“Oh, you were finished. Well then, allow me to retort.”
[Yes folks, it's Mrs. Toad. Apparently my ramble about Toploader didn't go down all that well in certain circles. She's not disputing the Toploader hatred of course, that would be divorceable.]
Having been affronted by the accusation that a person in position of a fanny (thats erm.. snatch or mimsy to Americans and front bottom to weirdos) must be in want of a Toploader album, I come to redress the gender balance.
Yes, women lose the musical plot when confronted with flashing lights, a pile of handbags and a gullet full of Lambrini but that is nothing, nothing to what happens to a man, sober and in posession of a car.
I present in evidence a sample from the playlist of Top Gear Anthems. More Than a Feeling by Boston, Turn it On Again by Genesis, Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf. Yes, faced with the prospect of an afternoons driving, the average middle aged, middle class bloke celebrates the freedom of the open road by listening to pisspoor stadium rock. Driving holiday through the Alps? Perhaps a little Whitesnake to get those hairpin bends flowing. A long night motoring across country? Kick back with a spot of Steppenwolf.
Now, most blokes would agree that the Top Gear crew are a Great Bunch Of Lads but inclined to take the piss. Perhaps a more reliable source? The “Original Rock Driving Album” fails to support the case for the defence weighing in with luminaries of the piss poor such as Simple Minds, Bryan Ferry and Pat Benatar. Enough indeed to support the fact that a large part of the adult male population is driving around their Vauxhall Vectras tapping out Phill Collins drumbeats on the steering wheel and wishing that they had the balls (and hair) to sport Joey Tempest perms instead of a combover.
Psshaw, you say, that’s not me, thats guys my dad’s age! Yeah, true. That’s because blokes your age are driving lowered suspension Nissan Micras round town all night (with green neon trim, ooo-er!), sitting practically on the back seat so they can pretend they are in a race car. The Burberry cap is akimbo, the Elizabeth Duke bling is shining and the spliffs are go. The 200 decibel refrain of “Dubbishdubbish tink tink Dubbishdubbish tink tink awahuh awahuh” rents the night like a cut price jump jet as these cretins rev their 1.1 litre engines and conduct abortively unimpressive wheelspin starts from traffic lights. Fuck me, Lewis Hamilton must be jealous.
Now thats two extreme examples, simple stereotypes you say. Well fine, lets have the more middle of the road guy, maybe had a good year last year, bought a little Boxster with future dreams of a 911 or perhaps a BMW Z4. He likes to drive around with his lady, top down, nice sweater tied around his neck THAT way, maybe some driving shoes and god forbid.. gloves. Whats this with it cat likely to play? Hmmmm, yep Jamiroquai, Chris Rea and maybe rock out a bit… Stereophonics? You know this guy because he has probably brake tested you when he fucks up, driven up your backside flashing his lights and undertaken your ass on the motorway. He’s a cunt.
The ONLY men who listen to good music in cars, have shit cars. This is less observation than a law of nature. The minute a man shows any interest in cars or driving for drivings sake he is doomed to musical cuntery (Mr Toad would like to intercede to say he has a good car therefore this is bollocks. He doesn’t, its a 35year old Volvo with no stereo and a leaky fuel tank. I rest my case)
And these car guys are on their own, they have no-one egging them on, they aren’t pretending to enjoy themselves as many a woman bobbing along to Toploader is. There is no peer pressure. They wake up and go to sleep twats with bad music taste and theres lots of them out there, driving around. Its enough to make you wish Woolies sold RPGs.
At least when I and other women wake up hungover after having sullied ourselves by being on a dance floor when Toploader came on, we feel guilt and self loathing. These guys just get in the car and crank up the shitty tunes again, be it Billy Idol, Billy Ocean or Carl Cox.
So fuck you boys, I’d rather have Toploader pished than K-Tel sober.
Chris Rea - The Road To Hell
Retort for the boys: The Wedding Present - Drive
AAAAaaaaagghh:
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I don’t even drive*, let alone own a car, therefore, by extension of your supposition, my music taste is fucking impeccable.
*out of choice
i do drive but own a shit car. so i’m close to impeccable.
Actually, given the readers of this blog, the chances of this post coming across as anything other than complimentary are quite slim.
I have the Top Gear calendar on my kitchen wall.
It’s got a picture of a Maserati for June.
Awesome!
I’m not sure a drummer whose day job is in IT is quite Maserati’s target market mate, but you never know.
This evening, whilst on foot, I was passed, in a bouncing along on the woofers alone propulsion, by some skinny, white, late teens Summer’s here so I’ll get me drum-skin tight abs out half naked geezer in a souped-up cock jockey of a Ford somethingorother, (tinted windows half rolled down, black - with white facia - leather-look passenger + back seats, which was all a bit Herbie for my liking), with Grace Jones’ Pull Up To The Bumper throbbing out of it like some fanny-demented hippopotamus on a raping spree.
