“Fancy, if you believe in what I believe in,
Then we’ll be the same, always.
Fancy, just look around thee,
If you will fancy all the girls you see, always.

My love is like a ruby that no one can see,
Only my fancy, always.
No one can penetrate me,
They only see what’s in their own fancy, always.”

Ostensibly a cute little whiteboy raga about nowt in particular, Fancy, from the Kink’s 1966 album Face to Face, may just be, in fact, one of the most potent insights into the ‘ooman condition ever penned.

Continual quest for pussy uncharted

Opening with a couplet so majestically devastating in its haiku-like beauty that one’s tear ducts are at once alerted to the imminent downpour, Fancy’s indefatigable brilliance lies in the fact that there exists no sensitive cat who doesn’t ache to locate she who ascribes wholeheartedly to the monogamous manifesto. More beautifully still, it remains Ray’s “always” which reverberates so deeply-rooted a chord — F to D, since you ask — within the soul of this scribe. For life, contrary to pub talk, FHM and the like, need not amount to a continual quest for pussy uncharted. One word, one person. We can be the same, you and I, girl. Forever. Cue waterworks.

Sobbing only somewhat approaching under control, and for those of us with a preponderance for the apocalyptic, crippling hurt which accompanies romantic involvement of any hue, this could just be about as good as it gets. And then, as if with some kind of sick clairvoyance, given the SPOCSYM affiliate’s love of semi-precious jewels, he tells us that, “My love is like a ruby that no one can see except my fancy.”

The heart of stone, hitherto a negative quality, now takes on something entirely more wondrous. Yes, I may be overly sensitive, funny lookin’ and obsessed with Gianni Agnelli, but inside this pigeon chest of mine resides a capacity for love you’ll never come anywhere near to approximating. And the best part? You don’t even get to know the thing exists, because it’s all hers. Call me pathetic, and while begrudgingly aware that it remains inadvisable to attempt modern living in so resolute a fashion, there is, to me, nonetheless something indescribably seductive in guarding a devotion that but one other being can see, touch, taste and smell. Kinda like anal virginity, just not as good. Obviously.

Haiku-like beauty

With the potential for love like that, then, what does one care for double — or, inevitably, multiple — penetration? People, after all, look only for, and find, themselves in others: our own fancy, whatever colour that may be. Does this negate the song’s initial sentiments in favour of a vicious realisation that you and I are nothing if not self-serving, singularly driven creatures, controlled by an emotional form of tunnel vision?

I, for one, like to think not. For, at the time of writing, I found, and lost, my fancy. Twice. And yet repeated listenings have done nothing to temper the belief that she will sleep behind my eyes once again; of this, unlike virtually every aspect my life, I could not be more certain. That the choon makes me weep like a little bitch is neither here nor there.

An aside: ever the hapless slipstream traveler, “witty” scouse buffoon John Lennon’s I Am the Walrus contains the line, “I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together,” no doubt a mop-topped nod in the direction of Mr. Davies. There remains, though, what you might feel, as I do, a rather vital difference: Muswell Hill’s favourite son avoided the ‘temptation’ to follow up a rather lovely statement about the universality of human experience with goings off about eggmen, crablocker fishwifes, pretty little policemen and a host of other inconsequential bullshit.

This is, more than anything, why Raymond Douglas Davies CBE, a SPOCSYM pioneer if ever one existed, has not, as yet, been gunned down outside his multi-million dollar, Central Park-facing residence. “Imagine no possessions,” eh, John? Twat.

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