Welcome all to ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ป๐ผ๐น๐น๐โ๐ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฟ, a series of weekly reviews by Charles Connolly – an artist in his own right. Here, Charles delves into the greatest brand new singles brought to you by the best unsigned artists on our electrifying and eclectic set of ๐๐๐ฌ ๐ผ๐ง๐ฉ๐๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐ฅ๐ค๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐ฉ playlists.
๐๐ฌ๐ค ๐๐ค๐ช๐ก๐จ – ๐๐ ๐พ๐ค๐ง๐ง๐๐๐ค
Charles unconsciously lies to himselfโฆ
Love is heaven. Love is bliss. Love is life. Love is everything. Love is hell. Love is cruel. Love is a curse. Love is the death of a heart gone cold. One never knows how anything is going to turn out, but one always hopes for the best. Sometimes though, it is not hope that we feel, but โfactual knowledgeโ. For the sake of simplicity, letโs keep this heterosexual. Somewhere in the world, there is a man. Somewhere else in the world there is a woman. Neither knows the other, but each has one thing in common: they are alone. They muddle through in the way that we do. The travelator of life. The zombie conveyor belt. For without love, there is little but this. For the sake of argument, letโs call these two souls Brian and Ethel. Brian likes gardening. It keeps him busy, and takes his mind off the loneliness of life. The flowers are his friends. The crops are his sustenance – in more ways than ones. But ultimately he is numb. He is empty. He is also lazy. He just doesnโt put himself about. In the words of Arctic Monkeys: โBrian, top marks for not tryinโโ. And so, the beat goes on. Ethel, on the other hand spends most of her time in the kitchen. A plump lady, who likes to bake cakes. But with no one to bake for, it feels like a foolโs errand. She simply gets a little more plump. When she can eat no more, she sits at the kitchen table, smoking (she has the idea this will make her lose weight), and staring out of the window at the neighbourโs garden (for her own leaves much to be desired). She sighs and puts the kettle on. Or the Kethel. While coffee enriches and invigorates the soul, tea was invented to pass the time. Fact. As the water is brought to the boil, the whistle tells her so and insistingly prompts her to remove the kethel from the hob. She does so. But as she does so, she catches a glimpse of a shiny bonce. A polished noggin. It belongs to the body of man busy pruning. How had she not noticed Brian before? Had she been too busy staring at his roses? Was she pondering on her doubts about the quantity of flour? Be it flour or flowers, the tea is now far down on her to-do list.
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