The Candy Man


I’m sure you are, as indeed I am, thrilled to hear that Robbie Williams is back, where he belongs at Number One in what Jimmy and Fluff used to call the Hit Parade with his Noel Coward-esque ditty ‘Candy‘. If you haven’t heard it, you’re missing a treat. The lyrics are mind blowing:

Ring a ring of roses
Whoever gets the closest
She comes and she goes
As the war of the roses
Mother was a victim
Father beat the system
By moving bricks to Brixton
And learning how to fix them

You will notice how he brilliantly rhymes ‘Brixton’ with ‘fix them’, not to mention ‘roses’ with..er…’roses’. Apparently if you play the song backwards something amazing happens: It sounds exactly the same, or even makes a little more sense. You could plug John Lennon’s body into the national grid and with the revolutions he must be doing you could illuminate a small village on the Wirral for a fortnight.

It’s nothing new, of course, for someone like me, just out of his twenties, to attack the pop songs of the day. I remember when I was a kid defending Althea and Donna’s quite brilliant “Uptown Top Ranking” to howls of laughter and derision from my father. It seemed to me at the time (and my argument has not changed one jot) that “Love is all I bring inna me khaki suit and ting” was clearly a deep social comment on the dresses worn by young Jamaican women of the day, and it wasn’t my fault that my dad (from Slade Green, so he no excuse) couldn’t speak Patois. With the benefit of the Tardis I may have argued that if Robbie’s “Candy” had been written and sung in a foreign dialect it might have sounded better.

No, it’s not just that Robbie’s latest effort is as bad as his last one, it’s that I had subconsciously settled with myself that I’d never need to hear the dulcet tones of the Stoke-on-Trent warbler ever again. Like Mitt Romney, SmallPox and Rickets, I assumed he was part of my past, never likely to darken my door again, save Gaumont News Reels and editions of Top of the Pops 2. How wrong can you be? Not only has the tattooed twat taken his song to the top of the charts, but it looks like Mitt Romney may not be the Republican’s Michael Dukakis the whole world outside the US was hoping he was. (And I think I have Rickets. Or maybe it’s wind.)

Those who predicted that Good Ol’ Mitt the Multi Millionaire would crash and burn would have been the same ones who advised me not to bet on Sebastian Vettel making the podium in Abu Dhabi, having started the F1 Grand Prix from the back of the field. Or those who put their house on this Year’s US Ryder Cup Team, or Devon Locke. I was content in the fact that Robbie was gone from my life, and I would smile to myself about it often, as I put the finishing touches to my Lance Armstrong shrine in the study.

So the lesson for today, children, is never bet on a good thing, and never write off anyone. Just when you think you’ve heard the last of some useless cvnt he goes and gets himself a no1 single, or becomes President or something equally unlikely. And just because you’re riding high in those very same charts or on Le Tour de France, don’t think you’re there forever. You are just one shite performance on TV, or one raid by the USADA from being thrown out of your arse.

Althea and Donna became the victims of a rather unfortunate debut appearance on Top of the Pops. Having had the country bouncing and swaying to their wonderful sound, they chose to a) appear and; b) sing live on national tv. Bad move girls. It was very rare for a first showing on the pop show to actually do damage to an act’s chart position. Sadly, the girls gave a performance akin to an early Chuckle Brothers act. They were out of tune, out of rhythm and out of time with each other so spectacularly badly, you can see where The Smiths got their influences from. Still a great song though. And Ting.

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17 thoughts on “The Candy Man

  1. And a good morning to you too …!
    Remember,remember the fifth of November,
    Gunpowder,treason and plot…

    I forget how the rest of it goes but expect that Robbie and his lyricists could probably sort it out aptly?!

    As for Mitt…whatshisname…too close to call really but one can only hope that bad weather prevails tomorrow( election day?) and that U.S. ambivalence stays indoors leaving “yes we can” to fight another day and perhaps leave a bit of a mark rather than a ‘blip’ in those tossers’ politics…

    Anyway hope rickets/ wind goes away asap and that your week progresses smoothly…

  2. It was always a dance floor filler at T’s Discotheque if I recall. Just before you sat down for a burger in a basket meal (or just afterwards even).

    Obama by a margin smaller than Althia and Donna’s Wikipedia page.

  3. Every mystery–even the most inhumane and agonizing among them–has a logical solution. You asked the question, and voilà, le Parsien has answered:

    http://www.leparisien.fr/musique/albums/je-ne-veux-pas-devenir-has-been-05-11-2012-2293387.php

    Given the neat little cause/effect relationship behind not-so-young Robbie’s thinking and his latest attempt at transforming the submental into melody, might I suggest you somehow get le Parisen to headline their interview with you using the quote “I Don’t Want To Be A Miserable, Tubby, Vein-Popping Gobshite Pauper”? Might work financial wonders for you (bemoaning the broke bit, I mean. The rest is pretty much beyond hope…)

      • Robbie Williams: I Don’t Want To Be A Has Been.

        Mister Horrible: I Don’t Want To Be A Terminally Furious, Feces-Mouthed Shit-Stirrer Who Weighs Less Than A Biaffran Gymnast During Ramadan.

        David Cameron: I Won’t Want To Be A Hateful Reactionary Toff Cunt.

        See where this is going, big guy?

  4. Thank goodness. My next step was to ask Trevor to apply this formula to his keen support of a certain nation and it’s red-clad sports sides–and demonstrate that zeal by donning folkloric floral headwear as a mark of his allegiance. That’s how close we escaped disaster.

  5. ““I Don’t Want To Be A Miserable, Tubby, Vein-Popping Gobshite Pauper”? ” Sorry Mister H. You lost me there. Is this referring to the fat clog dancer from Barnsley or our own dear Ed ?

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