Etc: Dancing to Smiths
Recent live performances of "Dancing to The Smiths" by Etc have included lines extracted off-the-cuff from -or that vaguely resemble- the following:
She cut out the lyrics from Smash Hits back in 1986. 'RSVP' interests listed tea, toast, biscuits... And –most of all– dancing (in secret). To The Smiths.
She never married, although she always fancied having kids. Her mum said she'd meet someonesomeday, but of course she never did. I mean: she had, but it'd never last. They always turned out to be such pricks. But once they'd gone, after the split, she found she was happier alone –not lonely– dancing to The Smiths. Dancing to The Smiths – this used to be our secret.
And now she's waiting to meet some unlikely lad, contacted through a personal ad that I saw and couldn't ignore. But I never answered it. And we're shoulder to shoulder when she looks over and asks: Is this ironic? What is? These drunk kids getting off to The Smiths – the soundtrack to so much loneliness. I wouldn't have imagined this back in 1986: being surrounded by happily prancing idiots – courting, pissed antics – homophobic meat-eaters, here and dancing to The Smiths. It used to be my secret. It used to be private. Is nothing sacred?
What if that one hates Mancs? And him: he's got it in for Micks. And that git? Bastard supports Man United. And cop her in fur, I know she prefers Guns and bloody Roses. Rugger buggers, jocks and cheerleaders; cops what bust shoplifters; the fat loud-cows who, at school, bullied the quiet kids. Thick prick dealer rich kids, now sorted taking over Daddy's business. These barely literate, Royalist, Jet-loving, carnivorous, homophobics: here now, dancing to The Smiths, and apparently liking it.
I never caught her name, or got her number. I had no idea where she lived. But I thought I was sure to see her again, sometime sameplace, dancing to The Smiths. But dodgy electrics put paid to this. The night we met, something short-circuited – burnt down the club where we were supposed to have gone dancing to The Smiths. Since then, I don't go out much. I stay home and think. How ironic – they burnt down the club where we were supposed to have met up and danced to 'Panic' by the Smiths.
She cut out the lyrics from Smash Hits back in 1986. 'RSVP' interests listed tea, toast, biscuits... And –most of all– dancing (in secret). To The Smiths.
She never married, although she always fancied having kids. Her mum said she'd meet someonesomeday, but of course she never did. I mean: she had, but it'd never last. They always turned out to be such pricks. But once they'd gone, after the split, she found she was happier alone –not lonely– dancing to The Smiths. Dancing to The Smiths – this used to be our secret.
And now she's waiting to meet some unlikely lad, contacted through a personal ad that I saw and couldn't ignore. But I never answered it. And we're shoulder to shoulder when she looks over and asks: Is this ironic? What is? These drunk kids getting off to The Smiths – the soundtrack to so much loneliness. I wouldn't have imagined this back in 1986: being surrounded by happily prancing idiots – courting, pissed antics – homophobic meat-eaters, here and dancing to The Smiths. It used to be my secret. It used to be private. Is nothing sacred?
What if that one hates Mancs? And him: he's got it in for Micks. And that git? Bastard supports Man United. And cop her in fur, I know she prefers Guns and bloody Roses. Rugger buggers, jocks and cheerleaders; cops what bust shoplifters; the fat loud-cows who, at school, bullied the quiet kids. Thick prick dealer rich kids, now sorted taking over Daddy's business. These barely literate, Royalist, Jet-loving, carnivorous, homophobics: here now, dancing to The Smiths, and apparently liking it.
I never caught her name, or got her number. I had no idea where she lived. But I thought I was sure to see her again, sometime sameplace, dancing to The Smiths. But dodgy electrics put paid to this. The night we met, something short-circuited – burnt down the club where we were supposed to have gone dancing to The Smiths. Since then, I don't go out much. I stay home and think. How ironic – they burnt down the club where we were supposed to have met up and danced to 'Panic' by the Smiths.
posted by abcdetc at 4/08/2551
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