38. Love Machine - Girls AloudYour call's late, big mistake. You've gotta hang about in limbo for as long as I take. Next time, read my mind and I'll be good to you. We're gift-wrapped kitty cats; we're only turning into tigers when we gotta fight back. Let's go, eskimo, out into the blue.

Barking mad, I tells ya. Barking mad. Fellas: you can't say you weren't warned. Anyhow, who cares about lyrics when you're digging on that ker-azy rockabilly rhythm?

(Incidentally, I reckon there's a potential bootleg mash-up to be made here. Simply add a healthy dollop of Katrina And The Waves' Walking On Sunshine, stir, mix and serve.)

Alan Oddverse takes over the leader board. Keep those guesses coming!

39. You Don't Know My Name (reggae remix) - Alicia KeysThis started life as an unauthorised bootleg mash-up, with the instrumental lifted from an old Gregory Isaacs cut, before being cleared for official release on a B-side. Another strong track from an artist whom I don't generally have much time for (especially after witnessing her tedious, shallow, hopelessly misjudged live show a couple of years ago). I've never heard the original version - and what's more, as great as this is, I have no desire to. Because as far as I'm concerned, this is the way the song is supposed to sound - and I'd like to keep it that way.

40. Freakin' Out - Graham Coxon(...and 1979: Into The Valley by The Skids, by the sounds of it - just listen to that opening guitar riff.)

Snotty brat punk rock from the sulky speccy git who used to be in Blur. You might say that he's getting a bit long in the tooth for such juvenile bursts of misanthropic phlegm. I say: you're never too old to throw your toys out of the pram.

(As you might have gathered from some of yesterday's posts, he added with a watery grin.)

---

And talking of freakin' out: K took a phone call yesterday evening from J, an old friend who had just returned from a beach holiday in with his partner M. A beach holiday in Malaysia.

Sleeping off the jet lag on the second morning, J and M were woken by a rumble in their room on the sea front. "What's that?" "Probably an earthquake. Go back to sleep."

A little while later, unable to sleep any longer, M gets up and decides to go for a morning dip in the sea.

Wow, that looks like a big wave. Cool! I'll be able to body-surf it.

That was fun. Oh look, here comes another.

The second wave is maybe twelve feet high, sucking M in and pulling him down. But M is a strong swimmer with an athletic build, and he eventually manages to save himself. Meanwhile, his stuff has all been washed away, leaving him to walk back up to the room in nothing but his swimming shorts, covered in sand and scratches.

As the resort is towards the edge of the tsunami area, damage is slight: several injuries, a few broken bones, but no casualties. The beach is restored within a day or so, and the holiday continues.

If M hadn't been such a strong swimmer - or even, like me, a non-swimmer - the outcome might have been quite different.

The first big "it could have been me" moment.

41. Flamboyant - Pet Shop Boys

You live in a world of excess, where more is more and less is much less.
A day without fame is a waste, and a question of need is a question of taste.

You live in a time of decay, when the worth of a man is how much he can play.
Every day, all the public must know where you are, what you do, 'cause your life is a show.

You're so flamboyant, the way you live, and it's not even demeaning.
You're so flamboyant, it's like a drug you use to give your life meaning.
You're so flamboyant, the way you look, it gets you so much attention.
Your sole employment is getting more, you want police intervention.

Every actor needs an audience; every action is a performance.
It all takes courage, you know it.
Just crossing the street: well, it's almost heroic.

---

So, yeah: what about Sleb-Bee-Bee-Three? Eh? Eh? Eh? Featuring Germaine "professional contrarian" Greer AND Brigitte "box of frogs" Nielson AND that walking advertisement for the "Just Say No" campaign, Bez out of the Happy Mondays? All my Christmasses have come at once!

As I said over at Peter's: when it comes to the casting of these celebrity fandangos, the production companies are getting very good at widening their demographic nets. As La Street-Porter was to that recent shindig in the jungle, so La Greer will be to Sleb-Bee-Bee-Three, deftly hooking in the broadsheet set. Meanwhile, there's male totty (oh dear God yes), female totty (although looking at the alleged totty in question, I realise I will never fully comprehend the complexities of heterosexual desire), a "refreshingly un-PC" (if we must) curmudgeon, and a rather terrified token teen. Oh, and the woman who used to do the voiceovers for that Ibiza programme.

It's almost enough to make me wish I wasn't disappearing to a remote cottage near the Yorkshire coast for the weekend, to help celebrate an old friend's 40th birthday, along with a bunch of people we've known for years and don't see nearly enough of. Talk about conflicting priorities!

42. My Heartbeat - Annie

Not actually released as a UK single until February or March of this year - but some promos and remixes are already out, which is good enough for me. Besides which, when this turns out to be the huge hit which it manifestly deserves to be, then I'll be able to say, all nonchalant-like: Oh, that old thing? It was actually in my "best of 2004" list, actually actually I think you'll find.

