Money, money, money

What a great band ABBA were. I saw Bjorn Again once. A life-changing experience.

Dancing Queen, that was my favourite. It takes me back to resitting my first-year Chinese exams. After a hard day's studying in my student flat (alledgedly a copy of a Swedish prison) I would relax with a half or two of Tetley's Mild in the Pack Horse. On stripped-down summer student dole, a couple of halves was all I could afford. Dancing Queen was one of the most popular jukebox selections in the Pack Horse that summer.

Iced Mild. I'd been drinking that while failing my first year Chinese exams. My brother had brewed it. The summer of 1976 was scorching hot. A drought that started in May broke the end of my September resits. I blame global warming. With the Ramones blasting out, Pete, Tym and I sipped on my brother's Mild (around 1040º, if I remember correctly) when we should have been studying. That's what they pretended. Those bastards had been swotting away behind my back. It's a lesson I've never forgotten; don't trust your friends.

That's the introduction over. What came next? Hang on . . . . it's something to do with the title. I chose that for a reason. Money . . . . money . . . . MONEY. . . . No. Shouting the word doesn't bring it back. I used to think that shouting could solve any problem. Uhhh. Stupiddd. Shouting only works on Thursday.

Money. That's what I want. Well, if it's good enough for John Lennon it's good enough for me. Unless he was being ironic. In which case, call me Mr. Irony.

I'll remember eventually what the point of this post was. I know that it had something to do with money. And me. Me and money. What a perfect couple. Why not try to bring them together?