My record player is getting dusty, it makes Artie's words skip together so that he sounds as if he is singing in a secret lost-language. I love Artie. When I am feeling very upset I watch Artie's old television perfomances, I find that I feel really quite better afterwards. It is never because of the words he sings, it is because of something silly. His eyes. They simply don't look real, they look far-away, terribly far-away. Far-away in the forest of Enid Blyton's trees. And they glitter under the spotlights and he is singing to you, to you and a hundred other lonely girls up in their bedrooms. And he knows. He knows and that is why he sings. That is why I love Artie.