Forgive me for being predictably unimpressed by the following Huffington Post headline: “Katy Perry's New Christmas Song” but that combination of words is akin to “Your hideous extruding bowel tumor has probably metastasised” or “Russian strike bomber shot down by Turkish F16”. I don’t really get why Katy Perry exists, apart from that her parents made poor decisions, but why she’s famous has always been beyond me. She isn’t particularly good at singing and her winkingly-knowing affect grates. This latest abomination is literally an advert, and normally I could just write that, sign off then take to drinking with both hands, but I feel the need to back-engineer this foul burrito dump because worryingly, I found myself singing it. Yes, I have since carved out my tongue with a ceremonial knife and will drive a 2B pencil through my temple with my AP styleguide in shame, but it is actually catchy; like tuberculosis or Boston Beaneaters player Marty Bergen who killed his wife and two children before taking his own life.
I suppose it’s catchy because it’s pathetically simple. Basically right-on and easily remembered catchphrase that has a ghost of iambic pentameter, add some crowd vocals and jingling Xmass bells, 20GOTO10, repeat until the sound mixer locks himself in his booth and fills it with boiling chlorine out of suicidal despair at the misery his life has become. Then you give it a video like the Eurovision Song Contest being held inside a snowglobe made of misery and clock off for the day. I suppose we’ll never understand why my mind has latched onto this the same way it is permanently obsessed with the universality of death or the meaningless of existence in a godless universe; and I doubt the burblings of a barely-active blogging guttersnipe will stop Mizz Perry making another billion dollars and buying another yacht worth more than my education.
Written under duress by Steven.