MY NECK HURTS…..

I’ve been at home for two days, looking after the kids whilst Lyn and Aiden are abed with horror cases of bronchitis– the warning on the pack of antibiotics says “Not suitable for gorillas of a delicate disposition”, I swear……

I did, however, manage to get the iPod cranked up while dropping off a Tupperware order for my darling wife this evening, and stumbled across a couple of songs I haven’t heard in ages, both of which reminded me of what a little rocker I am, deep down in that weaselly black ravine I call a soul.

Firstly, a band that I was never a huge fan of while growing up– where I lived, there were two types of males: those who liked AC/DC and those who could read. So I needed a little bit of time in civilised company, where the ability to use two different forms of cutlery in the same meal didn’t mark you out as some sort of mutant, before I could appreciate just how hard these boys could rock. Once I did, however, I added several choice cuts to the playlist, from which they have rarely moved.

Despite that, I rarely appreciate the appeal of Bon Scott– smelly, drunken little bogan stoat that was way too much like those who made my after-school hours a misery as he was. I’m a Brian Johnson man, I have to say: Geordies being a much more appealing variety of lout to my untrained eye.

This song, however, has to just about rank as their most rockingy rocking moment of rock, and Scott’s performance is pure cheek. Do as I did: crank it really fucking loud, and try not to crash whatever you’re driving at the time….

My second offering comes straight from the Get Out of Gaol Free Card of my soul: Lyn and I have always had a joke “Get Out Of Gaol Free” celebrity– that one famous person who, should they turn up unexpectedly one night during a rainstorm, we’d be able to say “Yes” to without consequences.

Or in my case, say “Geronimo!” to….

As most everyone who knows her knows, Lyn’s is geeky bignose brilliant-comic-writer-turned-pretty-damn-average-novelist Neil Gaiman.

Mine, since the age of nine, I tells you, is the single hottest leather-clad babe to pull on a guitar and get sweaty. And to all those who cry “denial” about her sexuality, I simply put my fingers in my ears and cry lalalalalalalalalalalalalalala to you all…..

Maybe it’s the era I grew up in, or the kind of girls I dated, but to me, despite all the effing and blinding that goes on around me, and despite all the, shall we say, medical ways of describing the sexual act, there’s always been something really dirty about the title of this song: it’s as if everything that needs to be described is common knowledge, and all that’s necessary is the agreement. Maybe it’s that sense of anticipation: the moment of pause, the deep breath before you dive into the hot and sweaty stuff. Maybe it’s just that the 70s were slightly more innocent than today, and my inner child still lives in that twilight time before anybody asked me to touch anything.

Whatever, in a world of hip-hop, sexually explicit lyrics, and open sexuality, I still think this is the dirtiest song ever written.

Enjoy.

(PS: Do you think Lyn would complain if I took a screen capture at 58 seconds in and used it as my wallpaper?)

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