Just as Gwen Stefani may be the continuation of Madonna by other means (and my, what a heated debate you've been having about that one), so My Heartbeat is a continuation of Saint Etienne (and Dubstar) by other means. It soars, it glides, it bills and it coos. Dream-eh!

43. Whatever Happened To Corey Haim? - The Thrills

Whoda thunk it? Having been consistently beastly about The Thrills over the past couple of years (saw them before they were famous, and was distinctly unimpressed), I find myself having to eat my words. Coming on like a kind of soft-rockin' West coast Electric Light Orchestra, Whatever Happened To Corey Haim conjures up images of cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway in a gleaming red soft-top, with the wind in my hair and my best boy by my side.

44. Para Llenarma De Ti - Ramon.

The 2004 Eurovision entry for Spain. If you live in Spain, then this may well be generic, over-familiar, run-of-the-mill stuff. However, if you're an occasional visitor to Barcelona on business trips, and if this is the only piece of mainstream Spanish pop that you're familiar with, then it will conjure up many happy associations. (Anyway, if this is typical of mainstream Spanish pop, then I for one want more of it.)

45. The Lighthouse - Ana Da Silva

In my early teens, or maybe slightly before, I had a dream which has stayed with me ever since. It was my birthday, and I had decided to hold... A Disco!

(Never actually having been to one, the very idea of a disco struck me as deeply thrilling, faintly erotic, and just about the most fun it was possible to have anywhere.)

To this end, I had hired a church hall, hung up some streamers, and put in some sexy orange lightbulbs for atmosphere. For the music, I had brought along my father's stereo cassette player, and some tapes which I had made off the radio. All my friends had been invited, and I was really jolly excited.

Except that in the dream, all my friends turned out to be little old ladies. They sat themselves down in the moulded plastic stacking chairs which I had arranged around the hall, and smiled politely when I passed round the rich tea biscuits.

(I remember seeing myself do this, all dressed up smartly - a white shirt with a wide tie in shiny, plum-coloured polyester - with my side parting neatly combed and Brylcreemed.)

This wasn't the party that I had expected. It wasn't really moving and grooving. "So, isn't anybody going to dance?" I exclaimed in exasperation, glancing nervously down the room.

One old lady (curly white hair, turquoise raincoat, thick horned-rim glasses) spoke up for the group.

"No, dear. Look, why don't you switch the music off, turn the lights up a bit, and make us a nice cup of tea?"

"Ooh yes, cup of tea! Lovely!" The murmurs of appreciation rippled all along the line as, masking my disappointment, I toddled off to put the kettle on.

---

Thirty-odd years later, and I'm having a lovely time gaily discussing "crunk" and "glitch" and "microhouse", as part of a hugely ambitious attempt to chronicle, in what I hope is impressively learned detail, my favourite ninety singles of the year. Oh, but won't my readers be lapping this stuff up! After all, they're a hip crowd.

For the first forty-odd posts, my readers maintain a mostly polite silence. But by the time I start explaining the finer points of "crunk" and "glitch", I start to sense that I am losing them.

And then... this.

- Look dear, why don't you put all the non-musical stuff in a different colour font, so that we can find it more easily?

- Or maybe he could make a different title box for his musical posts?

- What about categories? Now, they would come in handy. But coloured font would be lovely!

- Ooh, I know! Why don't you count down your top 90 from 1984? There was some lovely music in 1984, and I don't really listen to the wireless like I used to.

- Ooh yes, 1984! Lovely! Then could you do 1978 for us, dear?

- 1978, yes!

- Can I say "fag bangle"?

- No you can't dear, it's offensive.

- Well, I don't think it's...

- Cup of tea?

I don't know. You try and carve out a niche for yourself as an incisive cultural commentator, and... and... well, it's pearls before... no, I didn't mean that. Ladies, come back! And gentlemen!

---

No, I'm not telling you about Ana Da Silva's The Lighthouse.

Which might actually be a really really good record actually, but you'll never know that, will you?

No, shan't.

Cross now.

No, I don't want a cup of tea.

An exhausted Blue Witch commented:Anything to oblige. For the benefit of BW, and any other ladies of a certain age whose musical tastes fossilised in the late 1970s, I have now marked - and will continue to mark - all post titles in the "Singles Of The Year" series containing significant portions of non-musical content with the handy acronym (NMC). For I am nothing if not eager to retain the largest readership possible please.

46. My Galileo - Alexandra & Konstantin

(Or, as the artists themselves pronounce it, Magga Lee Lay Low.)

I'm not a stay-at-home, and heady, is the quest and venture mode.
Road is there for me to tread it; all-dimensional road.

Last May, I had this to say about the debut Eurovsion entry from plucky little Belarus:Sadly, it flopped - being eliminated at the semi-final stage - but its unique semi-strangulated cadences still live on in my heart.

Now then. Still licking his wounds from being eliminated from my exciting "what's going to be #1" contest, Chig was moved to comment as follows:A fair point... and to allay any suspicions of foul practice, I have enlisted my beloved K - a veritable paragon of probity - to pose for a picture, actually holding a copy of my favourite single of 2004.



