Spring is in the air, the sap is rising, and our loose cannon of a columnist is feeling fruity. Remain calm readers, we are on the phone to the vets as we type

Electronic music is far too sexy. It’s all tweak this and pump that. Everyone’s writhing on the ceiling or dropping their booties on the floor, often at the same time. Kraftwerk wanted a rendezvous to make love to a computer, for goodness sake. Listen here, Annie Lennox, if an angel needs to play with my heart, it’d better have done seven years in medical school. It’s gone too far. What happened to old-fashioned Victorian values where people wore petticoats to the club and stored their synthesiser in a separate bedroom?

Not that I’m a prude. If you turned up all randy and bonk-eyed to my gaff, then yes, I would be OK if you undid a button on your smock and manhandled me like the gloopy knob of pottery clay in ‘Ghost’. I do, dear reader, find you enormously sexually alluring. As you read this page, with its sleek sans serif font and aromatic coated paper, I’m nuzzling furiously to try and get a closer sense of you. Is that a new pile cream I smell? It suits you.

It’s all a question of moderation, what Josh Wink should have called a medium state of consciousness. I don’t feel love like Donna Summer, but I do feel a sneeze coming on. I might not go dancing naked in the rain, but a string-vested frolic in scattered showers is fine. I’d avoid New Order’s bizarre love triangle, but I’d welcome an eccentric friendship trapezoid.

We also need to stop seeing sexiness where it’s not intended. Heaven 17’s ‘Temptation’ is clearly about the fancy Cadbury chocolates. ‘Together In Electric Dreams’ isn’t about never-ending love, it’s about a sleepover in a Curries home computing department. Daft Punk’s ‘Get Lucky’ isn’t about an opportunistic wet snog under a disco ball, it’s about winning five pounds on a scratch card and then having an opportunistic wet snog under a disco ball.

Maybe I’m just dead inside. Perhaps a year of virtual isolation has reduced me to an emotional husk, and there’s nothing within me other than disappointment and regret. And ravioli. I do eat a lot of ravioli. I’m so lacking in stimulation that I tongue my vinyl records to see if I can taste the grooves. The Orb smell of marshmallow and Gary Numan is suffused with ham. Anything just to feel something, to return us to the pre-distancing days when we could sniff each other’s crotches without fear of nose rot.

When my neighbours aren’t watching, I vape furiously at the sky and shout “cloudbuster!”. The other day I re-enacted the video for A-ha’s ‘Take On Me’ by sledgehammering through my living room wall and drawing all over myself in marker pen. I’ve started listening to leotard-era Madonna. The situation is desperate.

Come on, Fats. Get control of your senses. This column has turned into Lil Louis’ ‘French Kiss’. It started off at a decent tempo, all chipper and brisk, with everyone listening and/or reading along quite happily. Then it slowed down, losing all momentum, and the confused listeners and/or readers are now gasping and moaning in frustration.

Let’s just take stock, and I don’t mean the beefy cubes. You are sexy. That’s a given. You have especially attractive knees. I am sexy, but in a weird way, like a bicycle made of willies. This does not mean we go together like rhythm ’n’ blues or drum ’n’ bass or shake ’n’ vac. And if you do feel an unorchestrated manoeuvre in the dark coming on, just remember that Prince’s ‘Sexy MF’ is actually a song about meat farts. Which, in case you need reminding, is not very bonkworthy at all.

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Delia Derbyshire

“Who’s in the magazine this month so I can write about them?” “It’s Delia Derbyshire,” we said. What could possibly go wrong…