Three days down - and already, your votes are stacking up differently from last time. A year ago, the 1970s and 1980s quickly established a clear lead, and hung onto it for the rest of the project. This time round, it's the 1960s and 2000s which are steaming ahead - with the 1990s trailing badly. Time to bring on the Number Sevens, then:Riding the crest of the Merseybeat boom, the appropriately titled Merseybeats were enjoying their second - and, by some distance, their biggest - hit with I Think Of You, which peaked at #5. (Christ, I'm sounding like Dale Winton on Saturday afternoons.) What appeals about this record: the unadorned immediacy, the low-res production values, and the ragged edge to the performance (especially on some of the double-tracked vocals). The song only just hangs together; it could fall apart at any minute, and probably frequently did. You sense that the band had only just finished rehearsing it before being rushed into the studio to make a quick Merseybeat buck while the fad lasted.

I reserve a special loathing for the ghastly, unforgiveable Bay City Rollers, who were on the point of supplanting the Osmonds as Britain's number one teen scream sensation. Where the Osmonds were at least partially redeemed by a certain well-meaning sincerity - a detectable niceness - and a measure of creative input which occasionally produced some creditable pop music (Crazy Horses, the sublime Let Me In, the ambitious "concept album" The Plan), the Bay City Rollers were pure, 100%, solid gold, production line pap. More than possibly any other teen band before or since (and I have given the matter some thought), the sole raison d'etre of the Rollers was - as Peter is so fond of saying - to extract the maximum amount of money from the purses of teenage girls in the shortest space of time. The band's total indifference to the processed dreck which passed for their music is blatantly evident, at all times. When listening to Remember, and indeed to all their hits, one struggles in vain to detect even a shred of feeling, or even of enjoyment. The ugliness at the heart of the Rollers remains unsurpassed to this day. Yes - they even make Westlife look good. And for that alone, I detest them.

After even a minute of the above, the sheer relief brought on by the opening strains of Van Halen's mighty Jump is enough to make me want to mount my desk and punch my fist in the air. This is one of a select handful of commercial FM rock-lite anthems which - for me, a confirmed opponent of the genre - work quite brilliantly. (Other examples: Boston's More Than A Feeling, Rainbow's Since You Been Gone, Bon Jovi's Living On A Prayer.) There's nothing more to add other than: BOOOOOGIEEEEE!!!

In the current pop climate, it's impossible to imagine a record as gentle, as delicate, as understated and as downright peculiar as Tori Amos' Pretty Good Year getting within sniffing distance of the Top 10. In 1994, with Radio One in the process of shedding its dated Smashie & Nicey image and making determined efforts to Get Hip with the Music Press Kids, such a thing was still entirely possible. A tender, haunting melody, beautifully sung and played, and with the added bonus of a set of bonkers lyrics that mean absolutely nothing at all. We like!

We also like Jamelia, the newly crowned queen of UK R&B (those Winton-isms are flowing thick and fast today), with her top quality follow-up to last year's gloriously addictive Superstar. Its message is one of proud defiance: what doesn't destroy me makes me stronger. "For every last bruise you gave me, for every time I sat in tears, for the million ways you hurt me, I just wanna tell you this: you broke my world, made me strong, thank you." Personally, I think it's great that a song with subject matter like this should currently be getting heavy radio airplay. More power to ya, Joh-meeel-yoh!

My votes: 1 - Van Halen. 2 - Tori Amos. 3 - Jamelia. 4 - The Merseybeats. 5 - Bay City Rollers.

Over to you. For my money, Van Halen, Tori Amos and Jamelia all deserve healthy smatterings of 5 points each, while I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a string of last placings for the Bay City Rollers. As usual, please leave your votes in the comments box.ADMIN: Part 5 of the Which Decade? project will appear on Monday.

Labels: whichdecade04

Because I know how much you all care... here are this morning's Belle de Jour headlines. (They don't call me Natasha Kaplinsky for nothing.)

Our top story: Darren @ linkmachinego posits the most fantastic conspiracy theory yet.

For those of you who don't follow the tech sites: a well-known IT/tech newsletter called The Register has become notorious for regularly running articles, by a certain Andrew Orlowski, which delight in trashing the whole concept of weblogs. According to Orlowski, blogs clutter up the web with a trillion banalities, they ruin the effectiveness of Google, and are, well, to put it in a nutshell, big stinky piles of doo-doo, so there. How curious, therefore, that - as Darren discovers - Andrew Orlowski should have such close connections with Sarah Champion (named by The Times yesterday as the real author of BdJ). Indeed, both Orlowski and Champion are both currently residents of San Francisco.

