Music mags have begun discussing “guilty pleasure syndrome”, enjoying songs that you claim to hate. The syndrome’s been around for ages – back in the 18th Century, none of the cool kids were into Fur Elise, but enough absinthe and they’d be all (sing and mime piano) “dodedodedodedooo”…
Generally there are three ways to spot a guilty pleasure: multiple uses of the word “baby”, key change for the last repeat of the chorus; and the way your friends beat you up when you put it on the jukebox.
Songs like Living on a Prayer, I’ve Never Been to Me and All Out of Love may be guilty pleasures, but you can’t be gaoled for playing them. Though I live in hope…
Gary Glitter’s Rock n Roll rated in the top ten guilty pleasures. Which is no surprise; he knew all about guilty pleasures… / he was found guilty of pleasuring teenagers. / he was found guilty of forbidden pleasures. / Although in Gary’s case, they’re criminal pleasures.
Power ballads are good for the end of a big night, because you can belt them out, they’re about emotional topics, and they can confine themselves to words of less than 3 syllables.
People tend to find that it’s the songs that they profess to hate that they’re only too ready to drunkenly yodel along to at 3am. But at that time of night you want to find a song that you can really enjoy ruining.
Some people are so cool that they don’t like any music. In fact, they feel guilty whenever they catch themselves enjoying any song. Now that’s cool.
Generally a song’s considered a guilty pleasure if the singer’s remembered primarily for their hair.
But liking daggy songs aren’t really guilty pleasures. These are my top ten guilty pleasures:
Drinking milk from the carton
Drinking milk from the cow
Lighting my farts
Lighting other people’s farts
Eating food that’s been dropped on the floor
Eating food that’s been thrown in the bin
Eating food that’s already been eaten by somebody else
Having sex while fantasising about Angelina Jolie
Having sex while fantasising about Amanda Vanstone
Having sex with goats while lighting Amanda Vanstone’s farts. Oh, come on – you know we’ve all done it!
