In the NME, 12 October, 1985, the lad Seething Wells reviews a gig by Eurovision’s finest: Bucks Fizz.
London Dominion Theatre
One of the mini-skirted women onstage is chatting to the other mini-skirted woman whilst one of the tight-trousered boys is trying to introduce another of the acrylic-jumpered songs.
“Shut up – stupid cow!” he snarls and the a let ripudience, composed largely of dirty macs, shrieks its approval. This is music for the cultural abattoir, glumly joyful gumby-tunes for the dead cattle market where the only sound worth listening to is the squeaking of erectile tissue.
Sexy ladies! Hunky fellas! Yellow-eyed old men slobbered as they waited for the bit where they rip the bints’ skirts off. Bucks Fizz peddle sperm-stained soft porn of anaemic sort. Taut calf-muscles, a glimpse of thigh, protruding breasts and thinly clothed bums.
Although, unfortunately for the sad derelict in the next seat, the theatre was never dark enough to whip it out and let rip, the cheers that greeted Mike Nolan – now recovered from his nasty accident – were almost orgasmic. Sadly, they let slip the chance to stretch the turgid membrane of good taste by following up with a rock-hard version of the classic ‘Hit The Road, Jack’.
No style, some people.