The hour of truth has come! Kim Wilde, the white goddess of innocence, has returned to the realms of the pop business. And we wanted so badly to forget you, wanted to at least keep your pure countenance in memory as we knew and loved it from the first freshly printed poster: a personified hymn to our immaculate teenage existence.
We ignored your liaison with disco-queen Steve Strange, turned our faces away when images of your supposed fiancee Gary turned up in the tabloids. The faces marked by excessive beer consumption. (That’s what you get from messing around with rock ‘n’ roll idiots).
And now this photograph in Musik-Express. A hard business look over the cold shoulder. Naked truths announced like a leather dominatrix looking for customers. Surely fitting your new single ‘Love Blonde’. What do you want to become, Kim? An Instant-Marilyn after the fall of man? A leg-throwing vaudeville vamp who breaks the hearts of southern dance floor parrots? You do not win our eternal love like this. Even glossy posters are yellowing, and some of your fans of old are already proudly wearing their Nena sweat shirt.
