Do not adjust your sets. Or adjust your specs. Or adjust anything else for that matter – unless it’s on doctor’s orders and out of public view. Yes, a song in my heart. Regular readers of my bilge will be snorting loudly. “You? Embittered, cynical, Montgomery? Full of blithe assertions and chippy observations? A song in YOUR BLACK HEART?” Well, incredibly, yes… a final twist in this most twisted of years. The ghoul-show of 2024.

But on with the show. And not the ghoulish variety; I’m thinking ‘song and dance show’. Or more accurately, ‘song show’. With songs written to order a la David Bowie. For it was the other day that I stumbled down a rabbit hole of internet dilly-dallying inspired by his 72’ classic The Jean Genie - a gusty stomp that played host to carnival of cut and paste lyrics which Bowie himself described as “a smorgasbord of imagined Americana”.

That mish-mash of phraseological flourish is apt. Because the song follows suit, borrowing from hither and thither musically too – although anchoring the sassy splurge is his nod to the chugging garage beats of The Yardbirds. And that’s where the backstory got more interesting for me. For it led me to one… Cyrinda Foxe. The song’s ‘inspiration’ as it were. She even makes a wowy blonde cameo in the official video for the track.

Foxe was foxy. No accidental nominative determinism though. When this actress, publicist and model (part of the Warhol set) changed her name to Foxe she knew what she was up to. As did Bowie in the NYC apartment where he shared a… ahem… romantic evening with her. So smitten was he with Foxe’s vulpine charms that he asked if he may write a song especially for her. She suggested something with a Yardbirds vibe.

So, the Jean Genie was released from the lamp. Or rather from Bowie’s genie-us mind. “I wrote it for her amusement in her apartment. Sexy girl.” That iconic opening riff at first; the wonderful jumble of lyrics came later. But the point of all this is… he knocked off a song to order. Almost whimsically. And it got me thinking, as we toboggan downhill into the season of songs written to order, aka Christmas tosh… maybe I should follow suit.

Yes, if Roy Wood, Noddy Holder, and Shakin’ Stevens can batter out tinselly toe-tappers for money, why can’t we all do it? Songs to order. And for sale. Not even confined to Christmas – for you may be reading this hungover in the first week of January. How much is that ditty in the window… the one with the terrible title and idiotic kazoo solo? I’ll tell you exactly how much. Step aside, Tin Pan Alley. Make way for Monty’s Magic Songbook.

The Ballad of Old Bonnington Road: £42.60

I love a tear-jerking ballad, full of love, regret and thwarted desire. This belter ticks at least one of those boxes – the thwarted desire of a man who, as the old storytellers had it, attempted to drive down Bonnington Road without meeting temporary traffic lights, abandoned holes in the road or ‘essential works’. This stretch of tarmac is rarely without them. Ever. To try and drive down unchecked is to seek a quick bunk-up in a convent.

W-I-N-T-E-R: £178K (renewable annually)

Time to lighten the mood with this swanky tribute to cult outfit, Ottawan, nodding heavily towards their 1980 ‘speak and spell’ classic D-I-S-C-O. Here though, our subject is the magical winter markets that turn Embra into a wonderland! Sorry, that came out wrong. I meant, turn it into a vulgar money-grabbing tat-fest. Hands up baby, hands up…

Who Put the Tram?: £2 single or 30 barbiturates

Next, a parody of a parody: Barry Mann’s novelty hit from 1961, ‘Who Put the Bomp?’ featuring the refrain: “who put the ram in the ram-a-lama- ding-dong?”. In my version, that’s “who put the tram in the tram-a-lama-ding-dong?”. The ding dong being the fecking tram bell chiming outside my living room window. Oh death, where is thy sting?

I Bought the Blaw (and the Blaw Won): £Market rate for a half Q

Edgy public-school educated punk idol, Joe Strummer, turned Sonny Curtis’s ‘I Fought the Law’ into a rebel yell of disaffected youth. Today’s youth prefer a blunt smoked in public. Stroll down Leith Walk and you inhale a bong’s worth. The sickly smell of the ‘blaw’ is everywhere. But it’s “cool maaaannn”. Hence this snarl of selective liberalism.

You’ll Never Walk as Shown: £A grand (old farce)

The big finish. Taking it cues from Gerry Marsden’s emotional anthem, my take on Picardy Place roundabout and its jaywalking kamikaze pedestrians. Now free to traipse through the ugly wee bollard things into traffic, on their phones, they ignore the pedestrian crossing 20 yards away (rendering it pointless), and walk on, walk on… a rousing paean to the idiocy of ill-thought-out infrastructural changes. Winner.

Remember, these magical songs are not available in any shops, anywhere, ever. Fortunately. But I hope your festive seasons are sound as a pound. All the best. ■