Through the fusion of choreography, song, rapping and a couple of saucy girls jiggling about at the side, George was laying down some heavy truth to the youth about getting married too young and not being able to doss about with your mates anymore. Remember, this was an age where the pop canon was stuffed with the campiest fuckers this side of nowhere. Kajagoogoo, who discovered how much of a prick braids make you look long before the residents of Compton did. Spandau Ballet, who minced about in Valentinoesque garb and Greek Army surplus skirts and then did an about face and started dressing like insurance salesmen. Soft Cell, whose lead singer Marc Almond looked like an anorexic Liz Taylor and never once lost his perminent leer of deviant glee, as if he was giving your Dad one up the arse on live TV and you were next.
Some regions go for the standard 'sailors lined up against a club bar' routine.
Elsewhere, a horse has been added to the cast list. In Nottingham, my home town, Marc is gleefully swigging it from a glass like creme de menthe. In the pop herd, George Michael stood out like a prize Greek bull. Knickers across the land were wetted everytime George and Andrew pulled out shuttlecocks from their shorts at concerts and hurled them into the crowd. Do something with your hair, nick some designer label clothes from Top Man, get some of those nice slip-on sandals, and YOU will get your end away.