When the result is revealed, so will the mystery question mark on the above photo. Now you can hardly fake something like that, can you? Case settled!

47. Yeah - Usher featuring Ludacris & Lil' Jon

- Mike, what's crunk?

Hang on, let me just check this is really happening. Firstly, K has acquired - of his own accord - a relatively esoteric piece of information about modern music. Secondly, he seems genuinely interested in building on this knowledge. This is almost unprecedented.

- It's... it's...

Christ, what is crunk when it's at home, anyway? I'm skating on thin ice here. Oh, but what does he know; I'll just busk it.

- ...it's a particularly raw and rudimentary new form of hip-hop, where the vocals are all dead gruff and rasping, and the lyrics are all about getting blasted and partying. It's an amalagamation of "crazy" and "drunk", you see: a sort of "portmanteau" word.

- Yes, that fits. Thank you. To be honest, I wasn't even sure that it was a real genre.

- Sorry, but why on earth do you want to know?

- Oh, it's just that Tom Wolfe mentions it in "I Am Charlotte Church" - sorry, sorry, "I Am Charlotte Simmons". I keep saying that, don't I? OK, how about a rapper called Doctor Dis?

- No, he's made up...

I do perform this occasional service for K. Although he has no real interest in emergent musical sub-genres, he does like to know just enough to be able to slag them off convincingly. Just to show he's still au courant. Which reminds me: I must fill him in on microhouse and glitch. (*)

Anyway. Usher's Yeah - featuring crunk's main man of the moment, the ubiquitous Lil' Jon (**) - is the nearest approximation to the genre to have come my way in 2004. (Actually, I have a creeping suspicion that to true "crunkheadz" - yes, I have just made that word up - it's probably a shockingly watered-down commercial cash-in, but no matter. I have long since ceased to aspire to purism.) It's a tune which slightly annoyed me for most of the year - that repeated four-note squawk that runs all the way through can work like Chinese water torture - before suddenly flipping itself over and becoming really most enjoyable. It's that wilful gonzoid dumbness, you see: once you stop fighting against it, it can actually become quite endearing. (See also The Ramones, and minimal hardcore techno.)

(*) As scratching is to vinyl, so "glitch" is to CDs. In other words: "glitch" is a sub-genre of electronic music which is deliberately designed to sound like the CD is on the blink. No, don't laugh, some of it is actually quite good; primitive and intricate at the same time, and generally fairly desolate and melancholy. Not that I'm exactly drenching myself in the stuff, but, you know.

(**) All bona fide music critics are currently obliged to preface each mention of Lil' Jon with the approved epithet "the ubiquitous". Them's the rules; I don't make 'em.

48. First Of The Gang To Die - Morrissey

...meaning that Mozza now pulls ahead of Franz Ferdinand, Phoenix, Will Young and Jamelia as the first act - and who knows, maybe the only act - to place three singles on this list.

This also represents a rare showing for fortysomething pop stars; something which MissMish tartly commented upon earlier today when making her #1 prediction:To which I replied - hastily busking a suitably convincing self-justification, and inadvertantly Stumbling Upon A Great Truth:As the final withering coup de grace, I should also point out that Tom Waits hasn't released a UK single since 1999. So put that in yer cigarette holder and smoke it!

(Oh, I shouldn't be so catty. Mish gave us some divine Roger & Gallet scented guest soaps for Christmas, you know. Not to mention lending us her cherished Bette Davis CD. It's just that, well, some of us didn't freeze our musical tastes in 1979, that's all...)

49. The Show - Girls Aloud

Should have known, should have cared, should have hung around the kitchen in my underwear, acting like a lady; you should have made me.

Should have jumped a little higher, should have fluttered my mascara like a butterfly, instead of being lazy; it would have saved me.

No, me neither. Maybe we need an answer record?

Should have run for the hills, should have flushed away her stash of happy pills; she's such a head case, I need some Me Space.

(OK, so it might need some more work. I am open to collaborations.)

As someone said not long ago: the least interesting thing about Girls Aloud is... Girls Aloud. Unless you a) fancy them, or b) aspire to be them - neither of which apply in my case, I hasten to assure you. No; what makes Girls Aloud so fantastic is the skewed, anything-goes creative genius of Brian "Xenomania" Higgins, whose work I've been tracking ever since his 1997 handbag house remix of Katrina & The Waves' Love Shine A Light added light and laughter to my world. Indeed Girls Aloud only ever go wrong when they turn their hands to soppy ballad cover versions. (Unfortunately, this is also when they get Number One singles, but then what do the general public know, huh?)

Paul - of fellow Nottingham blog 1000 Shades Of Grey - you now take over the lead position in my exciting competition. If nobody else's guesses show up in the remainder of this list, then that triple mix CD set could be yours.

(Well, you never know. Stranger things have happened.)

