Living for Disco

I spent all Sunday in a fug of gloom, being tortured by The Radio.  It was on as I lay in the bath for three hours, eyes rimmed in smudgy black, tongue patina-ed in stale fag, breath like dragon farts.  I contemplated drowning myself as an alternative to getting out and getting dressed, activities for which I just didn’t have the energy, or inclination.

Then I sat slumped in front of my jigsaw for two hours, snarling at Boris, while The Radio played songs by wannabe skater-boys with ‘dude, where’s my brain?’ accents, and that bloody ‘punk-rocker with flowers in my hair’ girl.  Who let her out?  And why is she so popular?  Hangovers mixed with PMT suck, indeedy they do.  And so do songs with the lyrics “Baby, just kill me now.”

Have you heard that song?  It’s by a band called Rio Grand, but it sounds like a soft-rock-country horror-hybrid, featuring a yodeling cowboy singing about the distance between us, that’s scaring the hell out of me, but I’m too much of a sap and too shit-scared to do anything about it, so I’ll just sit here and listen to you whispering to your boyfriend in the other room, but baby, despite the fact that you’re a cheating whore, if you leave, you may as well just kiiiiilllllll me nowwwwwwww, his voice rising with tortured anguish as he howls into his ten gallon hat.  Unfortunately, his girlfriend seems too busy packing her suitcase and getting the hell out of loonsville to bother stopping to stick a knitting needle in his jugular, so we’re all forced to listen to another three verses.  I fucking hate it, and they play it all the time.

So, yes, my Sunday was fug-filled and gloomy.  I’m sure it would have been better if people could actually write some good songs, so I’m blaming them for putting me in a bad mood that couldn’t even be cured with the help of a fish-finger sandwich.  I haven’t heard anything I like on the radio for bloody ages.

What’s going on out there?

Is it just Namibia?

Where did all the good tunes go?