I genuinely marvel at how thunderingly unaware these ‘tards very much are when it comes to spectacularly mistaking ’souless cuntchops’ for The Fonz.
The fuck’s a mimsy? I don’t get your slang.
In any case, “The ONLY men who listen to good music in cars, have shit cars” is about the truest thing ever said on this blog. Most of the men I know with great taste have lousy cars or don’t drive, and the ones with luxury cars that their yuppy parents bought them are the ones who blast terrible rap in an attempt to gain cred of some sort.
Another thing…every time I get hit on in a record shop, it’s usually by someone attempting to sell me on a record I need like a hole in the head. For chrissake, I nearly took a Yes recommendation once. And once a shop employee saw that I was buying a live Damned album, so he wrote down every ’80s Damned album I was meant to buy and managed to misspell “Strawberries.” Fucking hell.
Excellent. As someone greater than me has said - It’s funny cos it’s true. Myself, I have a very middle of the road VW Golf, which is fine as it goes, but it’s old enough to have a tape player, which means that I only ever listen to Radio 4 and Radio 3. Though sometimes I turn up the Today programme quite loud.
Wow. Getting hit on in a record shop. I can assure that as a bloke, surrounded largely by other blokes in such places, nothing so exotic has ever happened to me!
In Cardiff we have Spillers (reputedly the oldest record store in the world) & behind the counter there used to work this 1940’s spectacles-bespectacled Ghost World-esque type chick (I use the phrase in a non-ironic way, cuz that’s how she referred to herself). She hit on me, a number of times, over the years, taking every opportunity I was in the store to flutter eyelashes & coo over some purchase I was making. Thing is, as pretty as she was, I was already snatched up (& what a lucky, lucky bitch she was) & so never took advantage of it/her. Anyway, point of this story was I was buying a frined a copy of the King MIssile Fluting On The Hump/Mystical Shit double CD & when I plopped it down on the counter she threw her arms in the air & squealed “King Missile Rock!”. I was limp & never even attained a semi thereafter.
” I don’t even drive*, let alone own a car, therefore, by extension of your supposition, my music taste is fucking impeccable.
*out of choice”
That just about sums me up as well….
Aye, but you listen to shite music irrespective of yer wheels JC!
Leave JC alone Toad boy. At least he doesn’t just listen to stuff that only 3 other people have heard of, and two of them played it.
I have some songs available that match just that description actually…
Ha ha! I think I know some of the songs you mean, Matthew!
Oh, and by the way, please stop lying to the people and saying I work in IT… I’m an international jewel thief and you know it.
Spiller’s Records in Cardiff is one of those places that makes you feel cool just by walking in (Or more accurately; by walking out, especially when carrying your latest eclectic purchase). I think the place achieves its unassailable level of cool by simply refusing to ever be trendy. I still head in for a browse whenever I’m in town, and usually leave with something unexpected.
Where can you get a leather-look passenger?..
…Has anybody seen the Fathers Day comp CD advertised on telly at the moment? A comprehensive medley of all your dad’s favourites, presuming he’s a half-pool cue wielding cabbie in an untucked YSL shirt.
The now defunkt Green River records in Reading still owe me two quid in deposit money but the cute girl with dyed red hair in there once let me borrow an advance tape of the Blues Explosion album.
dear mrs. toad, i’ve been thinking about your thoughtful post for a few days and thought you might like to know that over here in the states, the size of a man’s car and engine are usually–although certainly not always–inversely indicative of the size of his, well, you know. so although i’m not for certain on the shite music theory, i thought you might enjoy another perspective on the matter.
enjoy your holiday!
You’re American, Mjrc? Don’t know why I hadn’t put two and two together. In any case, I find that the most pathetic of men are the ones driving tiny sports cars. You know, to make their *you knows* appear large by contrast, or whatever. Come to think of it, if a man is no good in a sports car or an SUV, then the good catches must be the one in beat-up sedans. Or no car. Hooray for reaching conclusions!
…the *ones* in beat-up sedans, not *one* in multiple cars at once. Christ.
yep, i’m as american as can be! i do have a lot of blog friends from the uk, though, so i could see how you might think that.
but yes, i think we can pretty much categorically count out the tiny sports car drivers and the humongous suv drivers, and i would add to the mix the pick-up-truck-driving bad-asses as well.
I was about to say something in defence of old volvos, but then realised I like music and don’t own a car so my opinion is irrelevant. Still, I’ve clicked the comment button now
ok so if cars are extensions of cocks, what does that make the women who drive them? & what’s the vaginal equivalent for a lady? A purse/handbag? Does the clasp feature represent labial protrusion etc? I think us non-car driving men need to know before we go rooting around in one anytime soon.
I once saw a sticker on the back of a fantastic muscle car in the States which read ‘This is NOT my boyfriend’s car’. I fancied that lass even though I never clapped eyes upon her.
Needless to say I drive a minivan. It’s IMMENSE!
Your vagina?