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Cock DJ

I caught myself singing along to Rock DJ today. It's official: I’ve changed.

As far as I'm concerned, Rock DJ is the nadir of popular music. It’s as bad as it gets. Yet there I was, joining in with it: happy as Larry, smug as Robbie. The voice of a man whose face alone is enough to evoke fury had seeped into my subconscious. The song had finally worn me down, fifteen years after its release. It had become an involuntary expression of inner happiness; something to hum as I jollily went about my business. That’s how they you: they break you over time.

I was in ASDA, in my defense: a soulless, vapid place where dross like Robbie Williams’ back catalogue seems like a positive release. Even bearing this in mind, there was no excuse. It was a lapse in judgement. If I were Catholic, I’d be in my nearest confessional, begging for forgiveness. At least it proves I'm fallible. The internal radio station of a monster supermarket had ensnared me against my will.

I’ll do my shopping online in future, whilst listening to Classic FM. Williams, Chambers, Andrews, Pigford and Paris' songwriting can’t get me there. How can five people be involved in a song's composition and none of them notice it's shit? Something to do with monkeys and typewriters, no doubt. 
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