stony faces and immobile stage presence, which was always part of the joke.

But what of the songs themselves? Like the band itself, they were clever enough to be taken at face value, but with a deeper meaning for anyone willing to look beyond the glacial facade. In some ways, theirs is one of the most dated sounded back-catalogues in popular music. Whereas this might be a problem for other, less interesting acts, it's a virtue of the Pet Shop Boys that they've always managed to embraced contemporary sounds so completely. Whether it's the heavily sampled electronica of Please; the cold clubbing beats of Nightlife; or the post-Britpop guitars of Release; each album offers a powerful snapshot of the era it represents. But strip away the anachronistic veneer, and there's plenty to engage hearts, as well as minds, beneath the surface.

When Elysium was released late last year, the critics were quick to laud it as a long-awaited return to form, forgetting that they'd used the exact same terminology to describe the four albums that preceded it. In fact, when viewed as a whole, their discography is one of the most consistently excellent of any music act working today. They may no longer top the charts the way they did in the late eighties, but as an album act, and champion of the long-neglected B-side, they remain unsurpassed. So here's a tribute to ten of their finest non-single moments - gathered from down the back of the internet, since none of them had proper videos.

It Couldn't Happen Here, from 'Actually'

Despite the ignominy of having lent its name to the Boys' ill-advised foray into film-making, this lush, orchestral lament about the advent of AIDS in the mid-80s is a melodic melancholic masterpiece. Co-written with film composer Ennio Morricone, this track perfectly captures the complacency of a community that dismissed the threat of the disease as something that simply happened to other people. It's also notable for a full-on vocal performance from Neil Tennant, who was often criticised for speaking his lines, rather than singing them. 

Shameless, from B-sides collection 'Alternative'

This single that never was ended up as a B-side to Go West from the Very album. Written at a time when Big Brother was still a reference to George Orwell, rather than Brian Dowling reading off an autocue at Borehamwood, this upbeat chant-along classic shows a prescient insight into the desperation of modern celebrity culture. My only regret is that this song hasn't been updated to reflect the current desperation of today's 'celebrities'. If anyone could pen a lyric about Kinga ramming a bottle of Chardonnay up her Jacob's Creek, it's Neil Tennant. Plus, he'd no doubt pair it with a backing track that paired Debussy with a disco beat.

Only The Wind, from 'Behaviour'

I'll be honest - I struggled with the Boys' fourth album when it was first released. Having quickly embraced the electronic accessibility of their early stuff, I found Behaviour to be ponderous, slow and relentlessly downbeat. It didn't help that Chris Lowe's synthesisers had been drowned out by a full orchestra, which only compounded the wistful melancholy of the piece. As a 15 year-old already prone to bouts of insular contemplation, I needed my pop to be upbeat and euphoric - two words you'd be hard pressed to apply to this album. However, I stuck with it, and came to realise that the miserablism which had turned me off as a teen, now made this their indisputable masterpiece. And 'Only The Wind' is the jewel in this tarnished crown. With strings orchestrated by Angelo Badalamenti, and a surprisingly tender vocal (for a song about domestic violence), this song will haunt your brain like watching The Woman in Black on a comedown.

Hit and Miss, from 'Bilingual, Further Listening'

Although I eventually grew to love Behaviour, Bilingual never managed to win me over, and remains the one Pet Shop Boys album I could live without. It didn't help matters that the boys chose 'Before' as the lead single, which paled into inconsequential nothingness after the many high-points of Very. Too many of the songs favoured guest appearances by feminist drummers She-Boom, and the album's faux-Latin stylings felt about as incongruous as Neil Tennant turning up to a water-park in his black jacket and theatre scarf. However, this era wasn't without the occasional gem. The Motiv-8 remix of Red Letter Day was a dancefloor winner, plus there was also this fantastic B-side to Before. Mixing pounding percussion that hinted at the rockier sounds they were later to embrace on Release, with a disorientating swirl of synthesisers, Hit & Miss was arguably more interesting than anything that appeared on the album. 

