Dienstag, 10. Apr 2007, 18:52
My eye was drawn to this rather super idea by Mr Orange Anubis, whose explantion ran thusly: 'Many great memes are floating around blogland at the moment, this one from Stoibee really caught my eye. By setting a smart playlist in iTunes with the criterion "Name contains ?" and limiting to 10 tracks, you have your own purpose-built interrogation from the depths of your music collection…'
And so I ran one myself and this was the result:
Are You The One? - No. 'The One' is not a concept I approve of or believe in. It smacks of a kind of emotional OCD. And if there is a 'one' I am most certainly not it.
Do U Lie? Well, of course I don't, Prince dear chap. Although, of course, if I were a liar… Etc.
Do You Hear What I Hear? Probably not, actually. Years of listening to my Walkman, Discman and now my iPod too loudly have given me the sort of low level tinitus that distorts everything a little.
Do You Remember The First Time? I most certainly do, Jarvis. I was 17, on the 130 bus back to New Addington after my late night shift in a bookshop. A young black guy wanked me off on the top deck and then I gave him a blow job behind the fish and chip shop in Homestead Way. A couple of years later I served the guy, his wife and child when I had a Christmas job in Debenhams. Aw.
How Do I Get To Carnegie Hall? The obvious answer is given in the song, of course. Practice, boy, practice.
Is It Really So Strange? Yes, probably. It's easy to give trite answers, like these. But truth is stranger than fiction. See? Trite.
London Can You Wait? Of course not, Martin. London is far too busy and has bigger fish to fry. The motto of London being 'There'll be another one along in a minute'.
What Do I Do Now? I've no idea. As Quentin Crisp so eloquently put it in mid-chat show interview 'I'm terribly sorry but I've reached the end of my personality'.
What You Waiting For? Well, Ms Stephanie, it's likely to be the junk shop in Forest Hill to get more 1950s sputnik-legged tables and chairs in to make my flat into a grotto fit for the B-52's (the pop group, not the strategic heavy bombers).
Who The Fuck? Sorry Polly. I won't do it again, I promise. Whatever it was.