Pushes all of my buttons

Okay, fair enough, there's been a slightly downbeat tone to this blog so far - working late hours, January, being broke, mates leaving, etc - which isn't really me, but just my current mood: I write from work; you try being cheerful.

But in the canteen just now (potato and onion fritatta, under the lights long enough to not be succulent any more, but still greasy, with salad) I enjoyed a guaranteed pick-me-up.

Now, for the most part, I like my music rocky, dirty and authentic: the Stones (pervy, rocky; was listening to 'Stray Cat Blues' last night - who else could sing 'I can see that you're just 15 years old, I don't want no ID'?), Bowie (perverse), Ramones (gritty yet bubblegum), Dylan (heartfelt, Blood on the Tracks, etc), or else really soulful. Chart/pop music just passes me by. Soulless fakers attempting 'authenticity' - from James Blunt to Coldplay, via Pete Doherty (who, incidentally, is the most frequent entry into Cunts Corner on www.holymoly.co.uk) - enrages me.

However, there's this little pop ditty - 'Push the Button' by the Sugababes - that is guaranteed to put a smile on my face (I won't include an audio link, because I haven't figured that out yet, but I'm sure you've heard it). At first listen, it's a little repetetive, more likely to appeal to 11-year-olds than anything else, but in fact it's really quite complex. A friend of mine, who shall herein be known as the Scholar, once said the way to judge how intricate a pop song (which is judged on melody and beat) is is to try humming it; he was talking about 'Survivor' by Destiny's Child, and he was right. Try humming or whistling 'She Loves You' by the Beatles: easy, it's just a couple of variations on a chord progression. Try it with 'Push the Button': not so easy. There's a lot going on in that little pop song.

You might also find that parts of it sound a bit like 'Last Christmas' by Wham!, particularly the line: 'I knew I had my mind made up from the very beginning'. Regardless, it's just a sweet, catchy little gem of a song - despite lines about 'the freak', 'my sexy ass', 'push the button', etc and a cut-and-paste girlband writhathon video - and it always makes me smile, whatever grey fuzz that passes for a mood I happen to be in at the time. It kinda reminds me of, as a small child on a hot summer's day, standing slugging down great big glasses of apple juice in the cool bathe of the open fridge, before dashing out for more play. Good stuff. I really should buy the single. Actually, their next single, 'Red Dress' has a cover of dull-as-ditchwater latest hype-victims the Arctic Monkeys' 'Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor'. Bet the Sugababes' version is better on the dancefloor

I'm busy throwing hints that he keeps missing
Don't have to think about it
I Wanna kiss and
Everything around it but he's too distant
I wanna feel his body
I can't resist it

I know my hidden looks can be deceiving
But how obvious should a girl be?
I was taken by the early conversation piece
And I really like the way that he respect me

I've been waiting patiently for him to come and get it
I wonder if he knows that he can say it and I'm with it
I knew I had my mind made up from the very beginning
Catch this opportunity so you and me could feel it 'cos

[Chorus] If you're ready for me boy
You'd better push the button and let me know
Before I get the wrong idea and go
You're gonna miss the freak that I control

I'm busy showing him what he's been missing
I'm kind of showing off for his full attention
My sexy ass has got him in the new dimension
I'm ready to do something to relieve this mission

After waiting patiently for him to come and get it
He came on through and asked me if I wanted to get with him
I knew I had my mind made up from the very beginning
Won't miss this opportunity so you and me could feel it 'cos

[Chorus x2]

I've been dropping so many hints
You're still not getting it
Now that you've heard everything I have to say
Where we gonna go from here?

After waiting patiently for him to come and get it
He came over and asked me if I wanted to get with him
I knew I had my mind made up from the very beginning
Won't miss this opportunity so you and me could feel it 'cos

[Chorus x2, repeat to fade]

Stats of the day

Cups of tea it took to get the Special One out of bed this morning:
Three. She was still late for college.