Pandemonium, from 'Yes'

Featuring guitar and harmonica by Johnny Marr, this effervescently catchy selection is a love song of sorts, inspired by the relationship between Kate Moss and Pete Doherty. Originally written for Kylie Minogue, the song is sung from the woman's perspective, as she vacillates between celebrating and lamenting the fact that there's "chaos every time we meet." Of course, the song is written in such a way that the genders of the singer and subject are never explicitly referenced, which has always been key to the boys' ability to sidestep the ghettoisation that tends to limit the mass-market appeal of other gay artists. With a sing-along chorus and an insistent beat that could almost be a tribute to Chain Reaction, this is one of the catchiest songs the boys have ever recorded.

Indefinite Leave to Remain, from 'Fundamental'

Fundamental was probably the band's most explicitly political album, addressing issues of surveillance, terrorism and the 'special' relationship between Bush and Blair. This melancholy ballad appropriates an immigrant's status as an analogy for an unequal position in a relationship. Unlike the pounding 'Integral' that followed it, which used apocalyptic arrangement to express its anger, Indefinite Leave to Remain strikes a more wistful tone, using a solemn melody played by a brass band, and Tennant's plaintive vocal to suggest resignation and defeat.

Here (PSB Extended Mix), from 'Disco 3'

Originally written for the musical 'Closer To Heaven', Here was the stand-out track on Release, and focused on the non-biological families that gay people often build around themselves: "We all have a dream of a place we belong, where the fire is burning and the radio's on," sings Neil comfortingly. Despite its robust melody and uncomplicated sentiment, the boys always felt that the album version was "day one sort of recording," but that it had definite disco potential. By the time it appeared on the Pet Shop Boys' third 'Disco' collection, which featured remixed album tracks and new dance-oriented compositions, the track was rebuilt around a euphoric reprise of the main melody. 

Breathing Space, from 'Elysium'

For many fans, the last album Elysium felt like something of a disappointment, since it recaptured the melancholy of Behaviour, but without the standout melodies. Thankfully, even the lads' weaker albums always manage to squeeze in a classic or two, and Breathing Space is a case in point. Seamlessly blending a lead acoustic guitar with a repetitive but melodic synthesiser, the song bubbles along as Neil articulates his need to take a breather from the pressures of modern life. It's been speculated that this song might be hinting at Chris and Neil's plans to gradually wind down, but as long as they keep making tracks as gorgeous as this, they're likely to have a fight on their hands. 

Unfortunately, EMI have blocked this particular track on YouTube, so you'll have to have a look on Spotify for it. 

I Want A Lover, from 'Please'

Urgent, impatient and coldly electronic, this early track is interesting for the way it highlights the band's curiously impersonal sexuality. "I don't want another drink or fight, I want a lover, tonight," Neil sings, careful not to indicate any gender-specific requirements of the role. Here, as with the first track on the boys' debut album, Neil is once again making plans to leave with a companion. The big difference is that he's now dropped any pretence at planning the perfect crime, and he's just looking for an unapologetic fuck. Oddly, this adds to the strange eroticism of the song, even if copping off with Neil Tennant holds all the sexual allure of having your leg humped by a Sony AIBO. 

 

One In A Million, from 'Very'

It's hard to pick a stand out song on 'Very' since there were so many fantastic nuggets of pop joy, but this one feels particularly anthemic. As with many of the boys' most upbeat tracks, this is actually about a relationship's end, and someone's denial about the state of affairs. And yet, despite the doomy premise, it still manages to leave you with a big goofy grin on your face. And that's the magic of the Pet Shop Boys - you might not always know what you're supposed to be feeling, but at least you're always feeling something.

Caution - Staging In Progress

Pity the poor documentarian. Like the anthropologists of yesteryear, their role is to observe with neutrality, report without comment, and remain invisible throughout, lest they should interfere with the integrity of their subject. All in all, pretty lofty ideals when applied to a fly-on-the-wall show about a south London fried chicken takeaway. 

