January 9th, 2017


Mud, Mud, Glorious Mud

Our horses drink enormous quantities of water.

And it takes forever to fill one of the butts they drink from.

So I walk away from the job, leaving the tap running- and then forget all about it. I've done this twice- or is it three times- now.

So the water overflows and runs into the field and turns the ground that the horses have already churned up into even more of a quagmire.

Peter Sarstedt RIP

I have veered between wishing I could write something as effortlessly zeitgeisty as his big song and deploring its self-pity and misogyny but never- at any time- have I been able to frog-march it out of my head. I have succeeded in forgetting many much better songs but this- with its hum-along accordion melody- has been stuck in my head so long it's acquired squatter's rights.

It's the sound of 1969. But specifically the sound of 1969 in Europe- where we imagined ourselves throwing cobblestones at the riot police and then hopping into our bright red sportscars to drive to Juan-les-Pins and have lunch in a cafe patronised by "others of the jet set". It's a having your brioche and eating it kind of a song, drip-feeding the listener a list of Euro-trash luminaries and then rising above them all with stony-faced proletarian right-mindedness.

Sarstedt never stopped writing and releasing songs. I don't know what any of them are- or whether any of them are any good- because he only ever managed to capture the attention of the world that one time. Well, it's more than most of us will ever do.

All together now....

You talk like Marlene Dietrich
And you dance like Zizi Jeanmaire
Your clothes are all made by Balmain...

And so on for five minutes of something which if it isn't exactly genius is a pretty good simulacrum.