For Godsake, Love, Forsake Love

This morning, rather habitually, I was stirred from my glorious slumber by the inconvenient racket of the radio. More than that; a love song on the radio. Now it may simply be the context in which I am hearing the endless love songs each morning, but I am most duly frustrated at the myriad of content out there about nothing more than love.
For godsake, society has turned to slop.

I understand all too well that writing about your dearly loved, statistically significant other half may produce some lovely harmony. And provide eternal inspiration for making more songs thus. But could we perhaps write, sing and talk about something other than love?

I concede it's a very heartfelt subject and makes even the coldest of us feel warmer and fuzzier than a furby, but could it be that we are so deeply embroiled in the cliché notion, that we are incapable of talking about anything else with the same depth? Perhaps we should defer the use of our hearts to pumping blood to our brains for a change.

Take note Mr. Blunt. James 'I've-had-my-heart-steam-rolled-more-times-than-michael-jackson-had-his-nose-tweaked' Blunt; don't get me wrong here. I do love your music so. But at the same time I am oddly sure you are responsible for a multitude of depression cases. Your songs - as well crafted as they may be - serve one purpose. When one is happy, they pull one down; when one is sad, they pull one further down. A exciting new concept for you James - its called happiness. Give it a burl.

Another convenient example of this excessively sentimental love rubbish is all too recent. Valentine's day; the perfect opportunity for a man to forget his woman resulting in mortal offence and sometimes a hideous lawsuit. The day in itself means less than the Bible does to Buddhists. It is overly commercialized, drearily American and the catalyst for many 9 months work-leaves. Another increasingly common option is to spend one's day sulking in the depths of the grumpy-abyss, complaining that they have nobody to love, and will never find anybody to love (Queen, take note). Firstly, it's precisely this kind of self indulgence which placed you fatefully in the corner of a dark room crying in the first place. Secondly, if you are in such a pickle, you should do just what everyone else does in your position - a quick trip to liquorland and a few days later you wake up on a roof in Mexico with fat, singleted old men fighting to the death over the last burrito. And you thought your life was sad.

So, on the next occasion you find yourself lonely, unfulfilled, partnerless, gorging yourself on home-brand chocolate, slumped lifelessly on your couch and contemplating popping up to the pharmacy for a quick fix of anti depressants and a James Blunt CD, take a detour to WorldVision. Sponsor a small and starving African orphan, who would have died in the next twelve hours from dehydration and malnutrition and who could have fed his entire family for a week with the chocolate now settling in your Westernized stomach.

Your problems aren't so bad.

Maestro.