Which does, of course, beg the question - who on Earth would want to watch an hour of glorified CCTV footage captured over a week in Clapham's Rooster Spot? Pretty much everyone, as it happens, if tonight's Twitter feed was anything to go by. Spurred on by the programme makers, who helpfully offered up hashtag suggestions like #chickenshop and #spicychicken, it seemed as though everyone was peering through the greasy window of this particular venue, and poking a judgemental finger at the lives they observed within.

Perhaps the appeal of The Fried Chicken Shop lay in its simple agenda; to document the comings and going of modern urban life. As the voiceover proclaimed in the opening couple of minutes, the high street chicken shop is where we can observe the best and worst of British culture. Overstating things a little, maybe. You'd certainly be shit out of luck if the word 'culture' made you think you'd be getting a guest appearance by Grayson Perry. Instead, what we got was an appropriately eclectic, if over-egged for the camera, portrayal of the standard interactions of your average London high street.

We saw the jobless, filling their day with a cheap and nutritionally void lunchtime offer. The school-kids bickering and bantering over their bargain burgers. And countless drunken bar patrons, attempting to dilate their pupils long enough to read to oppressively illuminated menu board. Interspersing all this human drama were enough shots from the chip-pan-cam to give Gillian McKeith a coronary. So, all in all, not too shabby.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the show struck a somewhat melancholy tone as it documented the mundane trials and tribulations of big city life. We saw Paul and Sarah; a couple with learning difficulties, who call in most days for lunch and a chance to flick through the Daily Mail. Then there was William, who suffers from a degenerative condition that's slowly robbing him of his eyesight, and the barmy faith healer who attempted to cure him with a combination of prayer and a spongy green stress-ball. William was endearingly grateful for her ministrations, having observed the power of prayer himself when he wished for a bus on a cold morning and one promptly arrived. Proof that miracles do happen, even when TfL is calling the shots. 

Later on, we met Nick, who spent an inordinate amount of time showing off about his job in social media, and attempting to bully the shop's staff into using Twitter. He even engineered a role-play scenario, albeit one that rather unimaginatively involved him playing a customer in a chicken shop. Nick's overlong segment ended with him declaring the Chicken Shop as a representation of what the new Britain is all about: “I’d rather go to a chicken shop than WH Smith.” High praise indeed.

The real stars of the show, however, were Ali and his employees Waqar and Shawqat. Smiling helpfully through all manner of indignities and insulting exchanges, they displayed a singular commitment to working hard and getting ahead, putting the pissed self-important city boys, rocking up after a night out and teasing each other about wearing Primark jackets, to shame. Having moved here from Afghanistan to study IT, Shawqat enjoys his job, telling us "I like working in a chicken shop because you never know what's going to happen." Well, except for the fact that people will come in and eat chicken - that's pretty much a given.

Having said that, the programme makers went out of their way to portray the entertaining diversity of the shop's evening clientele. Performance artists masquerading as autistics, a flock of drag queens who took camera-friendly exception to being called "Sir" and a pair of homeless guys who prefer the independent chicken shops to the big franchises, because they're more likely to give away free food. Plus, of course, we got the crowds of drunken idiots, steadying themselves on the counter and dragging people into the street for a fight. Here then, was the representation of the "front line and the bread line" promised by the opening narration. The Rooster Spot in Clapham is where all walks of life cross paths, only to then trip over an omnipresent yellow 'Cleaning In Progress' sign.

Interestingly, the voiceover attempted to position the chicken takeaway as some kind of remarkable 21st  century phenomenon. A recession-proof wonder that continues to grow in popularity, in the face of a regressive economy. In fact, the chicken shop isn't so much immune to economic pressures, as it is a harbinger of the recession itself. Ask anyone who lives in a less-than-salubrious part of town what the predominant business model is for their area, and they'll tell you it's either betting shops, or the kind of cutlery-free food establishment where buckets are favoured over crockery. In my cosy little corner of East London, chicken shops continue to pop up, like yellow-headed spots on an overweight teenager's neck. And every morning, we awake to find the streets littered with chicken bones, as if the entire neighbourhood spent the previous evening engaged in some kind of communal voodoo rite. 