The conspiracy theory that logically follows from Darren's findings is so delicious that I find myself longing for it to be true. Namely, that Orlowski and Champion cooked up a fake weblog last year - firstly to take the piss out of gullible bloggers, secondly as a parody of "washing your dirty laundry in public" personal blogs, and thirdly with the express intention of winning the Guardian's "best written weblog" competition, thus cocking a gleeful snook at all the self-important "real" weblog writers out there. In other words: Look how crap you all are! We can do better than you without even trying! The subsequent book deal, and the general anguished gnashing of teeth which it provoked, ("She's dragging weblogs into the gutter!" "I could do better than that in my sleep!") was merely the icing on the cake. This would also support the increasingly prevalent view that BdJ is written by more than one person.

If any of the above is true, then the people involved are certainly taking their deception very seriously. After being tipped off on Tuesday afternoon that Belle = Champion (see below), I e-mailed Belle to let her know what was going on. My e-mail was sent at 14:21 UK time, or 6:21 a.m. San Francisco time. Belle's PGP-encrypted reply reached me just 25 minutes later, and a veiled rebuttal was posted on her blog within the hour. A strange time of day for a Californian "techno/drum & bass" clubbing journalist to be sitting in front of her computer, wouldn't you say?

Meanwhile, as a phone conversation with Sam Coates from The Times confirmed yesterday evening, Champion has to date merely issued a statement denying that she has ever been a call girl. It is interesting to note that she has yet to deny being Belle de Jour. Of course, it is entirely possible that she is merely riding the current wave of unexpected publicity for her own benefit, and timing her statements carefully to extract maximum mileage. So, can we square all this with the rumour - as suggested by Belle herself - that Champion was overheard at the London Book Fair this week boasting that she was the real BdJ? Especially when she lives in California? And was this before or after the investigations by Don Foster and The Times, which were concluded this Tuesday - the final day of the Book Fair? How many games of double-and-triple bluff are going on here? If you can construct a coherent theory out of all of this, then I for one would love to hear it.

And in other news:

• "She's a good girl, she is!" Sarah Champion's mother denies everything.
• Do your own "textual analysis": Nick Barlow types up a sample of Champion's prose.
• Careful who you jump into bed with, missy: Old Hag sounds a note of caution re. Belle's US agent.
• Well, I've got this friend, right, and she says... More gossip in the comments at Harry's Place.
• Or how about the Lisa Hilton rumour? (via)
• ...and if you think that I'm over-analysing, then lemme tell ya, y'ain't seen nothin' yet...

[turns coquettishly to camera] I'm Natasha Kaplinsky, and that was Bellewatch. Now, here's Declan with that business update. Declan...

By way of homage to Zoe's marvellous new compendium of Twattisms, here's another example of The Shit My Boyfriend And I Come Out With On A Regular Basis.

Scene: our bedroom, this morning. The boys are washing and dressing.

K (exasperated): God! Why do I have to be surrounded by people all the time? Why can't the world just leave me alone?

M (emollient, and a little facile): That's just the way the world is. You can't change it. Just accept it. After all, no man is an island...

K: But I want to be an island! Let me be an island!

M: It's never going to happen...

K: I want to be... a pelmet!

M: A what? A permit?

K: I meant a hermit! You see? I'm cracking up! No, maybe I do want to be a pelmet. Yes! I just want to hang around all day, like a fart at the top of a curtain rail...

M: Well, you'll never be an island, that's for sure. Oh! I know what you are! You're an isthmus. People keep trampling all over you to get from one side to the other.

K: I am, I am! I'm an isthmus!

Did I mention that we'd had a few the night before?

What with all the excitement over the outing (or not) of Belle de Jour, my poor little Top-di-Pop project is getting somewhat short shrift, with the number of votes for yesterday's (admittedly rancid) selection registering an all-time low, even when compared to last year. Never mind; onwards and upwards we plough, with a reminder that voting will stay open for all the selections, right up until the end of the project.

Something else which I neglected to mention yesterday: the New Seekers track was the second of this year's two substitutions, owing to the unavailability of the real Number 9 from 1974, Freddie Starr's gloopy ballad It's You. Yes, that Freddie Starr. Trust me, you were spared.

The general reaction to yesterday's selection seems to be one of abject horror, with a couple of you professing to be so appalled that you found yourselves unable to put the five songs in any order of preference. We had similar reactions last year, with some of you wondering whether I had deliberately chosen the worst week in the history of pop. The simple truth to be gleaned from all of this: the charts have always been full of crap. And today's tunes are, by and large, no exceptions. Steel yourselves, pop-pickers, as we hold our noses and plunge into the Number Eights:Playing these to K late last night in order to glean his votes, something in him snapped. "I refuse to put these in order", he fumed. "Because I HATE ALL OF THEM!" Let's see whether his hissy fit was justified, shall we?

