Ah, it feels so refreshing being able to discuss the strip in a news post instead of a very definite lack of strip. So, the latest instalment is very much an Amy atrip in the same way that Wednesday’s strip was a Jack strip. In the comic’s history there have been very few strips which saw Amy as a direct source of comedy, the ones in which she featured instead concentrating on the reactions of others towards Amy. That’s certainly a perfectly acceptable way of doing things but there is something about Amy herself which is inherently funny. Hence, Saturday’s offering.

Some of you may already be aware that there exists a song by the Black-Eyed Peas or some other part of the nitrogen cycle which deals with the dilemma of what one is to do with the junk within one’s trunk. Apparently, the logical solution is to get another drunk β€” not a literal state of drunkenness but rather love-drunk β€” a state which can force a man to spend all his money and, indeed, all his time on… one. There are also repeated references to protrusions known only as ‘lady lumps’, which we can only assume are similar to boobs but at the same time wholly different.

To call this song annoying would be horribly, crashingly, marvellously inadequate. To call this song insipid would be unfair to that which is truly insipid. I have not heard the song in the best part of a year but simply by typing the script earlier this week I have got it stuck in my head, permanently stuck. Perhaps a better word would be fused. When my mind is at rest, when I am thinking of nothing at all, I can hear the chorus repeating itself continuously. When I open my mouth, my first instinct is to sing about making others work for the contents of my shirt. In other words, by merely thinking about the song it has become a part of my consciousness and to destroy it would be to destroy myself. I hate the song but to hate it is to hate myself because we are one now. Oneness is all very well if it is with, say, a beautiful woman or a glass of whiskey but when it is with an unmusical pseudo-song about the indirect procurement of bling through judicious application of lumps it is easy to feel more than a little frustrated.

It seemed obvious that this was a song Amy would not only sing but sing voluntarily. Not only is it every bit as stupid and vacuous as she is but the message (that women should use their bodies to manipulate men in order to directly profit, which is different to prostitution only in that there is no negotiation of contractual terms through the rolled-down window of a BMW) seemed strangely fitting as well: demeaning to women, patronising to men, populist and tacky β€” the zeitgeist encapsulated! Perfect.

I could well have gone with one of the audio-viruses by the, ahem, PCD. I did consider it for a time. I did not, however, agonise over this decision for hours as I did when I chose a song for the Lone Warrior to sing in the shower. Even though my friend Jason commented on that line in particular as being funny, which tells me I made the right choice, a part of my sanity is lost forever as a result of that process, I fear.

Anyhoo, I’m off to bore into my skull with a drill in an attempt to get the peas out. Have fun out there!