With aspiration and opportunity at an all-time low, the chicken shop represents a nation in stagnation. Food selected purely for its low price, rather than taste or provenance. Social interactions that depend on name badges to create the illusion of intimacy. And a zesty lemon-scented wet wipe to clear away a lifetime of broken dreams. The sad reality of the chicken shop is that, despite Little Mix's empowering assertions, some wings were only made to fry. 

Rinse and repeat

Say what you like about Black Mirror's oppressive tone and borderline horror scenarios. It's still a breath of fresh air in a world where Downton Abbey is seen as the highpoint of drama programming. Don't take that the wrong way - I'm as much a sucker for teapot-porn as the next man. But I do find it hard to fully engage with a show where the big issues might as well be the over-toasting of Lady Mary's crumpets. If I'm going to sit through any drama that doesn't have the welcoming hum of the HBO logo at the start of it, I need something a little more substantial. And for that alone, I'm thankful for Charlie Brooker grim nuggets of dystopian allegory.

Last week's series two opener asked some pretty tough questions - not only about how much of ourselves we filter into our online identity, but also bigger issues about love, death and the grieving process. Challenging stuff for a nation that tends to see drama as the intermission act between instalments of Dancing On Ice.

This week, I noticed that people on Twitter were discussing how unusual it is that the show is billed as Charlie Brooker's Black Mirror. It's not actually that odd, when you consider that the creator is really the only true constant in an anthology show. In much the same way that Rod Serling became synonymous with the twilighty show about that zone, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents never explicitly named what it was that the tubby auteur was presenting, Brooker's name has become something of a brand promise. You know that you're going to get something pitch-black and bitter that'll leave you with an unpleasant aftertaste, like an hour spent nibbling on a bar of Tesco Value dark chocolate.

Tonight's episode, cryptically entitled White Bear, was no exception. It opened with Lenora Crichlow as Victoria, slumped in a chair and looking less than her usual photogenic self. With her hair matted and greasy, eyes bloodshot, and wearing what seemed to be the same grey cardigan from Being Human that she was doomed to spend eternity in, it was clear that Victoria had issues. Just how many issues soon became apparent, as she struggled to remember who she was or why she was there. Flickers of memories; images of a smiling girl, a man and a burning car, suggested that she was a grieving mother. The bandages on her wrists and pills scattered around the floor certainly added to the air of desperation. But, why then were people standing in the windows of the neighbouring houses, filming her on their phones? And why would no-one answer when she cried out for help.

Initial suspicions suggested that we were in Sixth Sense territory, and that purgatory looks a lot like Welwyn Garden City. But even that couldn't explain the random people who kept showing up in bizarre masks and attempting to kill Victoria. As she ran for her life - or afterlife, depending on how this all played out -  the bystanders simply crowded around attempting to record it on their iPhones. The first killer wielded a shotgun, the next was wearing an animal mask and gold evening gown, and brandishing an electric carving knife. As this terrifying harbinger of death kept popping up throughout the next hour, it seemed that Charlie was trying to tell us that batteries last a lot longer in hell.

In standard 28 Days of Walking Dead Later fashion, Victoria soon stumbled across some other survivors, who helpfully offer up some breathless exposition, in between bursts of gunfire. But no sooner had Victoria and her new saviour escaped a petrol station full of assassins than they were tricked by another 'hunter' who pretended to be on their side, for all of three minutes.

It turned out that the masses had been zombified by some electronic pulse, triggered by a TV signal that looks like an enlarged Space Invader icon. As her newfound friend explained, "It did something to everyone. They just like spectators  They don’t give a shit what happens to us." In order to save the world, they need to switch off the signal at the conveniently located 'White Bear' transmitter tower. Except, it couldn't really be that easy. Especially since Victoria was still having flashbacks about her child, who also had a cuddly white bear with her. Coincidence, or set up for a MASSIVE REVEAL?

