| The Truth About Britney Spears and Me by Dominic Hilton Friday, November 30, 2007 I have a very unusual relationship with Britney Spears. Like you, I have seen her vagina. But as far as I know, I have never actually heard one of her songs. “That’s impossible!” say my friends. “You must have heard this one: Dum-de-dum- dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum.” “Oh, sure,” I reply, without conviction. “That’s one of hers, is it?” My sister, Sophie, who works in the record industry, suspects I am a secret Britney fan and recently sent me Britney’s new CD with a giant post-it note stuck to the sleeve which read, “This one’s for D. You should review it. Love, Britney xxxx”. The amazing thing is that, with the possible exception of Dum-de-dum-dum-dum-dum- dum-dum-dum, I really have managed to get through most of the noughties without knowingly hearing a single Britney single. I am not sure whose fault this is, mine or Britney’s, but for various reasons, I suspect it’s hers. After all, how can she be such an enormous pop star if she hasn’t produced at least one tune that inexplicably pops into my head when I wake up in the morning and drives me insane for the rest of the day? There must be dozens of Madonna tunes trapped for eternity in my ear follicles that interminably reverberate around the walls of my shower. And I’m hardly going to hear Thriller and say, “Who’s the chick with the high voice then?” But Britney? All I know for sure about her is that: a) She lives in a trailer park b) She lets toddlers drive her cars c) She is addicted to deep-fried roadkill from gas stations d) Her daisy dukes get shorter as her mud flaps get bigger e) She waxes f) She’s hopefully a lesbian with a homemade all-girl orgy vid about to hit the internet g) She married a white man after he successfully convinced her he was black (no one else ever believed him) But Spears’s musicianship is a mystery to me. For whatever reason, magazines just don’t run pictures of Britney practicing her cello, or her tuba, or whichever instrument it is she most excels at. As luck would have it, I slipped “Blackout” into my CD drive on the same morning the following shock news story broke: |
| home articles blog letters retractions vacancies competitions about us contact _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ |
|
And I swear on Mozart’s grave that I don’t say any of this as a pop-bashing snob. I say
all of this as a prepubescent girl.
Only – OH MY GOD!!! – during a sneaky second play, I suddenly find myself robot
dancing in my chair to ‘Toy Soldier’ (track 8). One big advantage of being a lonely,
isolated, misanthropic writer is that no one ever gets to see you do things like
moonwalk to bubble gum pop hits without breaking the sitting position. Martin Amis
once said that the majority of his day is spent picking his nose. Can an accountant do
that? Can a lawyer? Can Britney?
Remember: If Roosevelt was livin’, he wouldn't let this be.
© lizardmagazine.com, 2007
Also by Dominic Hilton:
all of this as a prepubescent girl.
Only – OH MY GOD!!! – during a sneaky second play, I suddenly find myself robot
dancing in my chair to ‘Toy Soldier’ (track 8). One big advantage of being a lonely,
isolated, misanthropic writer is that no one ever gets to see you do things like
moonwalk to bubble gum pop hits without breaking the sitting position. Martin Amis
once said that the majority of his day is spent picking his nose. Can an accountant do
that? Can a lawyer? Can Britney?
Remember: If Roosevelt was livin’, he wouldn't let this be.
© lizardmagazine.com, 2007
Also by Dominic Hilton:
Britney Spears accused of shoplifting wig from store
Erratic Britney Spears has been accused of shoplifting a wig just
hours after stripping down to try on a pair of briefs in an adult
store in Los Angeles.
Erratic Britney Spears has been accused of shoplifting a wig just
hours after stripping down to try on a pair of briefs in an adult
store in Los Angeles.
The story included lots of juicy details regarding “Barely Legal” Hustler panties as well as
rumours of another pregnancy, but I had a job to do, so I closed my eyes, cursed my
sister, and concentrated on the music.
The album opens intriguingly with three memorable words: “It’s Britney, bitch.” A good
start. Imagine if Beethoven had begun performances of his symphonies by announcing
to the Viennese beau monde that “It’s Ludwig, bitches!” before spinning around and
launching into the Choral Symphony. How awesome would that have been?
My mind is already drifting off, so I am glad to be reminded a few minutes into the CD
that I am undoubtedly still listening to an album by, and I quote, “The legendary Britney
Spears”. Next, my attention is grabbed by the saucy snaps in the sleeve notes, which
make Britters look like an all-round American hottie, a notion sadly unconfirmed by the
upskirted, shaven-headed, double-chinned reality I find after a quick google image
search. As a guy, I really do wish Britney was still sexy, so I foolishly opt to buy in to
the marketing concept and I start to look forward to the promising sounding sixth track,
“Get Naked (I Got a Plan)”.
