Chain-store chain-smoke

When the combined talents of Miss Eleanor Steber, HM The Queen, Mr Harry Wayne Casey, Messrs Orzabal and Smith, a heatwave, Miss Audrey Landers and Fraulein Marika Rokk together garner no interest, no comments whatsoever, one begins to realise that this blogging world is - as it surely began - indeed a very solitary exercise.

I'd like to imagine everyone is actually out there sipping fine champagne on a yacht with Dames Joan and Shirley and the Aga Khan somewhere off the Costa Smeralda, or lapping up yet another anecdote with Iris Apfel in The Carlyle Hotel in New York... Wouldn't we all?

However, in reality I assume everyone's actually either non-stop staring into their phones for the latest craptastic Tw*tter revelation about - yawn - a Swift, a West or a Kardashian, or else they're busy bragging about their latest gorgeous holiday/meal/car/prostitute [delete as appropriate] to some friend of a cousin-in-law's sister's daughter on F***book...

Hey ho.

Here's a jolly little number from Miss Marianne Joan Elliott-Said (aka the late, lamented Poly Styrene; of course):

X-Ray Spex - Oh, Bondage, Up Yours!

Bind me tie me
Chain me to the wall
I want to be a slave
To you all

Oh bondage up yours, oh bondage no more!
Oh bondage up yours, oh bondage no more!

Chain-store chain-smoke
I consume you all
Chain-gang chain-mail
I don't think at all

Oh bondage up yours, oh bondage no more!
Oh bondage up yours, oh bondage no more!

Word to live by, methinks.

Remarkably, Britain is celebrating FORTY YEARS of Punk this year...