50. Everybody Deserves To Be F***ed - Sex In Dallas

So you're at the bar, and this French dude asks your name, buys you a gin and tonic, seems cool, fancies himself, but then who are you to judge, but then he's straight into this coked-up monologue, or whatever else he's on, who can say, about how it's your time, it's everybody's time, it's your turn, 'cos we're living in a time where, you know, everybody needs to be free, so just f***ing free yourself yeah, 'cos everybody deserves to be f***ed, and there's this blaring techno music all around you, with a buzzing punk-rock guitar coming out of somewhere, you don't know where, and the lights, and the gin, and the French dude going on and on and on, and you're smiling and nodding and finishing his sentences, and giving him a cigarette, and he's off again, pointing at the dancefloor, all those people, all alone, he wants it, she wants it, you and i should, you know, everybody deserves to be, to be, to be f***ed?

With charmers like him, who needs Rohypnol.

51. Thank You - Jamelia

Let's remind ourselves of what the Troubled Diva Pop Panel said about this last March, shall we?

52. Everything Is Everything - Phoenix

The things I do possess / Sometimes they own me too.

No idea what you're talking about, mes braves.

53. You Can't Hurry Love - The Concretes

A single which I always link with The Delays Long Time Coming (#58 below), because a) they're both neatly turned little pieces of traditionally styled pop/rock, b) I discovered both of them via cover-mounted CDs on the front of Word magazine, and c) I know - and need to know - absolutely nothing about either act. (Except that The Concretes are Swedish, and The Delays aren't.)

However, You Can't Hurry Love edges ahead of Long Time Coming because of its Jesus & Mary Chain/Creation Records woozy fuzz, and the garage punk Farfisa organ sound, and the way that the tambourines and the handclaps work together just so, and the surging brass, and the overall sense of exultant looseness.

54. For Lovers - Wolfman featuring Peter Doherty.

I saw The Libertines nearly three years ago at The Social. Despite only playing a thirty minute set, they were young and hungry and focussed and energised and incandescent and quite, quite fantastic - particularly that star-in-the-making singer with the pudding-bowl haircut. A couple of months later, their first single came out. It was OK, but not a patch on what I'd seen live. I loyally bought the next couple of singles, but quickly lost interest. Too straight-up "classic" rock & roll for my tastes, with even the rough edges sounding too orthodox, in a way that just didn't appeal.

The ongoing Libertines soap-opera of the last couple of years - bust-ups, burglaries, jail sentences, smack-n-crack habits, missed shows, riots and recriminations - has alternately bored and depressed me, souring the memory of all that eager promise and raw talent. It reached some sort of nadir halfway through 2004, when the NME voted Pete Doherty - by now an emaciated, wasted, hopelessly addicted f**k-up of a man - as the "coolest person in rock". Call me a clucking old fogey, but what sort of message does that kind of witless lionisation send out?

In the midst of all this, For Lovers therefore came as something of a revelation: an achingly tender ballad, full of longing and regret, which put me in mind of the sort of thing that Richard Ashcroft used to be capable of. It also reminded me, briefly, of the talent behind the f**k-up.

You see that newly re-instated linkrack, over there on the top right? That's all automatically generated on a daily basis from del.icio.us, that is. No need to lift a finger. Honestly, I'm that chuffed...

(I'd tell you more, but I can see your eyelids drooping from here.)

Adrian McEwen is a) a very very nice man, b) a technical godhead, and c) the winner of a pretty spiffy triple mix CD set.

Thanks also to Bobbie Johnson and Tom Coates for their helpful suggestions. (This might well have been an alternative solution, but the service was closed for maintenance when I took a look.)

55. Hot Like We - Ce'cile

Now, if I were a snarky music journo with a 10-word limit on his (cough) "capsule review", I could say something suitably smart-arse at this juncture: Hot like we? Cold as sick, more like! (Ker-ching! Next record!) Because, let's face it: to the passing listener, it is rather an unfortunate simile.

However, I can't actually say anything of the sort, as Hot Like We is one scorching piece of poop: catchy-as-hell Jamaican dancehall, and hey kids, we can all relax and enjoy it with a clear conscience, because Ce'cile has publicly spoken out against homophobia in the genre!

Reminder: I'm running a competition based on this list, in which you can win a copy of my Best Of 2004 triple mix CD by successfully guessing which single is my #1 favourite of the year. One guess only per person, please. Note that if no-one comes up with the correct guess, then the prize goes to the person whose guess has ranked the most highly.

Here's how things are looking so far:You can leave your guess in any of the comments boxes - up to and including the #2 entry, whenever it appears.

56. 5 Colours In Her Hair - McFly

...and its a warm Welcome Back! to all of you who read Troubled Diva in the office. (Deny it all you like, but those surging stats don't lie.) Nice Christmas? Mmm, yes, mine was quiet too. Yes, it snowed where we were as well; wasn't it lovely? Oh yes, some super presents, thank you for asking.

