…gotta get down it’s Friday…

Meet the culprit. But he loves his wife and children so I think we can just about let him off

This picture by me is an etch-a-sketch (or if you want to get technical, Magna-doodle, but to me it’s always going to be etch-a-sketch) of the one and only (thankfully) Ben Forth. And no, for your information, he wasn’t the victim of a bullet through the chin — that’s just my laziness. Who’s Ben Forth, you may ask? (Sorry Ben but they really may.) No, he’s not a celebrity, and no, he’s not a criminal. However, If you reside in or around Cambridge, UK, you may already know Ben as the George Michael lookalike who can often be found in Mill Road Co-op using his devious money-saving tactics to get free stuff, or, if you were at a certain BBQ in a quiet village in Stapleford a few weeks ago, you may remember Ben as the man who put Friday by Rebecca Black on.

But seeing as you probably weren’t at the BBQ, because only about 10 people were, I shall explain further.

Not that I have to explain about Friday

Even if you’ve been held hostage for months and been surviving on only the most meagre bread and water, your captors have likely played Friday at least a dozen times: it’s the most irritating song in the world, and just what you don’t need when you’re already fearing for your life. The most irritating song in the world next to Ben’s stunningly annoying impression of Friday, of course, which is on a whole ‘nother level. If you see him, just ask and I’m sure he’ll give you an impromptu demonstration. Or don’t…just get on with your life and shout “oy, George, let’s go outside!”

Actually, thinking about it, Ben may be a criminal. Because after I had heard that song that was it for me. I was done for. There was no going back from that. I’ve never been the same since.

See, my dreams are no longer safe anymore. And the worst thing about Friday dreams is that I do remember them. Vividly. Except my dreams make the original Friday video even more disturbing — quite some feat considering that for the most of it a group of teens who aren’t even old enough to buy matches in most countries are being pursued by two guys with dark glasses and a sinister arsenal of highly dubious lyrics that would even make The Pope think twice about the effect they might have. If The Pope could stand up, that is.

I’ve had a few of these nightmares. In one of them I’m actually in the car, wearing a backwards cap, with Rebecca Black and her crew and I’m singing along, even though I can’t stop vomiting. This is nothing compared to the recurring dream I have been having recently. In my recurring Rebecca-Black-Friday-nightmare-dream, the only way the people of the world can communicate is by singing thousands, if not millions of different versions of  Friday. For this reason, whenever I end up in a supermarket in my dream (I have no idea why, as I never actually eat or drink anything I buy), I dread going to the till and waiting while the cashiers say “next please” in the voice of Rebecca Black in a number of different ways, about 100 times.

Ouch. And it gets worse before it gets better, as they say.

In my dream I am generally designated (by the Friday overlord, I mean, an entityI never have to meet, thankfully) a particularly irritating high-pitched version that sounds like Rebecca Black has possessed me and has somehow picked up turrets along the way, so she has to keep re-starting the song. The worst moment in this dream is when a tramp asks me if I have any spare change, even though I gave him spare change just the dream before. It’s irritating enough when that happens anyway, in a dream or real life, but when he looks at me all sad and tragic and speaks in that voice, he’s never getting any bloody change ever again, I can tell you.

If Ben hadn’t introduced me to this horrendous song, I doubt I’d have come into contact with it, and subsequently I’d have been able to sleep peacefully without the terrifying threat of a backwards cap or a singing demonic tramp. Not because I live under a rock which also doubles as my computer, but because I don’t often listen to the radio, and don’t drive, so don’t end up listening to crap music in the car.

Then yesterday, something bizarre happened. I was at another BBQ — if you can call it a BBQ…when I arrived with my slab of mince the BBQ had gone out already; no, I wasn’t going to put a slab of mince on the barbie, I was going to make some quality burgers — this time at my brother’s place, when a song started to play. That wasn’t the bizarre part, as with Ben Forth around everyone knew it was just a matter of time until that song came on. No, the bizarre part was that I opened my mouth and started to sing along, smiling, and I only wanted to smash something up for a couple of seconds. And so did other people, too, with Ben turning the small area next to the kitchen island into his own miniature dance-floor of signature Friday moves. This involved Ben throwing his arms up, dressed in his smart black suit reminiscent of Reservoir Dogs circa 1992.

And for at least 5 minutes there, I hate to say it, but it’s the truth: I understood the point of the Friday song.

Thanks Ben for showing me the way.

But seriously, once was enough. I never want to hear that song ever again.

WARNING: I said earlier that Ben was one of a kind. That there is only one of him walking this Earth. While we’re 99% sure of that, I forgot to mention a very important fact: Ben has a brother. This isn’t just important because Ben’s brother might also possess a weird fixation with a 15 year old-girl’s smash-hit annoying song and you ought to know about it — I don’t know if he does, you’ll have to ask him — it’s also important because Ben says he (Ben’s brother) recently rode down a hill on a bike, passed out and smashed his face into a lamp-post, messing himself up quite badly. If you’re reading this Ben’s brother, I hope you’re OK now!

Additional thanks and congratulations from yesterday’s BBQ malarkey (which will mean very little to you if you are one of the billion people who were not there, so don’t say I didn’t warn you): Hugh — if that’s how you spell your name — for your joke about Bee Keepers. I’m sorry it bombed so heavily. Better luck next time. For a sure laugh, I suggest telling it to some really depressed Bee Keepers whose defenses are already down. I have no idea where you’d find them, mind you. It’s hard enough finding Bee Keepers as it is. Holly, for your enlightening and disturbing tale of a succession of men who all ended up at A & E with 40 watt light bulbs in their mouths. I’m not sure what the relevance of 40 watt’s is, but I do know that doing this is a really silly idea. Please don’t try this at home.

Thanks to Hugh and Holly and Dunc K and Dunc T and Maff and everyone else who was sitting ouside at the time — sorry for missing people out — for a great conversation about the girl who played Sabrina The Teenage Witch who was thin, then became fatter, then became thinner again. I have no idea what she looks like now and to be honest I have bigger fish to fry.

Thanks to Lee and Lauren and Abi and others for their dancing around, which caused my brother Maff to be inspired to throw down some impressive drunken moves.

Ah, and thanks to Beth for her marvellous cakes which I didn’t get to eat because I’m not allowed sugar. They were really nice apparently. Ouch, it hurt to write that.

And lastly, congratulations to Dunc T on his new job. He’s going to work at Subway, purveyors of infamous delectable sandwiches don’t you know!


2 comments on “…gotta get down it’s Friday…

  1. Ben says:

    Well shit, that probably didn’t work. This will.

    You are a nutcase Chris


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