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Could have been written by steve arrington or frankie beverly. Soul/funk loops flowing from the quill of a Geordie secondry school teacher with a bleach blonde peacock haircut.
Copelands drumming. A 5th dan high sensi of the skins in full flow.
When i think of the Police, images of a michelangelo venus-as-a boy-Sting floating on a OOrt cloud of tantric sex harnessing the Vulcan mind meld to stop himself from blowing his load at a Bel air chem sex party with This mates from Toto, Hall and Oates and wang chung spring to mind.
The cod reggae plate lipped charity work which he doesn't like to talk about mate , money for nothing and your chicks for free MTV palarva leaves me cold. And yet Stweart Copeland is probably the drummer i've ever heard. Andy summers the best guitarist.
Forget the sacharrin carcinogenic pap of 'de doo dah dah'
1977-1983. 5 brilliant albums. And that was all she wrote.
I don't care what time it is I ain't going home, I ain't going home, I ain't going Home I don't care what time it is I ain't going home 'cause i'm having a wonderful time!
Just off to the Leigh on sea constitutional club where we have The Sweet and a T Rex tribute band wrapped around the game.
£4.20 a pint of Estrella/ Staropramen/ san miguel. Scampi and chips in a basket £7.
It might not be Andy Warhol's electric circus with Nico fingering herself atop a yamaha polyphonic keyboard with unlimited bowls of petrol washed cocaine and Van der graff generator chasing the dragon in the bogs, but it will do me.
Migrated east end Working class families out on the f cuking piss to glam rock and England on the custard in a world cup 1/4 final. Stick that in yer pipe and smoke it souless puritans!
As a white working class eastender spawned from an East Ham concrete sobibor asphalt jungle sink council estate and bathing in the plasma pool of white privilege in a flat pack plaistow pisshole comprehensive, where the violent alcoholic teachers Spent the lessons flicking though their P.I.E contact books and making pipe bombs out of nesquick straws to bring down the Thatcher junta while dressed up as a quartermaster of the shining path movement, my every living moment since then has been consumed with Taylor swifts marriage to Kansas city's tight end Travis Keice.
I for one await their nuptials, their billion dollar magazine deals showcasing their Arabian white horse ranch and their progressive observations on politics, life and climate change delivered from a private Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird jet like the succulent apples of Hesperides
Generation X leaving the battle cruiser Monday 5am and heading straight for Fenchurch street station after 9 pints, 10 Baby Guinness shots and a scampi in a basket.
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