From my sister the heroic and selfless aid worker (hey, someone in this family has to save the world), who lugged it all the way back from the Sudan: a massive traditional sword, at least three feet long, housed in an intricate leather sheath-n-strap combo, which will look wonderfully baronial when hanging on the pillar opposite the fireplace in the cottage (all we need now are the suit of armour and the mounted stag's head). Plus a pair of pink washing-up gloves with voluminous floral cuffs, just to redress the testosterone balance.

From K, as well as the usual clutch of world music CDs (in current order of preference: Tinawiren, Mbilia Bel, Souad Massi, Lhasa, Amparanoia), a deeply groovy portable record turntable - as recommended by Elisabeth, whose DJ boyfriend carts his round the second-hand stores in order to review potential purchases. Ideal for setting up on the kitchen table in the cottage, so as to work through the stacks and stacks of 7" singles from the late James Hamilton's collection which we've stashed in the garage. (Straight away, I hit a rich seam of amazing import soul singles from around 1971, some of which I'll be burning and posting in the next few weeks.)

But I digress. If you're newly back, then you might find yourself a little swamped by the current "project" on this blog: a complete annotated list of my favourite 90 singles of 2004. So, if you're one of those feckless fair-weather friends who doesn't even come here particularly for the music in the first place, and you're thinking that you might just skip the whole lot, and besides, he'll never know... can I just point you to one recent post, which isn't really about music in the first place? Because it's one of those rare posts which I actually put a bit of forethought, time and effort into, and I'd hate for it to get buried in the rush.

Onto the wee ladddies of McFly, then. Now, whilst fully accepting that 5 Colours In Her Hair - an astonishingly, nay, suspiciously savvy and proficient record for such a youthful band - could all too easily be the work of a bunch of fortysomething session men, I have to say that I really don't give a flying f**k one way or another. After all, did such petty concerns make The Monkees' I'm A Believer a lesser record? Did they bollocks. And yes, I do see 5 Colours In Her Hair as being part of the same lineage, complete with its tight little beat-group "doo doo doos", its Woolworths-cheapo 60s guitar twangs, its punky-pop Jags-meets-Lemonheads-meets-Green-Day fizz, its pleasingly teenage lyrical concerns, and that swoonsomely sweet Beatles-esque harmony on the final chord.

Like their compatriots The Busted (not to mention the please not to be mentioned in the same breath if you have any respect Serious Artistes which comprise The Keane), some members of McFly have been plucked straight from that traditional white-hot crucible of rock 'n roll, the English public school system. Indeed, the son of one of K's business partners actually went to school with one of them. Oh, the excitement!

(Aside: this was the year that, thanks to parental connections, I started having serious chats about music with teenage boys all over again, and discovered that they weren't that much different from the chats I used to have when I was a teenage boy myself. In fact - and K has also commented on this, with a certain resigned curl in his voice - I do seem to be able to relate worryingly well to teenage boys in general. At least the posh ones who go to Good Schools, that is. In fact, considering what an utter social f**k-up I was at that age, I'm slightly concerned that I get on with them better now then I ever did back then. Talk about arrested development. On the other hand, there's nothing more cringeworthy than the trendy teacher who claims to get on better with "the kids" - sorry, "young adults" - then the staff, is there? I need to watch out for that.)

57. Trendy Discotheque - Pay TV

We are glamorous girls, but also very smart. We think the poor are boring; they can't afford to party at the... Trendy! Discotheque!

Tart, sharp, and oh so werry werry arch, Pay TV - a bunch of Swedish conceptual art pranksters slumming it for a laff - are the 2004 winners of the Vanilla Ninja prize for Best Eurovision National Finals Song Which Failed To Qualify. Melodifestivalen: once again, I salute your magnificence.

58= Long Time Coming - The Delays
58= Johnny Cash - Sons & Daughters

I know absolutely nothing about The Delays, except that this is a sturdy piece of lilting power-pop of the classic school, which puts me in mind of The Tourists, The Pretenders, The Bangles and their ilk.

Meanwhile, Sons & Daughters sneak in at the last minute (i.e. after I started publishing this list) with an almost forgotten single which displays their roughly hewn gothic-country-rockabilly sound to full effect. Another great live act, as well; do try and catch them if you get the chance.

59. Let Me Kiss You - Morrissey

In a curious marketing strategy, Nancy Sinatra's Morrissey-endorsed cover version of the same song was released as a UK single on the same day. While Nancy floundered outside the Top 40, Morrissey soared into the Top 10, with a song that - even by his own idiosyncratic standards - really can only be done true justice by its author; its characteristic cadences ("think of someone/you PHYS-ically admi-hire") sound just plain wrong in the hands of Frank's little girl, for all her latter-day hipsterdom.

(Note: If Nancy had done the sensible thing and released her swoonsome Jarvis Cocker collaboration Don't Let Him Change Your Mind as a single, then it would certainly have been Top 30 in this list, and maybe even elsewhere.)