Prior to the success of Boys Cry, Eden Kane, real name Richard Sarstedt, had spent over 18 months without a hit single, releasing a string of flops and even changing record labels. Sadly for him, Boys Cry proved to be his last ever hit. A few years later, both of his brothers had one-hit wonder mini-careers of their own: Peter Sarstedt with Where Do You Go To My Lovely (1969) and Robin Sarstedt with My Resistance Is Low (1976).

I'm stalling for time here, as I haven't got much to say about Boys Cry. It... exists. Its message - that hey, men are sensistive too - may have been mildly radical for its day, but unfortunately The Searchers covered similar territory, with considerably more depth, just two days ago (Needles & Pins - see below).

Nevertheless, it has a certain period charm. Or, in K's words: "It's not very good, but I quite like it." This is in stark contrast to his comments on Paul McCartney & Wings' Jet: "It's quite good, but I ABSOLUTELY DESPISE IT. F***ing Wings! All this says is: I've married the Kodak heiress, so I don't need to bother any more."

Yeah - 'cos Paul, like, really needed the money? Did I mention that we'd had a few by then?

Time to 'fess up, then. Reader, I was a pubescent Wings fan. Band On The Run - loved it. Venus & Mars - loved it even more. Wings At The Speed Of Sound - OK, they lost it there. (Before temporarily regaining it with the genuinely excellent Goodnight Tonight in 1979.) Having said that, Jet was never one of my favourites. There's an angularity about it which swiftly becomes grating, and an underlying hollowness - a sense that, with his young family and his newly found personal stability, McCartney has forgotten how to let loose and rock out, and is merely going through the motions. Nevertheless, he hasn't yet lost his knack for melodic inventiveness; the horror of Mull Of Kintyre is still over three years away.

As soon as the opening strains of Billy Joel's An Innocent Man struck up, K began to keen and to wail, and to turn the air bluer than blue. Even more than dance music (which he can just about tolerate in small doses and at low volumes, if pushed), this represents everything he hates. Airbrushed AOR nothingness, made even more horrible by overuse of an echo chamber, and what I charitably presume must be deliberate nods to Ben E. King's Stand By Me. Billy Joel has had his moments - particularly with the stirring My Life, which could have been a gay anthem if covered by a disco diva - but this ain't one of them.

But how can you possibly rank An Innocent Man above or below the faux-ethnic, pseudo-deep, new-age-decaff montrosity that was Enigma? Return To Innocence is the sound of a thousand mashed-up queens with zero taste bunging something "tasteful" on the stereo to impress their new shags at four in the morning, while skinning up on the coffee table and waiting for the pills to wear off a bit. It gives me The Fear.

Which leaves us with dependable old Kylie Minogue, who is once again going through one of her "sophisticated" phases. As such, Red Blooded Woman, deftly constructed as it is, doesn't really play to her strengths, coming across as little more than a poor man's Britney Spears. I like Kylie best when she remembers that - as she once admitted in an interview - "I'll always be a little bit naff." Spinning cheese into gold - that's her particular skill. Red Blooded Woman is neither cheesy nor golden, but merely adequate. On the other hand, as K grudgingly admitted, it does have the virtue of a certain freshness.

My votes: 1 - Kylie Monogue. 2 - Eden Kane. 3 - Paul McCartney & Wings. 4 - Billy Joel. 5 - Enigma.

Over to you. Come on, be brave. At the time of writing, and after just two days, the 1960s are in a clear lead. Will Eden Kane keep them ahead, or will plucky little Kylie push the much-maligned Noughties into the lead? Please leave your votes in the comments box.

Labels: whichdecade04

The name I was given in yesterday's comments box - and dutifully deleted (see yesterday's posting) - turns up again today on Page 3 of The Times. (There's an ironic point to be made here about tabloid vs. literary titillation in the Murdoch press, but it's far too early in the morning for that sort of cleverness.) Yesterday, Google returned no results at all for "Sarah Champion" "Belle de Jour". I suspect that's all about to change very soon.

(I should also point out that Peter @ Naked Blog, who caught the name in my comments box before it was deleted, took a feisty "publish and be damned" line and SCOOPED THE WORLD yesterday. A scoop which I opted to sit on, in a rare attack of prissy high-mindedness. God, I'd make a shit journalist.)

Meanwhile, Belle continues to deny everything. As well she might - the Times' only evidence being a "language expert" and "literary sleuth" from America who has run textual comparisons between Belle's prose and that of Ms. Champion (who was, in any case, reported as having outed herself as Belle at a book fair last week).

Why do Hugh Trevor-Roper & the Hitler diaries immediately spring to mind?

And how long will it take The Times to face the awful possibility that maybe, just maybe, the "real" Belle de Jour might not actually be a member of their journo-literary set after all, but a talented newcomer with no previous "form" to analyse? I know, I know, barmy theory....

