Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Finally Facing My Waterloo
I've tons by Kylie and every Trade CD they tossed out, plus a couple they didn't. I've got so many Pet Shop Boys I don't know where to put them, and some choicely predictable old-time Hi-NRG as well. Stand me enough Stellas, and I might even own up to the odd diva or four. And I think you've probably all guessed about the show-tunes by now.
But it was only today I realised I do not own one single bloody thing by Abba. That's right. No Abba Gold (this year's or any other's); nor a VHS of Abba: The Movie, or a crackly 45 of "Dancing Queen", not even the Royal Philharmonic does Abba CD. And my prized off-air C90 of 1974's Eurovision in Brighton has long since been mangled by the old Hitachi.
In fact, apart from a decidedly iffy cover of "The Winner Takes It All" by some German bird, alone amongst friends I'm a totally Abba-free zone. Their pop is almost painfully perfect of course, but I hear too much of it everywhere already, for me to want go and spend a tenner on my own copy.
And that got me thinking about other vital things setting me apart, especially from the rest of the Old Compton Street brigade. I don't buy CK One, for starters; I've never even considered a tattoo, or a piercing anywhere other than in my ear; open relationships are a no-no, as are designer-combats, AIDS-complacency, and bottled Dutch lagers; I'm not duped by what I read in the fag-mags; and Absolutely Fabulous never once made me laugh.
Huh! Call myself a Compton Cliché? I should be ashamed to walk the streets of Soho with that sort of attitude. I wouldn't be at all surprised if tonight I'm placed under immediate house-arrest for knowingly impersonating a Metro Queen with intent to deceive. It's starting to look like those glory- days of being a card-carrying member of the faggeratti might finally be numbered. . .