The Bleeding Hearts Computer
This is the latest incarnation of this song, but it strikes me there is still room for almost endless expansion. It sometimes happens that way. Cole Porter, I believe, could write infinite extra verses for party versions of ‘You’re the Top’, and if you’re Cole Porter, who’s going to stop you? So this is a somewhat longer version of the song I was originally invited to record at the BBC studios in Manchester.
Tall and blonde I wanted, short and fat I got.
Not so much hot-blooded, more a little clot.
When it came to culture, we had a falling out.
I said “Do you like Cunstable?” She gave me such a clout.
Oh the Bleeding Hearts Computer got it wrong again.
Next I met a Betty, she was so uptight,
Just like my neighbour’s car alarm she went off in the night.
Then there was Samantha, as dainty as a bird.
I gave her a kiss and she broke my wrist, neurotic’s not the word.
Oh the Bleeding Hearts Computer got it wrong again.
Maisie was pathetic, all of four foot three.
Daisy was athletic, she tossed me off… her knee.
Holly was a hopeful, straight from Wandsworth nick,
But when she tried to strangle me I knew we’d never click.
Oh the Bleeding Hearts Computer got it wrong again.
Many are called but many are bald,
And many are drab and many are drippy,
And some are just frightful and others are spiteful,
The rest are all dippy or chippy or lippy,
I’m trying to find some peace of mind,
I’m ready to savour a flavoursome raver,
I’m feeling romantic, my passion is antic,
I’m getting quite frantic but also pedantic.
Now, Claire was into clubbing – mostly baby seals.
Whisky helped her to forget, I know just how she feels.
Amy was an actress, with lots of time to kill.
The biggest part she’d had belonged to some bloke off The Bill.
Oh the Bleeding Hearts Computer got it wrong again.
Wanda was a Wasps fan who kicked me into touch.
Polly was in plaster – she let me hold her crutch.
Ruby was a wrestler who wouldn’t give an inch.
And talk about crass, she grabbed my ass, and pinched me in the clinch.
Oh the Bleeding Hearts Computer got it wrong again.
Some would show up and I’d want to throw up,
And a lot would be messy and others just mangled.
Then just for a dare I once dated a pair,
But it jangled my nerves when their Zimmers got tangled,
And Dilly was silly and Kelly was smelly,
And Lindy was windy and Wendy too trendy,
And Molly was jolly but after my lolly,
And Mandy was randy but bandy as Gandhi.
At long last I decided to have a final throw.
Reduced my expectations as low as they would go.
Frigid, French or Fascist, befuddled, daft or dumb.
This box of tricks then tried to fix me up with my own mum.
Oh the Bleeding Hearts Computer got it wrong again.
Now we sit at home together, swapping looks.
1980
(A note on the chords: people who know the first thing about music theory – which is one more thing than I’ll ever learn – may object that there is no G# or F# in the key of C, these should be Ab and Gb respectively. I simply don’t know. I don’t even know if that’s the standard notation to indicate what I do. All I mean is that in performance I use whatever finger is available to play what I believe is called a chromatically descending bass line on the bottom E string under the basic chord shape. It adds a bit of interest to the accompaniment and is about as flashy as my guitar playing ever gets.)
PS
In the early 80s there was a programme on Radio 4, I think it was, called Pen to Paper which accepted contributions from listeners. I offered them a couple of songs and they invited me to travel up to Manchester to record them for transmission at their Oxford Road studios, which apparently were quite famous. Compared to the frightfest that had been my first brush with studio recording two years before (see ‘A&R Lament’), this seemed a whole lot easier. No intrusive cameras. No lights or cables. Just a quiet, softly furnished little room with low-key lighting and a big handsome microphone to sing into. I could even read the lyrics off the sheet if I wanted to because no one was watching, but this time that wasn’t even necessary because I had no trouble remembering the words, even the fast gabbly tongue-twisty passages, mainly because I’d had time to learn them properly. I don’t think I had to do more than a single take, though they might have asked for a couple of run-throughs for insurance purposes. Happy to oblige.
Obviously, the content might be showing its age by now, but I can’t say my approach would be much different today were I to try and write such a song again. What that says about me I’m not sure – either I’m a sexist, mysoginist dinosaur who refuses to move with the times, or I have enough faith in my own beliefs and standards that I feel the work should speak for itself and I’m not that interested in trying to defend it against someone who is determined to be offended, whether genuinely or on behalf of someone else. Besides, down that end of the dating market it’s all about appearances and first impressions anyway, isn’t it? Look at Love Island – the shallowness is in direct proportion to the skimpiness of the swimming costumes they all wear – and in these days of Tindr and Grindr etc, I hardly think my lightweight little exercise in language and verbal jiggery-pokery is likely to cause any ripples. I even got paid for it, so I can’t have been the only one who liked it.
And when the programme finally aired, the professional production with that faint but vibrant studio echo was astounding. I’ve never sounded classier.
(BTW and a propos of nothing, it was only while writing this piece that I suddenly realised what it is that had always bothered me about that observation Judi Dench’s M pitches at Pierce Brosnan’s James Bond in Goldeneye (1995): “I think you’re a sexist, misogynist dinosaur.” [As a proofreader I only spotted the error when I read it on the page.] ‘Misogynist’ is a noun, not an adjective, so M should have called him ‘misogynous’ or ‘misogynistic’, or simply ‘a misogynist’. As it stands, the accusation is grammatically flawed. Or maybe Dame Judi simply got the order wrong: “I think you’re a misogynist, a sexist dinosaur, a relic of the Cold War,” utilising the famous rhetorical device of the rule of three, the Greek tricolon. Either way, the logic is as lousy as the grammar. If the man hates women so much, why does he keep going to bed with them? It’s like asking an alcoholic why he dislikes beer, or accusing Lionel Messi of having no respect for football because he scores so much. I’m right aren’t I? “Not another symphony, Mozart? You scumbag.” I won’t go on.)