It’s Friday, Friday, gotta’ get down on Friday... Rebecca, I couldn’t agree more my sweet; right now, however, all I want to do is get your sh*$ty song out of my head. For the purposes of maintaining my sanity, and ensuring I don’t begin to sing aloud as I run through the darkening woods of Hornchurch Country Park. No one, or nothing, deserves to hear me panting out the lyrics of a warbling 13 year old girl whilst I trek the outer perimeter of a seemingly endless dirt track. A dubious squirrel fondles a nut from afar; I hum and whine ‘everybody’s looking forward to the weekend, weekend’ imperceptibly, not wanting to offend the little critter. I’m barely able to see the clammy hand in front of my face, yet can’t help focusing on not offending a squirrel. This isn’t traditional madness, though nonetheless a slight queasiness overcomes me as the incline increases and my hamstrings implore me to stop being a douche and have a rest. Hell, have a beer. Don’t bother with the jogging. Fancy a Bargain Bucket? SUREEE, go for it. Deep fry a Mars bar as a dessert whilst you’re at it boss.
After the amount of painstaking training I’ve invested, the ease in which I can ignore these shoulder devils of greed has increased remarkably; nevertheless, the London Marathon looms large at the forefront of my mind. Manifesting itself as a gigantic foam hand, like the ones you see the crowd waving in American sports, the fingers are preparing to deliver me the most almighty of bitch slaps if I don’t complete the race in a respectable time. I grit my teeth and grunt like a horny rhinoceros as the hill levels out and a truly beautiful sight tiptoes into my vision: the blessed reprieve of a downhill trail.
Some heavy duty drum n’ bass, intended to distract and ultimately inspire my lagging muscles, can’t prevent me from thinking of how even supposedly brilliant songs can illustrate the worst examples of failed lyricism and idiotic wordplay. Take Sting, for example, of The Police and dodgy Cockney accent in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels fame; a member of the esteemed Songwriters Hall of Fame, as well as the more commercially recognised Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Achieving worldwide renown and popularity over a relentlessly successful career of making piles of cash, winning countless awards and selling out the biggest arenas in the world, whether individually or side by side with his Geordie band members. And yet even he attempted to merge the secular Russian author Vladimir Nabokov and the line ‘shake and cough’ into a rhyming couplet. Shakira, the booty shaking Latina with a global fan base and countless chart hits, eloquently chimes on her smash hit ‘Whenever, Wherever’: "Lucky that my breasts are small and humble, so you don't confuse them with mountains." Brilliant introspection there dear, the majority of mammary glands indeed do NOT, repeat not, resemble Mount Kilimanjaro. Bless the lord for your overwhelming observational intelligence.
This isn’t intended to completely debunk and discredit the work of the above artists, as well as countless others with questionably dim-witted lyrics (Kesha in ‘Tick-Tock’ springs immediately to mind); instead, it’s a concise and valid indication that even the most respected of performers can suddenly be overcome by the strong urge to write a load of crap. Worse still, to assume their own genuine talent warrants them to pretend it’s any good. When all of the countless Grammy and Brit awards begin to pile up on one’s bulging mantelpiece, there’s still no excuse for concluding your breasts aren’t a mountain range. Please kindly desist from patronising me by singing a record outlining this.
So, ultimately, as I turn another nondescript corner in the hazy moonlight of early evening Essex, the guilt I formerly experienced when belting out Rebecca Black’s questionable debut at the top of my lungs has all but dissipated. It’s awful. She’s no Shakespeare, granted. John Lennon won’t be turning in his grave, afraid of an awesome artistic legacy being overcome anytime soon. But if Michael Jackson can open ‘Bad’ with the line: “Your butt is mine”, then young Becky can frankly continue to offend everyone’s eardrums for a while yet.
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