Monday, March 22, 2004



It is by way of recognising that I have arrived at the end of what nugatory store of wits I might ever have possessed that I turn to you, dear readers in a spirit of hope...I have faith in you all, you see.

My entire day, up to and including this moment, has been accompanied by the following unremitting soundtrack and a vague memory of the middle eight, bridge or whatever of said tune being filled with some of the weirdest and downright silly percussive sounds ever to be committed to vinyl. It's obviously late fifties/early sixties, American in origin without any shadow of a doubt and closer to Phil Spector than Motown in feel, arrangement and production. I only remember vague snatches of the lyrics and despite the risk of feeling like a complete and utter tit, I reproduce them here for your consideration.

"Baby call me on the telephone.
Say she wanna ball me all day long.
Dum di di dum what can I do?
I got the dum di diddy dum di diddy dum diddy doo"

Anybody care to fill in a few of those dum diddys? Or even provide me with the artist and title? A URL would also do quite nicely, thank you.

By way of encouragement, maybe I should inform you that it is my firm intention, should there be an afterlife, to come back and spook the living crap out of every person on the planet. Should you wish your name...and those of your dependants...struck off the list, then you know what to do.

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