I’m finally going mad. At the very least I’m experiencing the creep of early onset dementia. Three days ago Deeply Dippy, the 1992 chart hit by Right Said Fred, entered my head uninvited. It refuses to leave.
I didn’t actually hear the song. It just suddenly manifested, out of nowhere. One minute I’m making some toast, kettle boiling. The next “deeply hot, hot for the curves you’ve got”, is in my head, over and over and over and over.
I’m beginning to panic. Even now, as I type, that thrumming opening guitar, followed by front man Richard Fairbrass booming, “Deeply Dippy ’bout the curves you got”, is hula-hooping my consciousness. I push it away but it plays on in my subconscious. Once it’s in there I can’t even reach the volume control.
“A contact sport, let the neighbours talk.”
Anyone unfamiliar with Deeply Dippy, the 1992 chart hit by Right Said Fred, should remain unfamiliar with it. Do not click here. You don’t want what I have.
It’s very much a pop song and a product of its time, with lyrics that are perhaps best described as aggressively romantic. You’ll find repeated admiration for “Spanish eyes” and “legs that go on for miles.” Although I’ve never been able to figure out whether this rhythmic lechery is aimed at one individual, or is (as the accompanying video full of strutting models suggests) more indiscriminate. There’s a lot I don’t understand. Fairbrass insists he “can’t make head nor tail of passion.”, yet wants to “set sail for the seas of passion.” Which aside from being one of the laziest rhymes in musical history doesn’t make narrative sense.
Either way, Deeply Dippy has now gone beyond earworm, it’s set up home in my hippocampus and is apparently inviting other songs I know but don’t especially like to share its airtime. Deeply Dippy’s opening guitar strum sounds just like the opener to I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles) by The Proclaimers.
“Da Da Da Dun Diddle Un Diddle Un Diddle Uh Da Da.”
No, no, no, no NO!
None of this has much relevance to the images here. Other than I took a walk to try and rid my mind of Deeply Dippy, a song that insists on rhyming the word ‘passion’ with itself eight times. It didn’t work. Even as I hung around that carpark I could hear the middle eight trumpets. And now again as I type I’m tortured by the weirdly posh enunciation Fairbrass applies to the line “a contact sport.”
I suspect it’s just a time of life thing. Now I’ve reached the grand old age of [REDACTED] my brain is full to the brim. Perhaps it’s inevitable that from now until doomsday bits of the brain labeled ‘irrelevant bullshit’, will stumble into the part called ‘repeat until psychosis sets in’.
Like a neglected kitchen bin, the contents are starting to slide out onto the tile.
Jacket’s new by the way. I was looking for this Needles coach number in the blue colourway, but hadn’t seen it outside of Japan. Then I clocked it over at Well Gosh and impulse-swagged it for a twoer. So, you know, not all bad.