We start out with the lead Doll having a soak in a bath, enclosed in a dreary, cold blue room. She is texting someone – presumably Lewis Hamilton – and the tone is sombre. My eyes moisten a little as I realise that she’s probably dumping the racing whizz again. I feel Britain take yet another blow to the goolies at the hands of an American mistress. When she eventually steps out of the bath (sneakily hiding her arse and boobs, the bastard) it’s as if she knows what’s coming…
She is suddenly dressed to the nines and the tempo has instantaneously U turned into a beat I can’t begin to recognise as following any recognised percussive pattern. While I’m still trying to work out what timing we’re in, just so I can get a grip on where this clanging, bashing noise is going, the other Dolls are walking around in a blinding-white Escher installation. You know it’s the other Dolls because they’re the ones you wouldn’t recognise even if you woke up next to them every day until you died. Even if you had their faces tattooed under your eyelids and implanted inside your retina. The generic, two for a pound Dolls who only serve to make their videos seem like there’s a bit more activity in there than their actually is.
Soon they’re in a gay roller disco populated only by generically attractive women and, as if that costume change wasn’t one too many, suddenly Lewis Hamilton’s ex transforms into Gloria Gaynor without the girth and without the incredible singing voice. Surely autotuning a diva with an epic range defeats the point? Surely this can’t be allowed to happen? Surely this song and video is a horrible combination of the garish and the pedestrian?
Like flamboyant drizzle, or an overcast festival?
Thank Christ it lasts less than five minutes. I was ready to call NHS Direct for some beta blockers to try and stave off the arrhythymic palpitations my heart was suffering after listening to what can only be described as a hyper-charged collage of meaningless NOISE.
MY EARS, MY EARS.