Great. I've prattled about in the rain looking for a place to write for HOURS. I've finally chuffing found a drinking hole with a plug, wifi and a seat that's not been crapped on by some drunk pensioner. Result, right? Except the jukebox is playing The Feeling's Fill My Little World.
You know the song. It's jolly without being The Lightning Seeds; it's summery without being Fresh Prince, it's jangly while being as far from The Smiths as it's possible to be in the world of white-boy pop. "Show some love," he squeaks. "Come fill my little world right up, right up."
You've filled my little world with liquid bum drizzle, man from The Feeling. Filled me right up: you can tell by the brown tide lines on the insides of my eyes. I already looked like Johnny Vegas dragged through a swamp backwards, and now I stench of your easy-listening drivetime diahorrea.
I'm sat in the darkest corner of the pub. The pub is famous for its cheese lunches. It's still raining outside. I'm drinking a pint of sub-three quid bitter. I'm meant to be writing something worthy, about Aphex Twin or Warp Records or bleepy bloop or whatever.
And everything is ruined because that song is in my head.
Thing is, there's a final twist in this sonic wound, this weeping gash of audio guff. The jukebox has moved on. While I've been hammering this blog post together, the chuffing jukebox has long since moved on.
Jukeboxes always move on. That's why jukeboxes will always be better than me.
