No, not yo ho ho and a bottle of anything. Yo, yo, yo! As in, big shout out to da Sunday masseeev, yo, yo, yo! Init tho. Because any excuse to namecheck some stuff what does namecheck our favourite day of the week. Ours. All of us. Even you, Mrs Groggins of number fifty-twelve Tom Baker Street, Crouch End.
Saturday Night And Sunday Morning was Alan Sillitoe's first novel, published in 1958. Sillitoe was lumped in with the Angry Young Men brigade when it would be fairer to call his work social realism. The central character, Arthur Seaton, is less angry than opportunistic. He's something of a Jack the Lad, enjoying affairs with two married women before and initially during the process of falling in love with Doreen, a woman closer to his own age. One of the wives' husbands finds out, Arthur gets duffed up all proper, Arthur stops being quite such a shagaholic bellend and he and Doreen make plans to marry. Yes, sounds shit when I put it so bluntly. Read it, Sillitoe really did have an ear for the vocal resonances of his time and location. And his work is funny.
Saturday Night and Sunday Morning was also made into a fillum in 1960, with Albert Finney playing Arthur. It's also quite funny but not as funny as Alfie which would never have been made if this fillum had not existed beforehand but doesn't have Sunday in the title.
Sunday Girl. This is a song, a song by Blondie. Which wasn't the name of the lead singer you twats. She was called Debbie Harry and I fancied her a right lot. The rear of the band were all called Blondie, though: Lead Guitar Blondie, Drum Blondie, Keyboard Blondie, Bass Blondie. They were all related. Sunday Girl was an early hit, an apparently throwaway little number which mesmerises the ears in account of Debbie being able to make her voice switch from coquettish breathing as to howling vortex powerhouse loud in a split second. I still fancy her a right lot. She can still sing.
Sunday Night At The London Palladium. Never watch old transmissions of this hideous variety TV show from the Neolithic 1970s. Not unless you want to die the death of a thousand crooners, ventriloquists, shit magicians and racist comedians. Bruce Forsyth was publicly executed in 1978 for hosting this arse. Jimmy Tarbuck remains at large. If you see him do not approach him, he is extremely dangerous and likely to tell you mother-in-law jokes. Call the local Hell's Angels and ask them politely if they'll kick his head in for you.
The Sundays. They were/are another band fronted by a woman. A woman called Harriet Wheeler. She had the greatest voice of 1989. The rest of the band were called Sunday (see above about Blondie and transplant bass, drum, keyboard etc to make this rubbish joke almost work again). I shall forever love them for the matter of fact lyric that sums up my feelings about the land of my birth to this day: "England, my country, the home of the free. Such miserable weather. But England's as happy as England can be. Why cry?" (Can't Be Sure, their finest song ever.)
Other entertainments which reference Sunday exist. You should google them. Or, if you already know some of them, you should feel the warm glow of smugness because you're a smart bunny and everyone else is a dumb-ass rat. Any novel, film, song or holy gospel which references different days is shit. Trust me, I've read and watched and eaten and listened to and ground down into tiny dust particles everything ever. Apart from the things I haven't. Google them too if you must.
steven harris is adverse to putting his name in capitals because names aren't that important. Also, lower case is sexy. steven writes all sorts of stuff including fiction, poetry, songs, opinion pieces and shopping lists. He does not write on lavatory doors any more. his blog has writing in it and can be located at www.theplanetharris.wordpress.com He lives in Devon with an imaginary cat called Kafka.
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