60. The Rat - The Walkmen

Although the sandpaper rasp of the vocal delivery makes it impossible for me to listen to their album at one sitting, The Walkmen certainly put on a cracking live show.

(Not to mention the added attraction of watching the world's sweatiest bass player ever melt before your eyes, as rivulets of sweat literally pour off the end of his nose and onto his guitar strings. Er, isn't that a bit dangerous?)

The Rat is an forcefully insistent brute - full to bursting with rage, bile and spleen - which has the ability to bounce around inside your skull for days. It's also the most ROCK! song on this list, by a country mile.

61. Wild Dances - Ruslana

Whip crack-away! Bust out them balalaikas! Hey rikki-dai! Shake it in yer dum dum! And whatever you do, don't give the trumpet player any more vodka!

The clear favourite right from the off, Wild Dances brought it home for the Ukraine at Eurovision, only for every major Ukranian city in turn to claim that dear me, no, it couldn't possibly host the finals in 2005. With devilish cunning, the powers that be then neatly sidestepped the issue by appointing Ruslana herself in charge of arranging the event. You got us into this fix, missy - now you can just jolly well get us out of it.

Anyhow, something must have been thrashed out since then, as Eurovision 2005 is indeed scheduled to go ahead in Kiev in May. As for me, I'm probably going to have visit Kiev on business some time this year. Now, if I can somehow wrangle an expenses-paid business trip to coincide with Eurovision week, then that would be a major coup.

Although, in terms of recent events in the Ukraine, maybe not that major a coup after all.

62. Prototype - Rex The Dog

Rex The Dog makes perky, bouncy, slightly camp-round-the-edges neo-electro tracks for an impeccably serious, chin-stroking, deeply credible "microhouse" label called Kompakt.

("Microhouse" = a rather restrained, ascetic form of house music with all the vulgar crowd-pleasing stuff taken out, in favour of retaining the Purity Of The Form or something. Dance music for people who no longer go out dancing, or for people who do still go out, but sit on the edge like elder statesmen, nodding their heads knowledgably or shaking them in despair. Not without its share of fine moments; but for crass populists like me, it does have its limits.)

Some of his remixes for other people are even better. Yes, that's a wee hint.

63. There She Goes, My Beautiful World - Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Some people say that Nick Cave has essentially made the same album over and over again for the past 15+ years. In the case of 2003's dud offering Nocturama, I might have been inclined to start agreeing. But, lo! What a blessed relief it is to hear him finally ditch all that increasingly tedious high-body-count superannuated goth stuff ("...and then they all DIED, DIED, DIED..."), discover a wry, self-mocking sense of humour, form some sort of accomodation with his (presumably hard-won) state of middle-aged contentment, hire a big f***-off gospel choir, and make the sort of expansive mainstream-friendly album that, given the right sort of promotion, could yet see him filling stadiums.

(Hmm. Perhaps best not to go overboard on that promotion, then.)

In short: Nick Cave for people who don't like Nick Cave.

64. Take Your Mama - Scissor Sisters

Shock horror! But they're your favourite band, Mike! Why so low?

Because eventually, you can play a song to death. And because I didn't think it was the best choice for a single. And because for most of 2004, whenever the Scissor Sisters appeared on telly, they would always perform this song - and I wanted to hear them do some of their others.

Great while it lasted, though. Always makes me think of the time when a much younger Buni sneaked his mother into Heaven on a Saturday night, back in the late 1980s when it was still strictly men-only, by dressing her up as a drag queen. (She had a blast, apparently.)

65. I Have Forgiven Jesus - Morrissey

The merits of the actual song aside, this gave me additional pleasure for three reasons:

1. It was Morrissey's fourth top ten single this year, giving him his best run of UK singles success since 1989.

2. This meant that a song called "I Have Forgiven Jesus" was in the Top 10 during the week leading up to Christmas. Conceptually, I approve.

3. It beat Cliff Richard's Christmas single by two places! Ha ha ha!

66. This Love - Maroon 5

After a pleasant couple of hours spent in the dimly lit opulence of the swishest new bar in Phuket Town, our waiter friend from the Banyan Tree decides to take the three of us clubbing at the joint up the road. We enter the compact, packed venue to the sound of Wild Cherry's 1970s funk-rock classic Play That Funky Music, with a six or seven-piece live band "performing" in the middle of the main floor to the right. The guitarists are striking poses; the keyboardist is pounding away; the crowd are whipped up into a frenzy... but the music itself is actually coming from the DJ booth. Hiring a full live band to mime to records? OK, that's weird. Is this common practice over here?

We squeeze our way up the steep open staircase ahead of us on the left hand wall, past more jiggling revellers (roughly 75% Thai to 25% European/American/Australian), navigate through the grinning crush of dancers on the balcony above the band, find a table at the back, and order our drinks. As the waiter returns, K and I realise that although the tune playing is still Play That Funky Music, it is no longer the recorded version; somewhere along the line, the band have picked up the beat, joined in with the record, and have now seamlessly taken over the performance. What's more, they're cooking up a storm.

