I think I’ve mentioned before that in an old shared household I used to live in, Friday night would often be spent sitting around, playing records, drinking, chewing the fat, smoking the more than occasional doobie (as I believe “the kids” stopped referring to it at least 30 years ago) and, ultimately, proceeding/denigrating (delete as applicable) into a drunken sing-song at the end of the night.
We all knew when one of us decided the night was over; pop one of three or four records on and the message was clear: I’ve had enough and I need my bed.
Hel and I had a clutch of tunes which we had to hear (and bawl along to) before we staggered up the wooden hill to bed, but it’s funny thinking about it now that there was no cross-over, no Venn diagram – the same songs didn’t crop up on both “must hear” lists, no matter how much I tried to educate her. (Tongue placed firmly in cheek, there.)
Anyway, in the old house, this was one of those songs we simply had to hear and sing-a-long to, even if, as it transpires, I was getting a good chunk of the words wrong, and whenever I hear it – this version, not the George Jones version, mind – I’m transported back to those nights with – even though I am no longer on speaking terms with any of the other people involved – a certain degree of fondness:
There’s a line in that which I’m pretty sure Gary “Boss-Eyed” Barlow *ahem* appropriated (nicked) when he wrote this:
Did you spot it, dear reader?
Go on, admit it. That’s still pretty great, isn’t it? Even if a bit of the lyric is stolen, like some tax money stowed away in an offshore account in the Cayman Islands.
I’m nothing if not up-to-date with my targets.