It’s summertime and the beaches of Europe not only all look the same but they sound the same, too (Abba and Van McCoy). It’s only on holiday, moving round the Rivieras of France and Italy and Spain, that you feel the true power of disco, as in club after club and bar after bar, the hi-hats go hi-hat and the violins chunk and the youth of the old world stare at their bare tanned feet. Mindless music for mindless days and the only exhilarating thing is that this year we British are the brownest people in the sea and I never felt so cool before. t

Back 'home, of course, they’re sweating. The reservoirs are dry, nothing grows and there’s no ease except in five inches of bath water (all that’s allowed) waiting for this summer’s single. It’s the only time of year when a record really does blast out of every car and garden and penny arcade and records which have nothing else in common (“Something In The Air,” “In The Summertime,” “Rock Your Baby”) have the same memory power (playing fruit machines, pulling weeds, meeting in the eighth beach hut from the pier). This year we’ve had to wait a while: “Kiss And Say Goodbye”? Too soppy. “Young Hearts Run Free”? Too meaningful. But California (well, that’s what it sounds like), c.ame through at last. “Afternoon Delight;!’ the smuttiest innocuous record ever, and number one for summer fun.