Despite the heavy-handed set-up, the reveal still came as something of a rug-pull, as Victoria attempted to shoot one of the hunters, only to release a burst of coloured confetti instead of bullets. In a way, it's as preposterous as the ending of David Fincher's The Game - the whole thing was an elaborate set-up and everyone was in it. The extra dark topping on this misery sundae, however, is the fact that this was a punishment for Victoria, who wasn't the grieving mother we were led to believe. In fact, she and her boyfriend were a modern-day Brady and Hindley - abducting, torturing and recording the murder of the little girl with the white bear. And since the boyfriend had already killed himself in custody, society had decided to put Victoria through this heavily metaphorical torture. Having been reminded of her crimes, Victoria was put in a modified Popemobile, and driven slowly back to where she started, whilst being pelted with tomatoes by a crowd of people who are now much less passive than they were a few minutes earlier. Back at the house where it all began, she's drugged and tortured, before having her mind reset to go through it all again.

Countless science fiction and horror stories have explored the notion that Hell is repetition, and White Bear is no exception. And yet, this seems like a curiously archaic Daily Mail position for Brooker to take, given his usual distaste for easy moralising and reactionary rhetoric. But there's always a sting in the tail, and Charlie hides his right at the end of the story. Interspersed amongst the end credits, like scenes of Dom DeLouise corpsing in Canonball Run, are the final little vignettes that reveal we've been in the White Bear Justice Park - £12 a day for adults. I guess that Charlie would be a masterful poker player, since he's happy to keep his hand a secret until the final moments. There are no belly laughs to be had, but we're allowed to crack a bitter smile as we see the complicit public being briefed on their interactive day out: "No talking, especially not to her. Keep your distance - remember she is a dangerous criminal. And above all, enjoy yourself."

It seems a little strange to treat the point of your film like comical deleted scenes, held back until the very end of the presentation, but since Charlie is such a masterful story-teller, we can forgive him this indulgence. And once again, we're left with more dark subjects to ponder. If someone has no recollection of their crimes, can they be effectively punished? Does our societal bloodlust for vengeance make us just as dangerous as the criminals we seek to discipline? And will the butler ever be able to get a proper shine back on the Earl of Grantham's brogues? Sorry, wrong show. 

Fag Break

Faggot.

There, I said it. Well, typed it. Shocking, isn’t it? Except, not really. I doubt anyone’s offended or outraged, just because that word is sitting there on the page. What’s the context? And what made me want to use it in the first place? Until you can answer those questions, it’s simply six letters in a familiar sequence. For all you know, I could be talking about a bundle of kindling, or a mildly anachronistic meatball. And yet, there are those who would argue that the word should be consigned to Room 101 of the OED, no questions asked.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m no fan of 'faggot'. I could happily spend the rest of my life without ever hearing it used, or seeing it feature in yet another story about some brainless US sportsman lashing out on Twitter. But it’s still just a word, albeit one with considerable power. Especially when wielded by a careless, unthinking or malevolent speaker. 

It might be almost twenty years old, but the point made in Rob Epstein and Jeffrey Friedman’s fascinating documentary The Celluloid Closet, about Hollywood’s portrayal of casual homophobia, still resonates. 'Faggot' is the only pejorative that can be used by a film’s lead character, without instantly marking them out as a bad guy in dire need of redemption. Now, ask yourself when you last watched a movie (that wasn’t made by Quentin Tarantino) where the hero got away with calling someone 'Nigger'.

