A Broken Hallelujah

I’ve returned to London.

On the upside, my dear friends are here. I can feast on hummus and drink New World wines.

However, these gifts come at a price. Principally, having to live in a country where a soulless, Christawful version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah is the Christmas Number 1.

I don’t even know the name of the woman singing it (part of my policy of trying to maintain emotional equilibrium by avoiding things that anger me) but the song is… oh god… painful.

Anyone who doesn’t know and love the awesome, soul-stirring Jeff Buckley version should stop reading immediately and listen instead.

You’ll appreciate why no one in the world should ever be allowed to do another cover version. Much less some reality TV mediocrity who turns it into a vile, ugly, pompous, Celine Dion-lite ode to narcissism.

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