With each successive number, the players swap places and instruments accordingly, with vocalists coming and going from a extended pool. On a huge video screen above the performing area - and thus level with us on the first floor - a classic rock video channel is playing with the sound turned down, giving rise to some odd juxtapositions: the sound of Enrique Iglesias' Bailamos to the visuals of The Hollies' He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother, for instance. K is convinced that someone behind the scenes is carefully matching up the sound and the vision ("that's so clever!") - but then, the Long Island Iced Teas are kicking fairly effectively all round.

At the opening bars of Kylie's Can't Get You Out Of My Head, our collective Pavlovian response is not to be resisted. Within seconds, the three of us are chugging away at the front of the balcony, clinking glasses and bottles with the merry throng around us. The comparatively tall and burly Thai fella on our left - a serial clinker and hand-shaker, and lead candidate for the post of K's new best friend - has, for reasons best known to himself, decided to hoick his T-shirt up above his chest, which he is now proudly slapping with the palm of his hand. Ours not to reason why. Down below, a broad-shouldered, homely looking chanteuse, whose innate campness puts me somewhat in mind of Nadia from Big Brother 5, is belting her way through the track with beaming, eager-to-please enthusiasm, repeatedly flapping her elbows against her sides as she does so. Meanwhile our impeccably groomed companion-cum-guide has cast aside his leather jacket, rolled up his sleeves, loosened his top, and is busily reconnecting with his inner Disco Bunny: all sideways shimmies, coiling gyrations and lingering, provocative strokes of the torso. It's mental. It's great. I love it. We all love it.

Living La Vida Loca gives me a chance to shove my way downstairs for a slash. Next to the urinals, and away from the other wash baisins, a single bowl is marked with a sign, in English and Thai: Vomit Station. Hanging on the wall at a wonky angle, a corpulent, squiffy-looking dame in a scarlet frock (think Beryl Cook does Bangkok) reclines awkwardly on a chaise longue, leering down at the tipsy micturators, a couple of whom are loudly declaring their respective sexual agendas for the night in the most unequivocally detailed terms.

The band's range is impressive, ranging from recent pop hits to disco classics and rock standards. Back in our seats, I recognise the strains of Maroon 5's This Love: a hit from a few months earlier which I had enjoyed well enough at the time, without exactly being overwhelmed by it. I hadn't realised that it was so popular internationally. In this context, it sounds fantastic. It's one of those instant flips that you sometimes get with seemingly inconsequential pop songs. Give them a context, an association, a memory, and you imbue them with a poignancy that can sometimes last for decades.

The DJ set which follows is even more eclectic, the dancers responding with equal enthusiasm, regardless of what is played. Although we cope manfully with the rinky-dink 200bpm happy hardcore bonkers nosebleed toytown techno, Limp Bizkit's Rollin' tips us over the edge, firmly nudging us downstairs and out onto the street.

---

On the Saturday night, we're back in Phuket Town, celebrating our friend's promotion at a cheerfully bustling downtown restaurant, with a ever-shifting assortment of his colleagues from our resort; throughout the evening, they appear on motorbikes in dribs and drabs, whenever there's a break in the stormy weather at the end of their shifts. The meal unfolds episodically and informally, with new dishes being ordered whenever anyone feels like them; then pooled, passed around, and left on the table for whoever wants them next. It's a form of extended grazing, which we had spotted - with some degree of envy - at neighbouring tables of Thai diners during the week, at our favourite independently-run beachfront restaurant. It's a style of dining which suits the food, and us, well.

Once the slight shock of our presence is overcome, our dining companions happily absorb us into the general banter, back-chat and gentle ribbing which dominate the table. On the giant video screens, live UK soccer is being shown; a national obsession, and ideal for everyone's Saturday night entertainment. Time and again, people arriving at our table look at K, and make the same observation: you look just like Alex Ferguson.

As you may be aware, K and I don't exactly follow the football closely. We therefore haven't the faintest idea who Alex Ferguson is, or what he looks like. As luck would have it, one of the teams in the second match turns out to be Manchester United. Eventually, Ferguson appears on screen. "Look, look! Alex Ferguson!"

We roar with appalled laughter. Guess that "they all look the same to me" stuff cuts both ways, then.

Around the table, there is much talk of the paper birds. In certain areas of southern Thailand, newly emergent outbreaks of sectarian violence are threatening the peace, stability and economic well-being of the country. Indeed, with tourist numbers slightly down on last year, our companions are already worried that this might be taking effect. (We are quick to reassure them; after all, how often does the western media ever report on south-east Asian affairs?)

In response to this situation, the Thai government has devised a novel approach. Instead of sending the troops in, the country's entire population has been asked to construct folded paper birds, containing messages of peace, to be dropped on the affected areas by the air force on the King's birthday - which is tomorrow, as it happens. The original aim was to collect around 60 million birds - one for every citizen. However, in true Blue Peter Christmas Appeal fashion, the total number has soared beyond that, to an estimated 120 million.