Despite this, many people argue that to compare ‘faggot’ with the N-word is a matter of false equivalency. In fact, they're both politically charged and emotionally loaded terms. Remember the fuss that kicked off when Radio One tried to ban Fairytale of New York? The broadcasters argued, not incorrectly, that the song’s use of the lyric “You cheap, lousy faggot” could offend listeners. However, in the context of the song, the word made sense, since Kirsty MacColl was clearly singing in character. Not that such nuance is observed by the people I usually hear singing along in the pub. If you’ve ever been called, or referred to, as a faggot, you'd become a little more sensitive to the extra emphasis that people tend to place on that particular word, as if they’ve been given momentary license to say something rebellious. Equally, a similar controversy came to light recently when the BBC re-aired Fawlty Towers, minus some of the Major’s more socially unacceptable dialogue. Although this was another example of character as context, the fact remains that society has also evolved in the forty years since the show was first broadcast. Watching it now, the Major's casual racism no longer represents the mildly inappropriate ramblings of an elderly eccentric - it threatens to derail the entire episode.

The two parallel issues of racism and homophobia are currently rearing their heads again, since R&B star Azealia Banks is making a concerted effort to reopen the debate. This all started last month, when the New York-based rapper began a Twitter-feud with Perez Hilton, a man with no shortage of celebrity nemeses. When Banks dismissed him as a “messy faggot,” critics were quick to take her to task for her thoughtless use of language. But rather than issue a simple mea culpa, the provocative musician decided to tackle society’s fixation with the word, head-on. Initially, Banks assumed that she could wield her own bisexual identity as some kind of defence against any accusation of homophobia, displaying the same kind of misplaced logic that saw Jade Goody refuting accusations of racism on account of her being "half black."

In a way, she's right to question our obsession with language, and a culture of knee-jerk offence taking. But she must also accept that we each have a responsibility for the words that we choose. Initially, she argued that "A faggot is not a homosexual male. A faggot is any male who acts like a female. There's a BIG difference." Let's set aside the issues of a woman who perceives female behaviour to be a negative characteristic, worthy of scorn. Instead, let's focus on what counts here - individual redefinition. She's still at it, now elaborating on her original theory and stating that "Faggot means coward, liar, backstabber" then asking her followers how they would define the word. This is problematic, since she's accusing the rest of the world for choosing to take offence, but shifting the goal-posts by coming up with her own definitions. Try to imagine visiting your grandmother and calling her a cunt, then argung that you've decided you meant it as a term of female empowerment. Good luck getting yourself back in the will.

I'm sure that many people might rationalise their use of the word differently. But ultimately, it all comes down to intent. For all the talk of communities reclaiming and reappropriating the words that have hurt them, what matters here is how they are used in the moment. This is where the accusations of false equivalency between faggot and the n-word don't hold water. If it’s a word that still has the power to belittle, bully or harm, then it’s bad. If it’s a word you wouldn’t want your kids using, it’s bad. And if it’s a word that’s ever been yelled at someone as a pejorative or insult, it's bad.

But is Azealia right - have we all become hyper-sensitive? Are the forces of political correctness clamping down on our right to free speech? Not at all. No-one's saying she can't use it. And we’re not saying there’s no room for debate about the shifting nature of language, and how words become more or less acceptable over time. We’re simply saying that the right to speak freely doesn't automatically insulate you from the criticism of those you've opted to offend. 

More importantly, it's also worth considering the point that Neo-marxist Jonathan Neale made in his must-read book, 'What's Wrong With America.' Analysing the way the rich and the powerful have conspired for the last 100 years to keep different sectors of society at each other's throats - pittting immigrants, women, blacks, gays and unionists against each other - Neale argues that the more time we spend battling the small stuff, the more likely it is that we'll take our eyes off the bigger picture. In doing so, we fail to spot the real villains in our midst. Azealia needs to recognise that as a black, LGBT woman, she's faces no small number of battles. And just like the rest of us, she needs all the friends she can get. 

Hearts and Glowers*

It’s Valentine’s Day, which can only mean one thing - a torrent of Helen Fielding-style articles bemoaning the definitive ‘Hallmark Holiday.’ A cavalcade of clichéd tripe about how it’s all a big conspiracy to make single people feel more unwanted than Dobbin in a Burger King. They’ll piss and moan about all those cruel seasonal reminders that they’ve yet to find their special someone, and pass the blame onto the happy couples who choose the window seat, presumably so that passers-by can see them demolishing a chocolate fondant with a single dessert fork.

