She's lost control again...
Death. It's to final. So terminal.
Today we say goodbye to one of music's most enduring and endearing darlings. Donna Summer, may you rest in peace. She passed away yesterday at the age of 63 after a struggle with lung cancer.
And in very much the same vein (I watched Trainspotting last night...), today we remember and mourn the untimely death of one of music's most iconic figures, especially to those of us that prefer music that isn't particularly run-of-the-mill. Ian Curtis, your suicide - whilst robbing us of what could have been a few extra albums - served not only to end your tumultuous anguish, but to raise you (and the rest of Joy Division) up to unlikely cultural icons that have subsequently become references for the greater good of all music. As one of your most ardent fans once put it - and I'm sure Paul Morley meant this in a flattering way - had you lived, you could have been the band that U2 eventually became. I don't think I have to articulate the gratitude I feel that you didn't.
None of this is particularly irreverent. That's ok. We all have our off days...
So tomorrow night is the sporting event of the year: The Champions League Final. The unlikely contestants are Bayern Munich, playing in their home stadium after having beaten the Galacticos of Real Madrid, and Fucking Chelski, having beaten Barcelona. If I had my way the game would be decided on penalties, with John Terry once again missing the crucial spot kick. Unfortunately he isn't playing because he is nothing more than an ill disciplined thug who got what he richly deserved. Among a slew of other Chelsea players not eligible to play is the one and only player of theirs I feel sorry for. Merieles is a truly class player and the foul that earned him a place in the stands was not too bad. Nonetheless.
I'm actually quite ambivalent about the whole game. I am backing Bayern to win as much because of their vastly superior European pedigree and the fact that Roman Abromovich should not simply be able to buy success (the death of football), but because my boss AND the Hot Girlfriend are both Chelsea supporters.
Anyway, I'm saving up my store of irreverence for the next 2 weeks. Next weekend is World Goth Day and once again I'm DJing. After that I have to zoot off to my Brother-In-Awe's Star Wars birthday party. I'm considering a Storm Trooper outfit, if for no other reason than it offers substantial facial protection from the likes of Slappy.
And a few days later I age another year. Along with DrHellCuz. From up Norff. There will be a wee celebration. There may be some booze. The Dean might have something to do with it. There may be a Pot-o-Doom. There sure as hell had better be a Tarty Farty Tequila Party. She's on thin ice as it is, having taken the sacrilegious standpoint that iconic dead souls needn't be referred to by their correct names...
Hope you all have wonderful weekends. Go forth. Use Trainspotting as a useful guide to acceptable behaviour. Except that bit where Spud flings a sheet full of pooh over the breakfast table. That was pretty grim.
NGDG: "You may have been 'Pumped up for Summer' - whatever that means - but what are you now, with your faded bumper sticker and months of icy winds ahead? A Highveld listener. Oh, the shame!"
Oh no, he di'int!
Spread The Love. It'll Tear Us Apart.