I try to imagine the sight of 120 million paper birds fluttering through the air, bearing peace slogans. It's an undeniably powerful, beautiful image. We canvas our companions' opinions on the initiative. The feeling is unanimous: they, and just about everyone in the country, are solidly behind it. Back at the Banyan Tree, staff have been as busy as everywhere else, assembling and gathering their stock of birds. Slightly confused by the timelines, K and I resolve to make our own when we get back to the villa; we think it would be a nice touch if at least a couple of guests could add their own.

Sometimes, when I am a little tipsy, I can err on the side of overly sincere over-dramatisation. But then it's Saturday night, and we're all a little tipsy. Leaning across the table, I make my pronouncement. "If this mission is a success, then the people of Thailand will have taught the world a valuable lesson! I mean, imagine if the Americans had dropped birds on Iraq, not bombs!"

Oh, will someone please just slap me, before I turn into Yoko f***ing Ono?

This is also the last night of our holiday in Phuket. Everyone is asking whether we'll be coming back. Having already made our decision a few days ago, we make a solemn promise: same week next year, hopefully in the same villa if possible. We have enjoyed a perfect holiday - the stuff of fantasies - and these affable, welcoming people have helped to make it possible. In all the conversations we have had about our resort during the evening, it has become abundantly clear that everyone takes a great pride in creating and maintaining such an idyllic environment (and such a prestigious one; for ever since it opened, the Banyan Tree has been repeatedly garlanded with awards). We would have sniffed out the bullshit by now, or the cynicism, or indeed the desperation; there is none.

"You should all take a real pride in creating such a perfect environment!" We are, as I say, a little squiffy.

"You must let us know when you plan to come back! We will create a special welcome for you!" They are, as I say, a little squiffy. We take our leave - somewhat earlier than we would have liked, but it's a long day tomorrow - amidst smiles and handshakes, and warm hugs from our newly promoted waiter-no-longer friend.

---

That was close.

Boxing Day morning. Why has J texted me with this cryptic message?

What do you mean?

Thailand.

Sorry darling, but I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.

Weren't you staying near the tsunami area in Thailand not long ago? Must have knickers in a twist.

Tsunami? I'm straight onto the laptop ... f**king poxy 56k dial-up ... and into Google News ... what the f**k? ... and I'm searching.

"phuket tsunami"
Jeez-us.

"laguna beach tsunami"
"banyan tree tsunami"
Not a bean.

On the TV news, all the talk is of Patong beach, 30 minutes south on the same coast. Devastation. But at this early stage, still numb and near-tearful from the shock, all I can think of is the people I've met. The guys who work at the resort's beach restaurant, where we took lunch most days. The nice couple from that Saturday night, who run the "reggae bar" next door. Our favourite independently run restaurant further down the beach, where you choose your own freshly caught seafood from the tanks. Whole livelihoods potentially destroyed.

In between bulletins, I'm combing the news stories on the web. Malyasia? Nah, skip it. Indonesia? Yeah, whatever. Sri Lanka? Come on, come on, next paragraph. I'm dimly aware that this is vaguely shameful, but I really only have one thing on my mind. Our hotel was maybe 200 metres back from the beach, with a network of three large lagoons immediately behind. If Patong is any guide, then prospects aren't looking good.

Strangely, there's very little "there but for the grace of God go we" about all of this. Funny. Would have expected that.

Late that night, a story comes up via a search on Google News: an eye-witness has described the Laguna Beach Resort (a large complex of five hotels, including the Banyan Tree) as "completely gone". That's it: just two bald words. I go to bed feeling flattened.

The following morning, another site has followed up the story, by speaking to contacts at the Laguna Beach. The story is false. A headland at the south of the bay has broken much of the force of the tsunami, causing the rest of the bay to experience more of a "major swell". No casualties. A few minor injuries. Some rooms flooded in other hotels. Some damage to the Banyan Tree's beach restuarant. Clean-up operation already in progress. Gratitude to staff and guests for their efforts. Beach to re-open on December 28th. Please focus attention and efforts elsewhere, to where they are most needed.

Strange to think of holidaymakers lazing on the beach, just thirty minutes away from such carnage. Finally, the "what if" scenarios start up. Would we be lazing along with them, or would we be lending a hand down in Patong, and would it even be a useful hand, or would we just be like the awkward dinner-party guests who insist on helping with the washing up without knowing where anything goes, and would it be best if we just confined ourselves to splashing our cash around, thus helping to re-establish swift normalcy to the tourist industry? Do your bit for disaster relief! Buy expensive cocktails! Utter, utter head-f**k.

But more than anything else on the morning of December 27th, what I felt was an immense sense of relief.

A pity it turned out to be so short-lived, then.

Woefully, pitifully, horribly short-lived.

www.dec.org.uk

Now read this. (via)

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