Friday 12th December – Christmas Number One Battle is Crap Compared to Stevie Wonder.

Monday is the last day that singles can be released and stand a chance of winning that strange accolade: ‘Christmas Number One’. I have no idea why being number one in the charts at Christmas is seen as being such a prestige position. Its not like anyone remembers them for being anything other than awful. Everyone remembers that the Spice Girls had three consecutive Christmas Number Ones in the ‘90s, and that one year the crown went to Mr Blobby. This is hardly auspicious company.

Yet, the runners and riders have been tussling at the start line for a few weeks now, hawking themselves around every TV or radio station that will have them. The Daily Mirror yesterday offered odds on their success. The ones that stood out for me were:

- Cliff Richard, with Santa’s List: A winning conflation of religious and secular imagery in the finest Cliff tradition. In a cynical bid to cover every angle, Cliff has dispensed with conventional ‘song’ aesthetics and has simply opted to bellow a stream of Christmas-related words over a single chinking sleigh-bell.

“JEEEEEESUS! MISTELTOE! MULLED WINE! BETHLEHEM! TUUUUURKEY! SCALEXTRIC! JEEEEEEESUUUUS! MIIIINCE PIES! WIIIIIIISE MEN! DRUMMMMMER BOY! SHEEEERRRRY!”

And so on. It’s a winner. He will perform it in concert, probably at the Albert Hall. He will put one finger in the air and sway from side to side as he sings. He will go backstage and masturbate into a handful of dog vomit. You know it’s true.

- The Darkness, with Christmas Time (Don’t Let the Bells End): Another hilarious, not sub-Vic-and-Bob-meets-Spinal-Tap dollop of non-worthless whimsy, from the not fashion magazine in-joke non-pricks from Lowestoft, who are not being patronised by smirking, dilletantish fashionistas before inevitably being cast back into obscurity. It looks a good bet to hit the number one spot! Good luck to you, you non-arseholes!

- Atomic Kitten, with Ladies’ Night: What more can be said about ‘The Kittens’? There are three of them. They are women. They are prime purveyors of un-pretentious, good-time party muzak. They are talentless, bottle-blonde ciphers, solely responsible for the decline of the British music industry. Whatever. Popbitch would refer to them as ‘Pramfaced’. Therefore, I will love them, through gritted teeth, on principle.

- Basil Brush, with Boom Boom, Christmas Slide: The evil puppet bangs a tin drum relentlessly for 10 minutes, before being joined by mournful cellos and terrifying sirens that build to an ear-bleeding crescendo, as Basil mumbles his barely-audible, subliminal monologue, urging his listeners to exact bitter punishment on their own bodies. He is a bad mama-jama.

- Pop Idols, with Merry Xmas (War is Over): Cannot be satirised.

It is easy to be cynical. What better reason. But….sometimes….you cannot be cynical.

I was on my own in the flat last night – bored, lonely and a bit down in the dumps. I put on a Stevie Wonder CD I had bought that day. Was utterly, utterly transformed. Whisked by my pubes to a place beyond music. Cannot explain.

I had not been drinking.

Had been trying to think if I had anything interesting to write for my website, so pen and paper was handy. Actually grabbed pen and wrote these words:

STEVIE FUCKING WONDER. LIFE. I HAVEN’T BEEN DRINKING. BEAUTY. JOY. GENIUS. MUSIC. SOUL. SOUL. SOUL.

It was half way through ‘I Was Made to Love You’. An emotional moment, but this was still a bit much. Still, I can’t remember the last time I was so violently energised by music. Made everything else in my record collection seem ridiculous and superfluous. The Smiths are self-absorbed droners; Jeff Buckley is a preening, pretentious sonic ballerina; Otis Redding is a clodhopping, stomping, grunting oaf. Stevie is a joyous explosion of LIFE