26 December 2006

Open Letter... to Madonna

Dear Ms Cicada,

Given it is the season of goodwill to all men- and since that includes women- it seems appropriate to confess that throughout this year one has been mildly diverted by your best endeavours to entertain the gay league, in particular the blogue containing your uncensored thoughts.

Earlier in the year, one was quite astonished at the release of Sorry as a single: not only because it is one of the weakest tracks on your not-quite-the-weakest album, but because you never publicly apologised for anything you’ve ever done... not even Swept Away or American Life.

Upon first hearing the melody, one immediately recognised a catchy air from disco classic Can you feel it? by the Jackson 5. After what the Belgian courts had to say about pilfering ‘Frozen’, it is rather naughty of you to do this without an album credit. Even you deserve cruel and unusual punishment, from time to time… a little hanky spanky, perhaps?

But for my own part I forgive you, Ms Cicada. One ought, I believe, out of sheer admiration for what you pulled off this year: international child abduction aside, despite exorbitant ticket prices you still managed to fill stadiums around the world with the gay league and got them sing the words I’ve heard it all before in the refrain of Sorry... and yet they still haven’t realised it, have they? Why, in the past, attention to your lyrics led me to believe that irony was among the few things your talons had failed to grasp, but clearly one underestimated you… slightly!

In tribute to your audacity, and in recognition of the fact that every song on the album is an effort to recycle- how environmentally friendly!- instead of vilifying what you have done, one offers a cameo appearance in my latest literary masterpiece A Gay Christmas Carol. Please do not imagine that to be cast as a Spirit of Christmas Past will be taken to mean you are a has-been… but one worries that in any other part, your acting talents- like every other feature- might have been a little bit over-stretched.

Your nemesis,

Ms C Quisp

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