Personally, I think it would be much more fun if Belle de Jour had been outed as the other Sarah Champion: co-presenter of Channel Five's Pub Ammo (no, me neither), presenter of the drivetime show on Horizon radio, and "recently voted one of the sexiest women on radio by FHM magazine." Isn't that rather a back-handed compliment?

Earlier on today, controversy poked its ugly head into my dinky little fluffball of a project, as it was revealed that Beenie Man (yesterday's 2004 entrant) is a rampant homophobe, who has recorded a song (Bad Man Chi Chi Man) with vicious - nay, murderous - anti-gay lyrics. But does this make Dude a worse record? Should we all be amending our votes to mark it fifth? And what does his fragrant sidekick Ms. Thing make of it all?

While we wrestle with our consciences, let's all do it to the soundtrack of today's sparkling array of contestants. Let's hear it for the Number Nines!In terms of the history and development of pop, Jim Reeves is a name which has slipped off most people's radar altogether. Apart from the appearance of the occasional K-Tel 40 Golden Greats compilation the album charts of the 1970s or 1980s, and an early 1970s BBC Nationwide film about an obsessive fan who had converted her flat into a Reeves shrine, curtains permanently drawn, never stepping outside the front door, and relying on her neighbours to fetch her groceries, he is someone whom I have always tuned out. Indeed, I Love You Because, a hit for Reeves just four months before his fatal plane crash, is the first record of his which I have ever knowingly listened to. And OK, so it's hokey, sentimental and a heavily diluted take on Hank Williams - but nevertheless, there's something which draws me in. I think it's the song's deeply reassuring quality; the aural equivalent of being wrapped in warm, freshly laundered, fluffy white bath towels. Reeves' voice is so honeyed, so velvet smooth, that I begin to understand what it was that prompted so much posthumous adulation.

By the time that the equally hokey - and consciously "old-fashioned" sounding - I Get A Little Sentimental Over You hit the charts, Eve Graham & Lyn Paul had announced their departure from the New Seekers, who were midway through a marathon farewell tour prior to splitting up in May. As such, this was their final hit until a new line-up enjoyed rather more modest success two years later. It sounds a little bit valedictory, as it liltingly sways along in its cosy saloon bar sing-song style. It's not much cop though, is it?

However, my real derision is reserved for so-called "mystery artist" Rockwell, enjoying his only real hit, assisted by Michael Jackson on what passes for the song's chorus. In reality, Rockwell was the son of Berry Gordy, the founder of Motown records - which explains a) how this crock of poo got recorded/promoted in the first place and b) how a genuine talent like Jackson came to lend his name to it. (Bear in mind that in early 1984, Jackson was at the height of his Thriller-era mega-popularity; he would have had a hit with anything, even his shopping list.) Jobs for the boys, in other words. Oh, just listen to that ghastly, boggle-eyed, faux-spooky "comedy" rap and that weedy, wafer-thin backing. Unforgiveable.

I'm really making K suffer this week. Even ten years on, I can remember his near-violent reaction to Reel 2 Real's (admittedly total kack) appearance on Top Of The Pops, with The Mad Stuntman tunelessly growling his way through the track. It was one of his defining "this is the end of the line for all decent pop music" moments. As for me, I never cared much for I Like To Move It either... except that, as with yesterday's Needles & Pins, it actually turned out to be quite prescient. There's a line that can be drawn between this song and such gems as Basement Jaxx's Jump & Shout, and on through to today's dancehall/house crossovers. Viewed retrospectively, I find myself rather fond of it. Maybe that's because, when all is said and done, I too like to move it, move it.

Which leaves us with dependable old George Michael, sounding for all the world like the eight years since his last album had never happened, with a song that basically comes across as a slightly re-jigged version of Fast Love. And what, pray, is wrong with that? I'm a sucker for this kind of smooth wine-bar funk, and George does it so well, so "classily", with not the slightest nod to contemporary musical fashions.

My votes: 1 - George Michael. 2 - Jim Reeves. 3 - Reel 2 Real. 4 - New Seekers. 5 - Rockwell.

Over to you. The 1960s and 1980s both got off to a strong start yesterday, with the last two decades trailing badly behind. Will George and the Stuntman even things up, or will the dulcet tones of Gentle Jim send the Sixties soaring? Oh, I could drivel on like this all evening! Please leave your votes in the comment box.

Incidentally, it's not too late to vote for yesterday's selections either - voting will stay open for all ten groups of singles until the end of the project.

Labels: whichdecade04

A. Woo! My old pal Richard is coming over from Louth and we're going to see Basement Jaxx tonight.

B. Boo! Richard thought the gig was next week, his car is being mended, and he's stuck in Louth.

C. Boo! Rock City is packed and I'm all on my own.

D. Someone is squeezing my shoulder. I look round. Woo! It's my dear friends Heather, Colin and Nina, standing just a few feet away. But I thought that they didn't go to gigs any more, now that they're all parents? Apologies all round for not getting in touch beforehand.

