Published: March 2nd 2009February 23rd 2009
If you're reading this you probably belong to one of the following categories: (a) You are a friend of mine or family member; (b) You are Samantha Fox; (c) You are someone who regularly reads my blog; (d) You are a male, aged 30 - 35, who hasn't got anything better to do right now (you're probably at the office pretending to work) and have just googled for "Samantha Fox".
A few words of introduction for the benefit of those belonging to categories A and C born after 1980. Samantha Fox was in the end of the 80s the sexy icon par excellence. She was for us, thirteen years old boys, what Palestine was for the Jews led by Moises: the promised land where everything was good and abundant (especially abundant in her case). Theoretically she was a singer, but trust me, hearing her name doesn't bring to my mind the image of a stadium with 50,000 people singing in unison. I mean, the words "Pink Floyd" and "concert" definitely create an association of ideas immediate and concrete, while "Samantha Fox" and "concert" belong to the subset "music" as much as "Watermelon" and "urinal" belong to the "hydrology" subset: the
relationship exists but is really thin!
The only song of her that I remember was called "Touch me!", yet her photos were circulating at that time more than Diego Maradona's, and in every country fair banners with her picture on (always against a turquoise background, I don't know why) waved as today rainbow ones with the word "peace" do.
Not that the rest of those days' cultural panorama was any deeper, let's be frank. Artists of the musical talent of a vacuum cleaner such as "Mel & Kim" or "Modern Talking" enjoyed huge popularity. Others just pretended to sing ("Mill Vanilli") and yet they sold millions of records. All people who, after publishing an album of great success and a second one listened to by their own grandmothers alone, completely disappeared and today probably earn a living by playing a Roland keyboard at weddings and confirmations or selling lottery tickets outside underground stations.
I wouldn't really like to be in the shoes of any of these "heroes for a day". I imagine them now, occasionally (very occasionally) recognized by an old fan who maybe takes courage and goes to talk to him and even asks for an
autograph. Then you meet the same veteran fan who is dying for telling someone about such an encounter:
"You would never guess who I met today."
"Are you ready?"
"And who cares! Who the fuck is Chesney Hawkes?"
Those were the days of jackets with shoulder pads, jeans three centimeters too short and, especially, of anti-ozone haircuts. Take Rick Astley or John Bon Jovi, for instance, every time they combed their hair they would use a whole fixing gel spray can. And Joey Tempest and the Europe? It's no wonder that the ozone layer over the Sweden skies is so thin!
But back to Samantha Fox. If you were thirteen at the time and came from a Christian family you were attending to pre-confirmation catechism and learn, in spite of yourself, that "impure acts" in adolescent age cause blindness. Now, if this were true, Samantha Fox in 1987 would have made the fortune of opticians worldwide and probably still today her framed portrait would hang in ophthalmology studios alongside with that of the president or the queen. And it's not all. I suppose that if such divine punishment had been truly carried on, there
would be today more german shepherds with a red cross on their backs than automobiles, and telescopic sticks and dark glasses would sell as much as bread.
However, Samantha Fox too disappeared from the music scene after her first and only major hit and for some years kept on existing only on the turquoise flags and in the forcibly Platonic love of an entire generation. Then I remember that I once read by chance on a tabloid that our heroine had undergone plastic surgery for breast reduction. Come on, this was an impure act! Not the operation itself but rather the fact of having it made public. It was the equivalent of killing Superman, or telling a 5 years old child that Santa Claus doesn't exist: end of the broadcastings, game over! It was time to lower the turquoise flags.
Now, there are three reasons why I'm writing a blog about Samantha Fox and love: (a) A few days ago I accidentally listened to "Touch me!" for the first time in nearly two decades; (b) I've been stuck in Bangkok for over a week now (thanks to the guys at the Indian consulate who are taking ages to
glue a sticker with my name on my passport) and I have far too much time to devote to mental loitering; (c) I've recently and crazily re-met the woman of my dreams (I don't mean Samantha Fox) who made a point in explaining why she can't possibly spend her life by my side.
I remember that two decades ago, both love and sex were, for me at least, rather linear concepts to be settled in a few minutes: a look at the turquoise flag, one or two steps towards blindness and on with more important things such as football or the A-Team. Then you grow up and things become more complicated.
I think I have pursued in recent years a lifestyle that doesnt' really suit long-term relationships, I admit it. But faithful to the principles, I've always kept an adolescent kind of love, pure in a sense, that kind of feeling that doesn't take into account factors such as a mortgage, a job, a pension plan, etc.. It must be me the strange one, but I just can't worry about a problem that (still) did not occur. More important yet, I don't think I've ever loved someone more
Mel & Kim
or less because of 50 years of guaranteed loyalty. A person is not a washing machine. I'm convinced that the only real reason to be with someone should be the desire, unique and unrepeatable, to awake next to that person, of being happy just because that person smiled. And that should be so at 18 or at 70. And the day when that requirement went amiss, one should have the common sense, the courage and the honesty to pack and leave. This, and not guarantees of future (hypothetical) security and stability should keep two people together. Or separate them.
I'm a radical, I know, but one thing in heart's businesses I've finally understood: love in the time of Samantha Fox was easier!
POST SCRIPTUM: In line with worst contemporary novelists (i.e. John Grisham) who never ever leave the reader with unanswered questions, I carried on a series of research with the scientific rigor and the almost Kantian sobriety that characterize me. It came out that: (a) Samantha Fox continues singing in front of crowds of... 5, 6 people. She also recently declared her homosexuality; (b) In spite of the sophisticated means at my disposal I was unable to
determine outside which underground station Chesney Hawkes sells lottery tickets. Apocryphal sources give it as touring, but they are only allegations; (c) The ozone layer above Sweden increased significantly since Joey Tempest lost his hair; (d) The day after tomorrow I leave for Sri Lanka. ITALIANO
La versione italiana di questo blog e' disponibile su Vagabondo.net
Link: L'Amore ai Tempi di Samantha Fox