Why I will never be hung up over Madge
Madonnie is just a couple of years younger than me, which is probably why she has bigger muscles.
But I’ve watched her career with apathy ever since first seeing her on a Channel 4 pop programme in the hideous 1980s.
The groovy audience jeered. No wonder. The programme was normally raw, indie and challenging, but up stepped this slack-jawed, disco-dancing bint — and she was miming!
In the continuing war between rock and disco, I bludgeon my colours to the mast: all dance music, without exception, is rubbish. It’s not something you listen to. It’s something you put on, reaching its nadir in yon stuff with the machine-drum beat and helium-voiced singers.
I’ve been known to break branches off trees and attack cars blasting out this stuff. Indeed, it attracts precisely the sort of person who loudly broadcasts thumpy-thumpy music from class-lacking vehicles.
Madonnie remains a prime purveyor of this shallow cack. Yet she continues to fascinate the lieges.
On her latest tour, she’s attracted praise and scorn — porn? — equally. She’s clearly fit for her age.
One paper described her curves as “gravity defying”. Shame the same can’t be said of her underpants. Still, I wouldn’t mind her muscles.