E. Nina tells me that the support act are none other than the Audio Bullys. Woo! I like the Audio Bullys. Aren't they a bit too successful to be a support act, though?

F. About two minutes later, an announcement is made. "Owing to unforseen circumstances, the Audio Bullys will not be performing tonight." Boo! Roadies come on and start removing record decks from the middle of the stage. Oh well - I only spent two minutes thinking I was going to see them, after all. I can re-adjust.

G. About five minutes later, another announcment. "The Audio Bullys will now be performing, ten minutes after Basement Jaxx finish their set, downstairs in the basement bar." Woo!

H. Woo! Basement Jaxx are on stage, with two funky & fabulous soul divas belting out the formidable "Good Luck" (one of their absolute best tracks). Behind the band are some of the most impressive back projections I have ever seen: a dazzling quick-fire succession of razor-sharp DVD images, spread over three screens, all perfectly synched to the music. This is going to be great!

I. Boo! The joint is heaving, and there's no room to dance. Wedged next to Colin on the bottom step to the right of the mixing desk, at least I have a perfect view. Can't expect everything, I guess.

J. Red alert! Red alert! It's a catastrophe... Woo! My favourite! And so soon in the set! I jiggle up and down as best I can, as the seething crowd below me goes apeshit. There's more unrestrained energy & enthusiasm here than at a regular rock gig. Sometimes it gets overwhelming; for now, it's exhilarating. And the music keeps on playin' on and on...

K. The Jaxx are pumping out hit after hit - who knew they had so many? - with a constantly shifting crew of five singers (four female, one male) who keep disappearing and re-appearing in new costumes. While the singers all leave, the remaining band deliver a brilliant new track which mashes up the bassline from Seven Nation Army with the acapella from 50 Cent's In Da Club, to a backdrop of split-second collages of 12-inch record labels from the late 80s/early 90s. Even though they're split-second, the trainspotter/ex-DJ in me recognises nearly half of them. Could this be more exciting? Woo! "This is the best one yet!", Colin and I agree.

L. OK, this is getting ridiculous now. People are constantly squeezing past us on the steps, and I'm jammed against the crash barrier, unable to stand up straight. Two burly lumps are standing directly below and in front of me, their backs wedged against my mid-torso and crotch. If I move at all, my crotch grinds into them. It's not even mildly erotic. Also, I haven't got anywhere to put my hands. I ask the lumps to step forward an inch. They burble something incomprehensible back and refuse to move. Boo!

M. Unfortunately, Basement Jaxx have now used up nearly all their hits, and are playing a succession of lesser known and frankly inferior numbers. Boo! I've had enough of this - time to get some beer.

N. Woo! Beer! It has been remarkably easy to get served with alcohol this evening, and yet the crowd really are extraordinarily, um, motivated. I wonder why.

O. Back from the bar, I take up a new position on the raised platform behind the steps. Ah, this is better. I can actually twitch a limb without crashing into people here. Woo!

P. "Can you keep moving forward please; we can't see." "You're standing in someone's space; they'll be back in a minute." I'm pissing everyone off around me with my mere presence. I've become the tall person that everyone hates at concerts. Boo!

Q. And the set is just as boring as it was before. Boo!

R. The polite looking girlie in front of me has suddenly sprung to life, for no apparent reason, and is now bouncing up and down with great gusto. Which would be fine, except that her pony tail keeps flicking in my face, and there's nowhere else for me to move. Ugh! Poo! Boo! A few minutes later, Heather nudges me. "Has that girl just come up on her pill, or what?" I explain that her pony tail must have beaten the rest of her to it. Maybe it all spreads from the follicles?

S. WHEEEERES-YOOOOUR-HEEEEEAD-AT? WHEZYOHEDAT! Woo! The venue absolutely erupts - hands in the air, whoops and whistles and hollers and general mentalism. I love the raw, almost punky energy of this one. This is more like it! Pony tails be damned!

T. Encore time, and the energy cranks up another notch with the ragga-tastic "Jump 'N Shout". Woo! And woo again!

U. Okay, let's try squeezing in downstairs for the Audio Bullys. Our only concern: the basement area is about a quarter of the size of the upstairs hall, and the gig played to a sold-out capacity crowd. How are we all going to fit? This could be Hell. Oh, no it isn't. Vast numbers of people are filing out onto the street, and we find a comfortable spot in the basement area. Woo! After Party!

