'You Can't Make Somebody Love You' - but if you slip some rohypnol into her Bacardi Breezer, you'll get a shag at the very least. I AM JOKING.

'You Can't Make Somebody Love You' is factually inaccurate. In fact, there IS a man that can do what Paul Hawkins believes to be impossible. And it ain't Brad Pitt, no sir-ee. And it ain't George Clooney either, uh-uh Mama. It ain't even Jimmy Saville, nope nope nope. No, that man is Paul Daniels.


One, Paul Daniels is very rich. Two, Paul Daniels is a passionate and committed animal rights crusader, a fact given weight by his appearance on Brasseye. Three, Paul Daniels has got a magic wand. These are powerful, powerful attributes, my dears. Therefore it really doesn't matter how iron-willed the female population is or how resistant it is to the power of mental persuasion. Bottom line: If Paul Daniels wants any female's sweet lovin', (i.e. if he wants to cut that particular cake with his knife) he's damn sure gonna get it. Just ask Anne Robinson - if you can bear to look at that skeleton-like-malformed-plastic-surgeried-to-within-an-inch-of-death-scrambled-egg-dinner horror show that passes for her face these days. I've met better looking lepers for God's sake.

Anyway - enough of this capricious banter - let us for a minute assume that Paul Hawkins is aware of Daniels's power and, instead is pitching this single to the hoi polloi; the music-loving populace that knows its place in this magical roundabout called life; the merry underclass that kowtows to the party line and doesn't attempt to challenge the King of the Greasy Magic Stick.

If you've heard Paul Hawkins's stuff before, you'll know what to expect. If you haven't heard Paul Hawkins's stuff before then just imagine what a DJ mixing played-at-the-wrong-speed Cure / Bauhaus and the sound of someone having an epileptic fit in a suitcase full of used pinball machine parts sounds like. Oh, and don't forget the hand claps.

It's all bombastic rolling bass lines, distorted guitars, Hammond organs and howled vocals from a man that's screaming in pain because he's just been kicked in the nuts but doesn't appear to know how his mouth works.

As the title suggests, the lyrics are as uplifting as being forced to watch Jim Davidson attempt to break into the Guinness Book of Records by performing racist stand-up for seventy two hours straight and then being told there's an encore. You can guess from the title I think; unrequited love, loneliness and misery. Perfect 'X Factor' material I'm sure you'll agree.

It might sound as if it was mixed in a shed by a deaf vole - it's a little muddy and congealed - but then this kinda works in Hawkins's favour, as the sense of disillusionment, depression and despondency is piled up as high as a platter of wilting cheesy dips at a wake.

According to Hawkins: "Everyone's too nice or too fucked up" - no middle ground, no compromise, no concessions. He's truly a man after my own heart...well, the diseased and decayed blackened rock that passes for my heart anyhow. Recommended.