All Repeat Workdays

“So how does this end exactly?”

I was perplexed.

“You damn well know how this ends. He sings She’s all good lovin’ at once over and over again until the song fades out.”

We were at hour two of listening to ‘She Makes My Day’ on repeat so the subtleties of the song should have sunk in by now.

“Not the song you imbecile. This situation.”

The situation in question was quite simple really. Cameron Daddo was playing a Robert Palmer song live to air on Smoothfm on a loop because I had a gun pointed at him. The reason I had a gun pointed at him was because I wanted the company that he worked for to put Smooth TV back on Foxtel. Given the gun was still pointed in his direction, I was surprised he had the minerals to call me an imbecile.

Then again, this was the same guy who released the country flop ‘15 Minutes of Fame’ and still had a successful career so perhaps I shouldn’t have been too shocked.

“Cam…can I call you Cam?”

Cam shrugged.

“You’re the one with the gun man.”

“Cam, my best-case scenario is that your corporate overlords cede to my demand and they restore what they wrongfully took from us.”

“Us?”

I laughed mockingly.

“Despite your current predicament, don’t paint me as some lone nutcase with a loaded gun and an axe to grind okay?”

“Sure.”

“I am representing men and women across the country who have no idea what to put on in the background whilst they clean the house or host a dinner party.”

Daddo appeared confused.

“You are still talking about the Smooth TV music video channel, right?”

I shook my head.

“And here I was thinking you were the smart brother.”

“Why wouldn’t you just play Smoothfm?”

“Who the fuck listens to radio anymore?”

“I can assure you there are enough people listening right now to start wondering why they have heard nothing but Robert Palmer’s fifth most popular single for the past ninety minutes.”

“You say that like it is a bad thing.”

“Added to that, we are now entering the danger zone in terms of the station’s programming. If I don’t play a Spandau Ballet tune in the next fifteen minutes, then our back to base alarm is triggered and then you are up shit creek pal.”

He was bluffing.

“So, I will ask you again: How does this all end? Because…”

“Shut it Cam.”

My attention had turned towards the speakers as Robert approached the end of the second chorus. Chuck Findley’s trumpet solo had just kicked in and the song had entered the stratosphere. I waited for it to end before commenting.

“Have you ever heard such a sublime trumpet solo in all your life?”

“Uh, yeah. About four and a half minutes ago.”

I tutted.

“I don’t care for your tone, Cam. It is quite unbecoming to be frank.”

“Okay, so why this song then? What is it about it that elevates it over…I don’t know, ‘Stay’ by Shakespear’s Sister or bloody ‘Goodnight Girl’ by Wet Wet Wet?

I felt obliged to give him a literal ‘Chef’s Kiss’.

“Exquisite taste sir. Some real deep cuts there. Look, they are all fine songs, but they are not what was playing when I asked Becca Samuels to dance with me at the blue light disco in December 1988.”

“Let me guess, she said no, and you have been haunted by it ever since.”

“Fuck you Daddo.”

He had touched a thousand nerves.

“Becca was the very epitome of a ‘Summer Girl’. It was as special a few months as a twelve-year-old could have. But by the first few weeks of the new school year, I was yesterday’s news. Which was fine because by then I had found the love of my life.”

“That song?”

I nodded towards the computer.

“This song.”

I looked wistfully into the middle distance. “Do you know the line that gets me every single time? It’s the one where he sings: She’s like a new girl every day/And all the rest don’t bother me/I’m far too busy lovin’ her”

Daddo exhaled.

“Truly touching, I really mean it. But I don’t think I can get the big wigs to do what you want.”

Cameron reached for his leather satchel on the desk where he pulled out what looked to be a little black book.

Turned out it was.

“How about I offer you some free concert tickets? I have the number of Sam Smith’s agent. André Rieu’s? P!nk’s? They are all touring this year. Who do you fancy?”

“You can’t fob me off like I’m the fifth caller who hit speed dial as soon as you played Mister Mister’s ‘Broken Wings’. I WANT MIDDLE AGED MEN IN DINNER SUITS CROONING IN VIDEOS! I WANT THE COMFORT IN KNOWING I AM ALWAYS THREE SONGS AWAY FROM A ROBBIE WILLIAMS BALLAD! I WANT MY SMOOTH TV!”

The Flying Squad took advantage of my momentary lapse into rage by busting the door down and overpowering me before I knew what was going on.

As they led me out of the studio, I took one last shot at explaining myself.

“It’s the same hundred fucking videos on shuffle all damn day. How expensive is it to run Daddo?”

Cam had already moved on to queueing up Simple Minds.

You know when you have been to the cinemas and you have completely lost track of time so when you walk outside you are genuinely surprised either way if it is day or night? Replace a Fast & The Furious movie with constantly listening to a Robert Palmer song in a dimly lit studio with a Daddo brother and it is pretty much the same thing.

The sun was fading but still packing a punch. I went to shield my eyes, but it took me a second to remember my hands were in cuffs behind my back. The sun was aided by the lights of news cameras set up on the footpath out the front of the studios. Hostage situations are still newsworthy it appears.

The cops paused at the top of the stairs down to the street, making sure the cameras could get enough film for the perp walk.

Ghouls.

I gaze out to the street, behind the cameras and journos to see barricades set up. Behind them were hundreds of people. Regular people like me. Housewives, Executives, Librarians, Boomers, Grey Nomads, Tradesmen, Bikers, Hipsters (both ironic and unironic), Gen Xers, Ed Sheeran fans, Richard Wilkins. Mind you, I wasn’t sure if he was here in an official capacity.

They were holding crudely made placards in support of my crusade.

SAVE SMOOTH!

CRAPTEL CAN GO GET STUFFED!

TAKE ON ME (INSTEAD)!

The last one was a stretch, but I appreciated the sentiment. I wanted to raise my hands to acknowledge their support but had to make do with a polite nod. It appeared that people had read my manifesto that I had posted on the ‘Save Smooth!!!’ page on Facebook.

Then, suddenly, a lone woman from the crowd started singing.

“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”

The woman was joined by the beefy baritone of a bricklayer.

“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”

Then a ten-year-old piped up.

“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”

I was no choir boy, but I had to respond.

“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”

Very soon, dozens of voices came together in imperfect harmony.

“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once.”

Those who weren’t singing were at least clapping along on the one and the three. It was a most glorious sight. I didn’t know whether to smile or cry tears of joy, so I split the difference.

“Okay dickhead, let’s move it.” said the constable.

“She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She’s all good lovin’ at once. She all good…”

All Repeat Workdays is taken from the short story collection ‘They Can All Be Wieners’, which can be purchased here.