Faith-based reported hate crimes in London this month:
Twenty-four, down from more than 300 in July following the terrorist attacks. Conclusion: racists have short memories.

Doney has left the building

[In case you're not au fait with the lingo, Doney is the younger, less successful brother; a bit incompetent in the family's chosen field, perhaps a bit of an embarrassment to his more famous sibling. Doney Hendrix plays the ukelele. Doney van Gogh can only paint sunflower seeds. Etc.]

Doney Casanova moved out this morning, back home to mammy and daddy with his tail between his legs, having lived the past five months as if London actually was the city of boundless glamour as mentioned below. Our local, which has just secured a licence to open until 4am, is going to go bust.

We did a little verbal tango this morning - "Thanks for everything", "Sure, we'll see you again in no time", "I'll be back Paddy's week" - which is what guys to when they're going to miss each other. It was great having him here, even if, because of my work schedule, we didn't get to hang out every night. The Special One has buddies nearby in Kilburn, and even a few in college, no matter how much she complains about the 18-year-old bimbos; I have fewer social outlets. I get on fine with a few people at work, but it's not like at De Paper, where we'd finish in time for a drink, there was a pub under the office and everything was five minutes' walk away; finishing work at 11.30pm or 12am means a) the pubs are shut, and b) everyone's got a long journey home to make - at that time of night, once more unto the breach of London's famous central London, stone-cold sober, isn't very appealing. I guess I could keep a hipflask under my desk, but it's that kind of attitude that led to Doney Casanova's downfall in the first place.

There's no-one quite like Doney Casanova for a few hi-jinx. Whether it's spinning around a car-park in a trolley, sitting at the bar laughing about our sitcom, or skinny-dipping in the bayeau, Doney Casanova's your man. Of course he can be a grown-up if the situation absolutely requires, but for the most part, he's about sheer, sometimes childish, enjoyment - if it feels good, sure why the feck not - and that's quite the stress-buster. We used to tease the Special One sometimes, usually about some joke that she wasn't getting herself, which would annoy her, but like all of the fun we have together, it's meant in a purely no harm, no foul, kind of way. And, of course, it worked vice versa too - we're both very hard to upset. (He's also going to be my best man, which scares the Special One a little; well, she fears for my life, really.)

So, as will the local, I'm going to miss Doney Casanova. The plan is that he works with his old man for a couple of months, saves some money and comes back, hopefully having learnt his lesson, but it's hard to call - the lure of home-cooking, being chauffered to work instead of tubes and buses, the old faces and places - so we'll just have to wait and see. In the meantime, we've plenty of people set to come and stay - the Baby-Faced Assassin, Cousin Rashers, possibly Twitchy, which I haven't mentioned to the Special One for fear of the moaning and whining - but none of them really match up to Doney Casanova.

He drank late, he slept in, he spent all his money - hell, he even pulled, three times by my count - will we ever see his like again? Here's hoping.

Sometimes the grey side is the bright side

So, what's it going to be, o my brothers?

London, end of January. Two days after pay-day and we're already broke. Such, unfortunately, is the way with London. Especially when only one of you is earning, and especially when Doney Casanova is moving back home to Cork tomorrow - that extra £80 in rent came in awful handy.

Still, that's what London is about. By working (or studying) long hours, with a long commute on either side, sometimes at crazy hours, living in a dingy, sometimes dangerous, inner suburb, you're paying for the privilege of being able to say you live in London - even when they've seen the glamour-free zone that is Cricklewood, everyone sees in their mind's eye images of Big Ben, the Eye, painfully hip bars, clothes, lifestyles, poses. It's all about attittoood.

And when you consider that the average person my age in Britain owes £3,000+ on their credit card, our level of indebtedness and our frugal circumstances aren't that bad. And I want to, but can't because of the proximity of co-workers, ring up The Special One and cheer about my £1,000 raise, so I'm going to have to do it here. Sure, it's only a grand - an extra £60/ a month after tax, and I haven't done anything to earn it except avoid getting fired - but still, you've got to enjoy the little battles.