P!NK: dry humps and the fruit bowl.

by Gethin A. Lynes

At the risk of further ridicule – the jewel in the crown of which was the phenomenally witty assertion that I have come out of the closet, as though gay is still (or ever fucking was) an insult – I’m going to bring this up again: the P!NK concert… or perhaps “show” is more appropriate.

I’ll admit to a certain grudging respect, which is the last position I expected to be occupying.

I can’t remember the last time I was on the guest list for anything – potentially because I’ve never been on a fucking guest list – and I certainly can’t remember the last time I saw one of my oldest mates standing above the crowd and rocking an entire fucking stadium – probably for the same reason.

The plan was simple: watch The Kin strut their stuff:

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And then fuck off before the inevitable horror of the main event began, accompanied by the frantic screaming of a stadium full of salivating pop-monkeys. But I’m nothing if not an artist of self-punishment. And so, with the expectation of a kind of appalled fascination, I stayed beyond the opening act…

Part of me feels slightly sullied, like some poor naïve girl, tricked into going back to the hotel room of a charming AFL player, only to find half a dozen more already there, and now, a couple of days later I still can’t get the taste of cock out of my mouth. But for all the tonguing of record label, corporate p!nk bits, the whole thing wasn’t without it’s reciprocal pleasures. Mind you, it was a bit like your first dry hump at the school dance, that gets you all dribbling into your panties, but leaves you to go home in such a pent up state of dissatisfaction that you start eyeing up everything from the fruit bowl to the vacuum cleaner for something to get yourself off with.

Musically it was actually quite interesting. By which I mean, shit. Unlike any number of pop-whores before her, I’ll concede, the woman can actually sing, and by fuck can she dance, and do back flips and all kinds of highly erotic, gymnastic gyrations. The fact remains, however, that that one song she did, that went from pretty much the start of the show to the end, broken only by a bland piano ballad and a couple of insipid acoustic numbers, was monumentally mediocre. The Chris Isaak cover was pretty good though.

But let’s face it, it was never about the music was it? It was about the spectacle, and like the audience of the midnight opening of Man of Steel, sitting there with their undies on over their jeans and dreaming dreams of living something other than the vapid, meaningless existence that constitutes their reality, P!NK’s audience are transported to a choreographed, callipygous wonderland – one that was apparently designed in the 80s – where the adoring women, their faces uplifted to the sweaty spectacle on the stage, get to imagine themselves grinding away in those perfectly proportioned bodies, and the men, in their own fashion, imagine themselves grinding away in those same perfect bodies.

It’s precisely the formula used by the gods of big budget, soulless cinema – yes, Zack Snyder, I’m fucking looking at you. It’s all flashing lights and finely shaped arse cheeks, washboard abs and a soundtrack that does all your fucking thinking for you.

But fuck it, you know, who needs to think when it looks that good?

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