MUCH HAS ALREADY BEEN SAID about the half-hearted dirge that is the official England World Cup song, Embrace’s World At Your Feet, a record about England in the football World Cup that is too cool, or cowardly, to mention England, football or the World Cup. But, believe me, compared with the literally dozens of proudly unofficial ditties that have arrived on my doormat these last few weeks, it is Good Vibrations, Smells Like Teen Spirit and Waterloo Sunset all hand-whisked into one gorgeous confection. Everyone is trying to have that big hit; no musical stone is being left unflipped in the search for that elusive World Cup anthem.
And that search, it seems, is happening in every corner of this green and pleasant land. The other night I had just finished another award-winning stint at the microphone for BBC London 94.9 and had repaired, with a selection of cronies, flunkies and molls, to the pub across the road. There’s a discount for BBC types and they never run out of Magners. I had not even hoisted my behind on to the stool when mine host came vaulting up to me.
He is a fellow in his mid-twenties, pleasant enough when dispensing the cold drinks, but hardly a bosom chum. Imagine my surprise, then, when he grabs me by the elbow and entreats me to “come upstairs” with him. My mother warned me that there’d be days like these, but he was just so insistent . . .
“Upstairs” was reached through a locked plywood door, the better, one suddenly imagined, to keep out the Environmental Health people. “Upstairs” is dusty, half-decorated, semi-abandoned; I began to search the gloom for signs of raggedy hostages chained to radiators.
My young friend was sweating nervously as he steered me into a kitchen that looked like it had been abandoned, some years ago, by Motörhead. Beside the half-full sink was an old radio cassette. He pushed the play button. From the speakers clanked the unmistakable skirl of the theme from Minder. But over the music were not the vocal stylings of Dennis Waterman (“I could be so good for you”, etc) but the not-bad voice of the bar manager himself . . . “We’re all going to Ger-man-eee . . . Haven’t finished Wem-ber-lee!”
All music journos dread this moment. Elvis Costello/David Blunt/The Manager Of The Pub Across The Road stop the tape of their newest meisterwerk, stare deep into your eyes and implore “whaddaya think?” Actually, I said, it’s not bad at all. With that, he bounded back down the stairs, whooping with delight and utterly ignoring my sage advice about obtaining the rights to the Minder theme. A few days later, I heard the finished item booming from the pub across the road’s sound system. It was OK; better than Embrace; drunks sang along; everyone seemed chuffed. Oddly enough, the bar manager has now disappeared. A new job? In rehearsal for Top Of The Pops? Or maybe Dennis Waterman’s people have more clout than I imagined.
It’s not just music. Around World Cup time, the usual steady dribble of football tomes becomes a cascade. They are aimed at every age, prejudice and IQ, yet all have one thing in common; football is always the most important thing in the world, the players are all dashing heroes or villainous fools. In short, these books take a very colourful, and coloured, view.
And that search, it seems, is happening in every corner of this green and pleasant land. The other night I had just finished another award-winning stint at the microphone for BBC London 94.9 and had repaired, with a selection of cronies, flunkies and molls, to the pub across the road. There’s a discount for BBC types and they never run out of Magners. I had not even hoisted my behind on to the stool when mine host came vaulting up to me.
He is a fellow in his mid-twenties, pleasant enough when dispensing the cold drinks, but hardly a bosom chum. Imagine my surprise, then, when he grabs me by the elbow and entreats me to “come upstairs” with him. My mother warned me that there’d be days like these, but he was just so insistent . . .
“Upstairs” was reached through a locked plywood door, the better, one suddenly imagined, to keep out the Environmental Health people. “Upstairs” is dusty, half-decorated, semi-abandoned; I began to search the gloom for signs of raggedy hostages chained to radiators.
My young friend was sweating nervously as he steered me into a kitchen that looked like it had been abandoned, some years ago, by Motörhead. Beside the half-full sink was an old radio cassette. He pushed the play button. From the speakers clanked the unmistakable skirl of the theme from Minder. But over the music were not the vocal stylings of Dennis Waterman (“I could be so good for you”, etc) but the not-bad voice of the bar manager himself . . . “We’re all going to Ger-man-eee . . . Haven’t finished Wem-ber-lee!”
All music journos dread this moment. Elvis Costello/David Blunt/The Manager Of The Pub Across The Road stop the tape of their newest meisterwerk, stare deep into your eyes and implore “whaddaya think?” Actually, I said, it’s not bad at all. With that, he bounded back down the stairs, whooping with delight and utterly ignoring my sage advice about obtaining the rights to the Minder theme. A few days later, I heard the finished item booming from the pub across the road’s sound system. It was OK; better than Embrace; drunks sang along; everyone seemed chuffed. Oddly enough, the bar manager has now disappeared. A new job? In rehearsal for Top Of The Pops? Or maybe Dennis Waterman’s people have more clout than I imagined.
It’s not just music. Around World Cup time, the usual steady dribble of football tomes becomes a cascade. They are aimed at every age, prejudice and IQ, yet all have one thing in common; football is always the most important thing in the world, the players are all dashing heroes or villainous fools. In short, these books take a very colourful, and coloured, view.
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