When Kylie Dies There Will Be Tears On The Dancefloor

Picture this

There will be heartbroken gays crying into their Barcardi Breezers. Phonelines and support groups will be set up, and dancefloors will be come to a respectful shuffle the first time someone dares put on one of her records post-death. G-A-Y will host a funeral party, playing every single song she every released over the space of 12 hours. There will be a national day of mourning, covered by ITV. Breast Cancer charities will receive record donations. Danni will put on the bravest of faces (similar to the ones she uses on X Factor, constantly on the verge of coming up) and somehow, through the grief, manage to record the tribute record, a electro lounge version of Candle In The Wind 2008, all proceeds going to charity, naturally. The Complete Kylie will be released two months after the funeral, the biggest since the Lady Di media obliteration, and become the fastest selling cd boxset of all time.

Media pundits will trawl out the most banal anecdotes, how the pint-sized pop princess of our hearts was such a trooper, how ‘real’ and ‘down to earth’ she was, how she rose from the girl next door to all conquering global style icon. Every one will be asking, ‘Why Kylie? Why so young?’ Nobody will be asking just ‘why?’

So what does Kylie have that makes gay men go giddy? And what are we going to miss when she pops her clogs? I’m one of the first to hit the dancefloor when the opening riff of Can’t Get You Out of My Head comes on, I loved her indie-pop cross overs, I even like the most almighty moments of uber-camp remixery. I understand the appeal and identification of the tragic woman, though Kylie doesn’t dine out on that. She’s all teeth and dancing, vampirising the underground for her next hit, which is a criticism that misses Miss Minogue, getting soaked up by saint Madge (whose death will be all the more shocking for the fact it seems to be such a distant, near impossible, reality).

The Kylie Show (ditto) was a protracted cringe punctuated with some shockingly lack lustre performances. It was Butlins camp dressed in Hoxton chic. She takes gay appeal, performs a Baudrillardian mish-mash of female icon signs and shits out some perfectly passable pop hits. There will be crying at the discoteque.