V. Bloody Hell - the Audio Bullys are great! Woo! With just an MC and a DJ on stage, the set is stripped right down to its clubby essentials. Performing nothing from last year's album, what we get instead is freestyle toasting over a non-stop mix of raw, minimal, bass-heavy ragga/garage ruffness. It's dead simple, but it works superbly well in the enclosed basement space, basslines bouncing off the walls and bashing us in the solar plexus. Upstairs as a warm-up set, this would never have worked. Downstairs as an after-show treat, it turns the venue into a sweaty club environment, the whole room jiggling and wriggling and beaming with glee. Nina says it reminds her of when she used to go clubbing regularly, before she became a mum. Puts her back in touch with what she's been missing, and of how good it used to feel. I'm getting the same feeling, flashing back to mad nights at the Marcus Garvey Centre in 95/96...Carl Cox, the DiY sound system...good times. And I've only had two lagers!

W. The Audio Bullys aren't just great - they're chuffing fantastic! We've caught a wave, locked onto it, and have been riding it for nearly an hour, as the vibe in the room continues to build and solidify. Nina and I keep grinning at each other in amazed delight - this is way, way more enjoyable than Basement Jaxx. Woo! Woo! Woo! All the way home!

About an hour ago, I received a comment from a "long time anonymous fan" which purports to reveal the true identity of Belle De Jour, with the instruction to "tell everyone". The person in question is female, and shares a name with two people in the public arena, one of whom has several books bearing her name.

The amateur sleuth in me is immediately very excited. I find myself sorely tempted to extract this person's name from the Google-can't-find-me-here anonymity of the comments box, to splatter here it all over the main site, and to proudly claim an exclusive (a Google search for "her name" "belle de jour" comes up with no results). After all, there ain't much I wouldn't do for publicity, as regular readers of this site would no doubt confirm.

But it's temptation for all the wrong reasons. Only this morning, I was talking on the phone to a friend of mine who has just been offered her first book deal, but who for various reasons doesn't want to use her real name. (The subject of Belle naturally came up.) I was on my friend's side. She has an absolute right to disguise her identity if she wants to. In which case, so does Belle.

So - and God, did this ever hurt! - I have edited the comment to remove Belle's supposed real identity.

Besides which, everyone knows that I Am Belle De Jour. Buy my thong!

Update: I've been talking to Belle; she's NOT the person "outed" in my comments. Apparently, this person "outed" herself as Belle at a recent book fair - maybe as a joke, maybe to draw attention to herself; who knows? The other possibility is that someone is spreading this person's name with malicious intent. Unless Belle is spinning an elaborate double bluff, of course - but I seriously, seriously doubt it. Look, she's a Scissor Sisters fan, for God's sake! I feel a bond!

Thanks to the recent hiatus, this is nearly a month overdue (it was supposed to run on the week of my birthday) - but no matter; it's finally time to welcome back the second annual instalment of the Which decade is Tops for Pops? project. (It is almost impossible to resist the urge to whoop at this stage, but let's not burn ourselves out before we've even begun.)

If you were reading this site in February 2003, then you'll already know the procedure. If not, then please allow me to explain.

Over the next ten instalments, we will be systematically comparing the records in the Top 10 UK singles chart for this week in 1964, 1974, 1984, 1994 and 2004. Today, we'll be looking at all the records in the Number 10 position; tomorrow, we'll look at the Number 9s; and so on until we reach the Number 1s.

Each day, I'll be posting a short MP3 medley of the five songs under consideration, containing about a minute's worth of each song. Your job is to listen to the medley and place the five songs in order of preference. It doesn't matter how rubbish you might think they are; all five songs must be ranked, with no tied positions and no omissions.

(Note: to save on my space and your time, I've encoded the medleys at a scintillating 96kbps, for that authentic "listening on a cheap transistor radio" pop experience.)

Once you have scored the songs, please place your votes in that day's comment box. I will then aggregate total scores for each song based on your votes, with 5 points for each 1st place, 4 points for each 2nd place, etc.

In this way, we will eventually end up with 10 sets of combined votes, i.e. one for each chart position. Using the same inverse points system, I'll then aggregate combined votes for each decade, thus establishing, at the end of the 10 days, which is decade truly is Tops for Pops. I'll also be keeping a running total going each day, so that you can track how the decades are faring against each other.

Still confused? Oh, don't worry; it will all become clear soon enough. Perhaps I should instigate a mentoring scheme between old hands and newcomers? No, perhaps not.

Last year, the 1970s and 1980s pulled clear ahead of the rest of the pack, finishing with a dead heat which had to be resolved with a tie-breaker. Eventually, the 1970s were crowned victorious. This year, I have a sneaking suspicion that the decades will be rather more evenly matched... but there again, I could be wrong. It's all down to you, readers!

