It’s teeny bop time again. David Cassidy has been leaping ’round Europe, scattering hysteria “unprecedented since the Beatles.” In England, mobs of crazed little girls have been scratching cops, strangling dogs, smashing windows. Jonathan King promises that in six months, time Milwaukee will be going equally mad for our lads, Ricky Wilde and Simon Turner. You too can look forward to Debbie and the Dreamboats — last single “Donny” (“I had a boy, Donny was his name”), current one, “Boy Named David.” Wave your knickers in the air! I’m exhilarated by the energy, by the sound of running, clickety-clack feet, boy! What I didn’t understand is how all these orgasmic giggles can be triggered by such bland, pastry-faced puddings as David Cassidy and Donny Osmond. So I went to see David at the Empire Pool, Wembley.

He came out sheathed in white, like a tape worm, For someone whose primary appeal is physical, he’s surprisingly clumsy, graceless. Constipated bumps and grinds. Wiggle your bottom at the front row; everyone squeal! David’s so little, so young, that his tight-crotched cat suit (red vine curled lovingly ’round his arse) seemed cosy, a new line in Ladybird pajamas. Plain voiced, no range of tone or emotion; just sing loud or soft and always too close to the mike so it’s always distorted anyway. The children’s party show-off. David played piano (elementary), guitar (intermediate) and drums (advanced). We glowed with pride but he seemed uncertain.