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Give My Regards to Broad Street

Since I started writing the Singing Pictures column almost a year and a half ago I’ve seen some seriously strange stuff: Insane Clown Posse pretending to be Shaft,

Gwar on an interstellar search for a missing penile appendage, Prince spraying people with his jizz guitar… the list goes on.

But nothing in that time quite prepared me for the subject of this month’s column: Paul McCartney’s 1984 crapsterpiece Give My Regards to Broad Street.

It is a film so outrageously pointless, so utterly banal, Give My Regards bland and boring, that it makes you question your very sanity.

Here’s the thing: making a film isn’t easy. The journey from initial idea to finished final cut can take years,

with sometimes hundreds if not thousands of people involved along the way.

It’s a huge commitment – one you should only undertake if you’re confident of making something worthwhile.

But archetypal embarrassing dad Paul McCartney didn’t let any of this trouble him.

Plot? Nah! Believable dialogue? Sounds too much like hard work to me! Any thought of artistic coherency whatsoever? Do one!

“Most things that are important, I deliberately don’t think about,” she states cryptically with a look that says she wouldn’t tell me anyway.

“So maybe it has loads of meaning and that’s why I gravitated towards it, but how it happened was that me and the producer were just riffing on what the album title should be, just joking around and I latched on to it.”

She pauses. “Maybe I latched on to it for deeper meanings but I try not to get too existential!”

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