Onto business, then. Here are the Number 10 singles for this week in 1964, 1974, 1984, 1994 and 2004.Last year, when the Top 10 for mid-February 1963 fell under the microscope, many of you commented that the music didn't feel like the 1960s; it felt stale, out of date, in need of change. Frankie Vaughan, Mike Berry, Brenda Lee, Del Shannon, Maureen Evans, Frank Ifield, Kenny Ball's Jazzmen: this was the sound of the 1950s clinging on for dear life. The one shining exception in the 1963 chart was The Beatles' Please Please Me, which sounded like it was beamed in from a different universe - a harbinger of the future.

Sure enough, just over a year later, the Top 10 for 1964 bears scant relation to its dusty Tin Pan Alley predecessor. The 1960s had finally begun in earnest, with the whole British "beat group" explosion already in full swing - and this record by The Searchers is a classic example. Indeed, with its jingly-jangly folk-rock guitar sound already hinting at developments to come from the likes of The Byrds, Needles And Pins is in itself something of a stylistic trailblazer. Co-written by Jack Nitzsche and Sonny Bono, and originally recorded in the US by Jackie DeShannon, this cover version swaps the genders, turning the man into the wounded, brooding, victim of the woman who has deserted him. A surprisingly mature, progressive record to find in the pop charts of this period...

...in stark contrast to The Wombles, with an extended version of the theme tune to their animated TV show. Dismissable kiddie crap, then? Actually, no. This, and many of The Wombles' surprisingly long run of hits, is of a much higher musical order than it strictly needs to be, with its deft, distinctive melody underpinned by a really rather lovely orchestration. Nestling between the whimsical jauntiness of the main refrain, there is even a hint of real wistfulness in the "Uncle Bulgaria" verse. You won't find such richness in the collected works of The Tweenies or The Teletubbies, that's for sure.

Indeed, as The Wombles' hit-making career continued, composer Mike Batt used it as an exercise for dabbling in a wide variety of musical genres: glam-rock, reggae, classical waltz, vintage rock and roll... the fourth album even contains a full-blown Rick Wakeman pastiche, "The Myths And Legends Of King Merton Womble And His Journey To The Centre Of The Earth". Such a shame, then, that Batt has recently seen fit to blot his copybook by inflicting the awful Katie Melua upon us. ("Feeling twenty-two, acting seventeen" has to be the most memorably grating line in pop since J-Lo's "Don't be fooled by the rocks that I've got, I'm still Jenny from the block".) I'm sorely tempted to deduct points for that alone - but I try to be a fair man.

Unlike last year, I have failed to find MP3s of two songs from this year's crop, and in each case am subsituting the Number 11 record from the same chart. Thus it is that Richard Hartley & The Michael Reed Orchestra's The Music Of Torvill & Dean EP (lead track: the inevitable Bolero) is nudged out by - Hi! Hi! We're your Weather Girls, and have we got news for you! I think we've all been spared, don't you?

It's Raining Men had been knocking around as an import 12" in UK gay clubs since the summer of 1982, meaning that by the time it charted, some of us were growing just a little bit sick of it. Indeed, it's a record which I could cheerfully never listen to again. That's not to deny its genius; it's merely to admit that even great jokes can eventually wear thin. Yes, it's a comedy record - but what a comedy record. Like the musical equivalent of one of those uber-successful US comedies which have been written by committees of 20 or more, It's Raining Men simply crams in Big Moment after Big Moment after Big Moment, with devastating efficency. I wonder how many of you will be on the point of throwing your hands up in the air for a rousing chorus of "GOD BLESS MOTHER NATURE, SHE'S A SINGLE WOMAN TOO!", just as the the medley switches to...

...Toni Braxton's dire ditty. Plod plod, plink plonk, whine whine. Any more than a minute of this arid, self-pitying, soulless dirge would rob me of the will to live, I think. Apologies if I'm treading all over someone's treasured memories, but I speak as I find.

Finally, I am fully expecting Beenie Man featuring Ms. Thing to grate horribly on many of you. Ruffneck dancehall ragga over a minimal, repetitive backing, enlivened only by the judicious use of steel drums; this will have some of my more seasoned readers covering their ears in horror. And yet, and yet, it works. There's an insistent rough-edged energy to Dude which exerts a physical pull that I find wholly appealing. So there.

All I would say is this, though: when voting, try not to be overly swayed by nostalgic associations with your own personal Golden Age Of Pop, whichever decade it might be. In other words: don't let's be beastly to the Noughties.

My votes: 1 - The Searchers. 2 - The Weather Girls. 3 - Beenie Man featuring Ms. Thing. 4 - The Wombles. 5 - Toni Braxton. K's votes will appear in the comments shortly.

Over to you. (That's my catchphrase, that is.) Please leave your votes in the comments box below. The gloves are off. May the best decade win!

Labels: whichdecade04

...the return of a much enjoyed (by me at any rate) old favourite on this site. Ooh, I can't wait!

(Clue for older readers: Over to you. K's votes are in the comments.)

