She cut me like a certain type of fish

For the last two weeks, I have been listening to ‘Magic‘, by Bruce Springsteen. I can’t remember the last time I was so smitten by an album.

I’ve always been a fan of Bruce. The man has phenomenal talent. I remember the first time I saw it on the cover of ‘Born in the USA‘ (yes MJ, the album might have been crap, but oh my! that arse).

Don’t tell me Bruce used a stunt arse – yours, in fact – and you now live in a skip in New Jersey because Bruce only paid you $2.30 which you spent on legal fees fighting to have your arse recognised as one of the iconic images of rock ‘n’ roll. Because firstly I don’t believe you; and secondly, whatever the electronic equivalent of putting my fingers in my ears and going ‘LALALALALA!’ is, I’m doing it right now.

That is Bruce Springsteen’s arse, and is possibly be the sexiest backside in the universe. I cannot state this with absolute certainty, because in fairness I have only been exposed to a fraction of the arses this world has to offer. However, Bruce’s is by far the best specimen to date. Head and cheeks above the rest. Bruce could have done with a few more squat thrusts, so it is marginally lacking in the ‘crunch!’ department. But it is perfect in its imperfections – a bit like Mary McAleese. On the surface, the woman shouldn’t be hot, but she is. Come on, admit it: who hasn’t fantasised about Mary during a spot of vigorous composting?

Twenty years on, Bruce’s arse still resonates with the glory days. I’m prepared to overlook a droopy liver spot or two, because I love Bruce with a purity that transcends time and space and the fact that he has never heard of me. Although I’ve never met him, I know his essential soul essentially. Our largely imaginary relationship is tender yet feisty, deeply connected yet constantly surprising, challenging yet supportive. Although I am very happy with my life, sometimes – in the small, lonely hours of the early dawn or a melancholy MTV moment – I regret missing my vocation at the top of the rock ‘n’ roll industry.

[Note: In case you were wondering, my crushes are not limited to rock ‘n’ roll. They include Mary McAleese (see above), Michael Phelps, John Cusack, Michelle Obama, Bjorn Borg (only when accessorised with headband), Wolverine, Liv Tyler, her father, Popeye (totally wasted on Olive Oil, the useless slapper), John Irving, Elmer Fudd and some bloke I used to work with in Ardnacrusha (I still dust him off every now and then to mud-wrestle Elmer Fudd, because they’re quite well matched). Oh, and Husband. Of course.]

Anyway, as well as having the world’s best arse – I wonder whether it is insured? – happily Bruce can also carry a tune and ‘Magic’ totally rocks. I am not qualified to offer insightful commentary on the lyrical resonance or tricky melodies. All I can say is that most of the songs make me want to play them again, immediately. It means I occasionally get stuck on one song, much to Husband’s chagrin; he is more into female artists with insipid, vapourised vocals.

Just one small thing about the song ‘Girls in Their Summer Clothes’ – and it is not criticism so much as a word of advice. Couldn’t Bruce find a better cliché than ‘she cut me like a knife’? It’s not as if there’s nothing else in the world that cuts, e.g. scissors. Or grass; chainsaws; chisels; broken glass; lasers; guillotines; hatchets and/or axes; paper; razorblades; certain types of fish; diamonds; jagged metal; rusty tin cans. See? In fact, pick an object – any object. Applied with enough force and/or skill, there’s a fair likelihood it will cut, or – even better – pulverize. Bruise at the very least.

Ok, it was a bit of a criticism