Entrance Music

Making an impassioned speech about the rights of the individual to a gang of school bullies and being viciously punched and kicked to the ground rather than slowly, sheepishly applauded. Meeting an attractive member of the opposite sex, finding that you take an instant and intense dislike to one another, and not ending up in bed together within the hour. Daring a dangerous psychopath with a gun pointed at your head to ‘Go on, shoot me – do it! You don’t even have the guts!’ and then finding that, instead of dissolving into pathetic, heaving sobs and allowing the gun to fall slowly from his hand, he actually does shoot you, spraying your brain onto the wall behind you like so much congealed Sommerfield own-brand tapioca.

All these things prove that real life and films are different things. Different. No matter how much we may want them to be the same. Believe me, no amount of phone calls to the LAPD will be enough to convince them that you are Axel Foley’s brother and require a first class ticket to America right away, because you have to investigate the murder of a prominent art dealer named Ramon. Or something.

This is a pity, as life is that much easier in films. Not if you are someone’s Black best friend, of course, a status which guarantees that you will be face down, blowing bubbles in a pool of your own blood before Act 3. But, in general, life is much easier in the films.

More often than not, you can judge someone’s character purely by their name. If the butch, vest-wearing ex-cop sitting next to you on your transatlantic flight is named Dutch McCorskey, then you can feel reasonably confident that he will take matters into his own hands should the lisping, effeminate, Teutonic-looking weirdo across the aisle from you announce that he is hijacking the plane. If he is named Arjen Von Bombhauser, then he probably will.

Another useful tool for judging people is their entrance music. Not all characters in films are lucky enough to have entrance music, but if they do, it is a reliable barometer of their personality. Picture Julia Roberts gracefully descending the casino staircase in Ocean’s Eleven; Darth Vader imperiously striding onto the captured Rebel spaceship in Star Wars; loveable Otis waddling into Lex Luther’s penthouse apartment in Superman. Bwah bwah-bwah-bwaaaahhhh bwah-bwah-bwah-bwah-bwah-bwah-bwahhhhhh. The parping tuba accompanying his entrance leaves us in no doubt that he is not the most effectual of fellows and that, at some point, he will probably get stuck in something, because he is a big fat fatty.

If only we could have entrance music in real life. It would save us a lot of time. This thought occurred to me a few weeks ago when I spent the entire morning with a bloke from the IT department draped over my shoulder, as he relentlessly tinkered and messed about with my computer, utterly disinterested in resolving the minor problem I called him about, but hell-bent on showing me what I have been doing wrong before, and the various settings that have been incorrectly aligned all this time without me even noticing. Naturally, the whole system went tits-up as soon as he left the building, so I had to call him back later that day to put things the fuck back like they were before he got his nicotine-stained fingers on my machine.

As he shambled back into my office – windswept hair, yellowing teeth, grey leather jacket, trousers inching further up his leg with every step as they relentlessly and unflatteringly gathered at his crotch – I found myself singing the theme-tune to ‘Rhubarb & Custard’ in my head. Somehow, its shrill, chaotic cadence seemed entirely appropriate for the approach of this complete boob. We should all have entrance music. If I had had the benefit of hearing the ‘Rhubarb’ theme as the IT fool entered the first time, I would never have let him within 10 yards of me and my machine.

How we could make the dream of entrance music for all a reality I don’t know. We could carry tiny CD players around with us, and broadcast as soon as we enter a room. But the sound quality would probably be poor and reduce the intended impact. Bursting through double doors to the strains of ‘The Ride of the Valkyrie’ is probably less impressive when the music is filtered through two tiny hip-mounted speakers.

Anyway, having to produce your own entrance music misses the point. For a start, it would look like you were trying too hard – it has to occur naturally. Moreover, it would allow people to choose their own music, which would be disastrous and misleading. People’s entry music would end up reflecting who they want everyone else to think they are, rather than who they really are, which is the whole point. Nightclubs would be heaving with lads entering and re-entering the room to the accompaniment of ‘Millenium’ by Robbie Williams or ‘Sex Bomb’ by Tom Jones. Even the plainest of women would try to convince the world they were actually ravishing, raven-haired sex goddesses by awarding themselves the sax break from George Michael’s ‘Careless Whisper’.

What would be needed is a government body charged with scientifically deriving each person’s most appropriate entrance music, probably via a series of personality questionnaires like the JigCal career-aptitude test schoolkids were made to take in the ‘80s – the one that would inform you, on the basis to your answers to questions like ‘I enjoy working with pigs’ or ‘I enjoy working with lasers and unimaginably complex human organs’, that you are most suited to a future career as a pig farmer or a laser eye specialist.

I like to think that rigorous scientific process would prove me worthy of ‘Gold’ by Spandau Ballet or something similarly glamorous and dynamic. But there is always the fear that you would have to see out the rest of your days being immediately marked out as a smelly dullard when entering the room to the theme from ‘Steptoe and Son’.

Until the technology is available to make my dream a reality, I would encourage you to consider what your entrance music would be. It will probably tell you something really, like, important about yourself and stuff. And if not, you can always simply award yourself a flattering song and use it to boost your confidence when needed. You are about to sit an exam. You are giving a presentation. You have to go to the chemists to buy a tube of Anusol. As you enter the room, imagine a camera swooping over head and swiftly, smoothly descending so that you are walking directly toward it: remember You Are Gold (gooooold). Always believe in your soul.