6. Being proved wrong, twice.

With regard to Nottingham's brand new tram service, which took its first passengers only last week, I have spent the last four or five years wrinkling my brow and sucking the air in through my teeth. "It's just a bus route on rails", I said. "Expensive mistake", I said - always piously concluding "But of course, I'm totally committed to integrated public transport solutions, and I wish it well, and I only hope that I'm proved wrong", while smiling the mock-humble smile of someone who is quite sure that they will be proved right.

On the evening of the launch - delayed by four months due to derailments and safety issues, smirk smirk - a group of us boarded the tram at the Lace Market stop on Fletcher Gate, paid two quid each for an all-day pass, and travelled all the way out to the end of the line in Hucknall, just under 9 miles and just over 30 minutes away.

I was with K's Posh Crowd, a decidedly eminent bunch of local luminaries, most of whom I suspect were less than frequent users of public transport. It felt rather like being part of an Official Delegation, as we politely engaged the conductor (Yes! A real life human conductor! In this day and age!) in conversation.

"HAVE. YOU. HAD. AN. ENJOYABLE. FIRST. DAY?"
"No, it's been a bloody nightmare."
"HAHAHA! OH DEAR. SORRY. TO. HEAR. THAT.

Not all of us appeared to be terribly familiar with anywhere outside the city centre, either. As the tram cruised down Noel Street (erstwhile haunt of Nottingham's hookers, before they moved to Woodborough Road) by the side of the Forest Recreation Ground (home of the city's annual Goose fair / late night gay cruising zone), on the way to Forest Fields & Hyson Green, one of our party loudly - rather too loudly, I fear - joked: "I hope they can lock the doors on this thing; I might need protecting!" (To which someone else muttered "Protecting from what, exactly? From your own..." - and then quickly checked himself.)

By the time we got to Bulwell, I too was on new territory. "I've never been to Bulwell!", I squealed excitedly, like a tourist at the Great Wall Of China. I've been to paradise... but I've never been to Bulwell.

Upon arrival at Hucknall, our group decided to sample a Typical Pint Of Hucknall Beer in a Typical Hucknall Hostelry. Still in the manner of an official deputation to an Eastern European partner city, we strode confidently into town, looking around us with suitably interested "ah, so this is Hucknall!" smiles on our faces, eventually commandeering a "local" to direct us to somewhere Typical. This turned out to be the Station Hotel, where half a dozen hardened drinkers at the bar turned and gazed at us in utter, open-mouthed astonishment, as we filed in like delegates at the Official Welcoming Reception. Pints of Home Ale ("So is this what people drink around here? Is it good?") were ordered, and glasses of wine for the ladies ("Do you think they'll have white wine?")

Oh, I'm being so, so unfair. (Although the nervously muttered "Do you think they'll have white wine?" comment was, admittedly, priceless.) The Posh Crowd were actually of the nearly-retired/just-retired philanthropic public-spirited type (rather than the snooty, competitive, materialistic, aren't-common-people-amusing-when-they're-not-being-ghastly type), with a genuine interest in the success of the project, passing the sheafs of promotional literature amongst each other and earnestly debating the finer points of public transport policy. My default protective Neurotic Adolescent Outsider act melted away in minutes.

As did my cynicism about the tram system. Comfortable, smooth-running, efficient, fast (much faster than I had expected), frequent (ditto), amazingly cheap, with excellent accessibility and fully integrated connections with six Park & Ride sites. This last point impressed me most of all: no less than 3000 parking spaces will now be free for tram users, making for a massive incentive for traffic to stay away from the city centre. On Saturday late afternoon, we watched packed trams leaving the Old Market Square in both directions - so packed that we wondered how the conductors were going to able to do their jobs.

---

I'm more than happy to eat my words on this - and on the virtues of lovely, lovely Sky Plus, courtesy of that cuddly, big-hearted, evil billionaire tyrant Rupert Murdoch. K has been itching to dump the pre-historic On Digital (now Freeview) box for months, and extolling the virtues of Tivo technology - where you can pause and rewind live transmissions and record entire series at the touch of a button, amongst other wonders - while I have been throwing up every obstacle I could think of. Except for the real two reasons: 1) eww, Murdoch and 2) eww, satellite dish. But, well, 1) my twenty year boycott of Murdoch doesn't exactly appear to have brought him to his knees, and 2) the dish is discreetly hidden behind a chimney pot, so we can still hold us heads up high on the Crescent.

And oh, dear God, what a service. The most pleasant surprise is that someone has actually bothered to finish inventing the thing. Unlike every other TV/video/remote set-up I've ever encountered, this one is actually logical, intuitive, user-friendly and designed to offer maximum functionality for minimum effort. Honestly, it's sheer bliss. I may never go out again.

Update (1): Oh.
Update (2): Ah.