Affirmatronics, ugly buglies!
While it doesn't exactly crawl with glossy goddesses, Neighbours seems to pulse with a lot more hormonal thunge than it used to in the days of horse-faced cancer-dodger, Kylie Minogue. They seem to have recruited a whole phalanx of pouting bleached Valkyries to ride the diseased imaginations of the watching deadbeats. But can anyone tell them apart? Teenage perfume representative Margot Robbie or "bikini model" Imogen Bailey? Perhaps they have vats of the xeroxed beauties, floating naked in viscous gels until the time comes to inch them down the production line to glamorous oblivion.
Is this me coming to terms with a future of daytime TV, as plans A-C for employment seem to be spiralling out of the sky, toxic columns of black furrowing out of their screaming, doomed engines? Perhap. Get thinky about the thinkless, just like I did back in '95.
The only thing that keeps me going at the minute is Gary James' history of Manchester football. I enjoyed the first hundred pages or so, and I was fascinated to learn of Manchester Central FC's birth at Belle Vue to fill the gap in east Manchester left by City and United; but if I'd realised what a morbidly bluenose bias slopes through the book, I would never have bothered. He's a curator for City apparently, which would explain the skewered opinions, but he goes to such lengths to show how any good that came to or from United was blue in origin that the fabric of credible reality bends like a crumbling rainbow. And that can't be good for posterity, can it?
I even got a signed copy from the guy. I knew I should've read it first. Only the sting of the fiery coals of injustice keeps me reading through the salty burn in my tearducts.
Be beautiful, my shining gangsters!
Your pal, Coc x