“I’m not ashamed of my beauty,” Britney announces. “You’re going to see what I’ve
got.” Unfortunately, along with the rest of humanity, I’ve already seen what she's got.
She should be ashamed.
And then she admits it: “Baby, I’m a freak and I really don’t give a damn.” I immediately
realise the full horror of what my sister has sent me. “Blackout” is yet another of those
tedious pseudo sob story pop confessionals in which a star moans and whinges through
an entire album about being treated unfairly by the paparazzi.
rumours of another pregnancy, but I had a job to do, so I closed my eyes, cursed my
sister, and concentrated on the music.
The album opens intriguingly with three memorable words: “It’s Britney, bitch.” A good
start. Imagine if Beethoven had begun performances of his symphonies by announcing
to the Viennese beau monde that “It’s Ludwig, bitches!” before spinning around and
launching into the Choral Symphony. How awesome would that have been?
My mind is already drifting off, so I am glad to be reminded a few minutes into the CD
that I am undoubtedly still listening to an album by, and I quote, “The legendary Britney
Spears”. Next, my attention is grabbed by the saucy snaps in the sleeve notes, which
make Britters look like an all-round American hottie, a notion sadly unconfirmed by the
upskirted, shaven-headed, double-chinned reality I find after a quick google image
search. As a guy, I really do wish Britney was still sexy, so I foolishly opt to buy in to
the marketing concept and I start to look forward to the promising sounding sixth track,
“Get Naked (I Got a Plan)”.
“I’m not ashamed of my beauty,” Britney announces. “You’re going to see what I’ve
got.” Unfortunately, along with the rest of humanity, I’ve already seen what she's got.
She should be ashamed.
And then she admits it: “Baby, I’m a freak and I really don’t give a damn.” I immediately
realise the full horror of what my sister has sent me. “Blackout” is yet another of those
tedious pseudo sob story pop confessionals in which a star moans and whinges through
an entire album about being treated unfairly by the paparazzi.
I'm Miss American Dream since I was 17
Don't matter if I step on the scene
Or sneak away to the Philippines
They're still gonna put pictures of my derriere in the magazine
Don't matter if I step on the scene
Or sneak away to the Philippines
They're still gonna put pictures of my derriere in the magazine
Not bad, but not quite “If Roosevelt was livin’, he wouldn't let this be!” which is what the
noted historian Michael Jackson once screeched in response to those outrageous press
allegations that he had the hots for beautiful young boys.
Speaking of which, “Hot as Ice” (track 9) is almost certainly the worst song of all time –
the equivalent of "White Heat" on Madge’s True Blue album or "Speed Demon" on Wacko’s
Bad. The imaginatively titled “Ooh Ooh Baby” is actually just a horrible rip-off of "Happy
Together" by The Turtles. I can’t get through it without risking a blood clot in my brain so
skip to “Perfect Lover” (track 11) which includes lots of people going “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-
huh, uh-huh, uh-huh” which at least makes me laugh.
The most astonishing thing is that even though I am sitting there finally listening to some
actual Britney tunes, none of them are sticking in my brain. I try really hard to remember
what I just heard but none of the songs are even remotely memorable, not even in an
annoying way, like
noted historian Michael Jackson once screeched in response to those outrageous press
allegations that he had the hots for beautiful young boys.
Speaking of which, “Hot as Ice” (track 9) is almost certainly the worst song of all time –
the equivalent of "White Heat" on Madge’s True Blue album or "Speed Demon" on Wacko’s
Bad. The imaginatively titled “Ooh Ooh Baby” is actually just a horrible rip-off of "Happy
Together" by The Turtles. I can’t get through it without risking a blood clot in my brain so
skip to “Perfect Lover” (track 11) which includes lots of people going “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-
huh, uh-huh, uh-huh” which at least makes me laugh.
The most astonishing thing is that even though I am sitting there finally listening to some
actual Britney tunes, none of them are sticking in my brain. I try really hard to remember
what I just heard but none of the songs are even remotely memorable, not even in an
annoying way, like
I should be so lucky
Lucky, lucky, lucky
I should be so lucky
In love
Lucky, lucky, lucky
I should be so lucky
In love