Love is a losing game June 15, 2008Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
I can’t currently see the point of not being in love with Amy Winehouse. I’ve been cautious about coming out as a fan, worried that it might be akin to driving a Vauxhall Astra. And then the last time I decided to come out as liking someone, it was James Blunt, and I don’t even live in the UK so didn’t know that to like him was worse than kiddy-fiddling. Hopefully Nizlopi have split up.
Anyway, I’ve checked with a number of humans from a variety of backgrounds – I’ve asked them to fill in forms outlining their age, ethnic backgrounds, sexual orientation and IQ (and the forms of anyone with an IQ of lower than 145 were cruelly discarded and subsequently used for doodling and shopping lists) – and I am told that it actually is perfectly acceptable to be head-over-heels in love with her.
Plus it’s very easy as relationships go. For a start we’re at a very early stage and boredom and reality are yet to impinge as, as sure as hate follows love, they surely will. After all, she makes almost no demands on me, so I am free to drink cheap beer from a tin in front of the TV and play with my testicles, which I do round the clock, and she doesn’t nag me. And the only demand I make of her, which she satisfies without exception and, thus far, perfection guaranteed, is to not have had clips of her that I want to watch on youtube deleted. And initial research shows that she is from a nice Jewish family so she probably doesn’t have any bad habits like drinking alcohol or taking snuff. Phew!
My editorial policy means I can’t link to the clips that have got me sending Amy taxis of roses and writing her heart-rending poetry expressing my thought that, “And on the seventh day, God created Amy Winehouse”. (I hope she’ll be happy with my efforts so far, such as, “One day I’ll build a fine house,
For me and Amy Winehouse.”) In any case, they are clips of her performing some of her numbers live. Just her and a guitarist. Her sitting down, when I thought you had to stand up for your diaphragm to be at its songful best. And just when you might want to think, “Oh, fuck, this is going to be a bit naked. A bit bald. Just her and a guitar,” she belts something out with such loveliness and simplicity that she bees a whole orchestra.
I’m enjoying the good times while they last. I suppose, before we know it, she’ll be off pleasuring other men and not reacting to my poetry. But in the meantime, I won’t believe a word any of you has to say against her. Unless it’s very convincing.