So to all you lonely hearts out there, bemoaning your cardless mantelpiece, let me tell you something for free. Valentine’s Day is rubbish for everyone, not just those of you who can still have a shit without needing to close the bathroom door. The fact is, it’s a cold, merciless and cynical invention, utterly bereft of the spontaneity and emotion that love is all about.

Let’s take another look at that happy couple in the restaurant. See how close they’re sitting. Well, that’s because the restaurant decided to cram a few extra tables in to take advantage of the increased cover charge. What looks like intimate body language is more likely to result in a slipped disc than any under-the-covers action. And when they’re not shifting uncomfortably in their seat, you might notice that most of their time is spent stifling yawns, refolding napkins and trying to talk about anything other than their day at work. They’re feeling the pressure as it is – they’ve been put on show in the window seat, so they’re struggling to act as if they’re enjoying themselves. Deep down, they’re worried that everyone else looks happier than they do. One of them is wondering when babysitters got so expensive, and the other one is probably working out how much money they could have saved by having the same meal at home.

Those couples who don’t fancy braving the hordes and paying over the odds for a glorified set menu, can easily replicate the same magical ambience at home. Marks & Spencer and Waitrose are both running their popular twenty quid ‘Romantic Dinner For 2’ promotions. Remember, nothing says “I would lay down my life for you” like microwaving a couple of mozzarella stuffed chicken breasts and choking back a bottle of Cava that could put the shine back on your serving spoons.

Of course, if you’re going to stay in, convention dictates that you’ll need to set the right mood. Time to clear all those unopened bills off the dining table and light some candles. Not the scented ones either – they’re far too sickly if you’re eating. Now, look at what you’re wearing. I’m afraid onesies, sweat pants and t-shirts are all out. It may just be another wet Thursday, but you need to dress up as if you’re modelling for the Sandals brochure. Oh, and you’ll need to think about the soundtrack for your evening, in order to line up the first sex you’ve had since the clocks went back. Thankfully, the record labels are on hand, helpfully repackaging the same shitty ballads in a new 40-track compilation, as if anyone in their right mind needs another copy of Minnie Fucking Ripperton’s Loving You.

Since you’ve got a whole evening to fill, music won’t be the only entertainment you’ll need to get sorted. It’s not enough to flop on the couch for a double bill of Cowboy Builders. This is Valentine’s Day, and so there’s an expectation that you’ll have to sit through some drippy romantic comedy, as Sarah Jessica Parker, Jennifer Aniston and Kate Hudson battle it out to see who can produce the most derisive assault on contemporary feminism. And try on shoes, ‘cos women love that shit, right? It doesn’t really matter what you watch – they’re all filled with the same tired plots, contrived scenarios and photogenic bed hair – and you just know it’ll end with her getting her man, wearing her dress and missing her period. Just as long as whatever DVD you throw on comes repackaged in a pink cardboard sleeve with a die-cut heart on the front.  

Bugger, almost forgot the card. Woe betide anyone who wakes up on Valentine’s Day and doesn’t have a hastily scribbled card, envelope still damp with morning-breath saliva, to hand to their significant other. That’s after spending twenty minutes in the card shop, trying desperately to find something that doesn’t make bile catch in the back of your throat. Try to ignore the fact that most card manufacturers show a

crushing lack of awareness about how people in relationships actually talk to each other. So swallow your pride, hand over your three quid, and try to imagine that the term ‘love machine’ might actually apply to you, rather than the battery-hungry accessory that lives in the bedside cabinet.

It’s time to face facts, people. Valentine is a hateful shitstorm. Even if you’re happily settled down, it’s a point-by-point, retail-enabled deconstruction of everything you’re doing wrong. It doesn’t matter how successful your relationship is, or how happy you are together – it’s appearances that count. Christmas might be Santa’s busiest day of the year, but come Valentine’s Day, Cupid might as well be on a booze cruise to Calais, because there’s fuck all for him to do here.

*This is a rewritten piece that was originally posted last year. I think this version is better.