So it's welcome back to that swoonsome, croonsome Iberian uber-knob Julio the Iglesias. Not that he's ever away for that long, this being his 77th album. A couple of hours on the sunbed when all was done and dusted and no doubt he was back in the next morning and raring to go on that notoriously difficult 78th one. Depressingly rumoured to be the best-selling artist of all-time there's never been a more vivid instance of never mind the quality missus, feel that length.
To our credit Britain has largely ignored Julio these last 30 years and his inexplicable licence to print pesetas. Coming over as a pheromone-giddy hybrid of our own dear Des O'Connor and a head Spanish waiter that can't quite believe his own luck, his main problem - ironically enough in the light of his Casanova-like reputation - has always been the flaccid 'have-you-started-yet' nature of his music. Three long listens to this album have so far failed to yield anything so vulgar as a tune but I'm sure he's not bothered.
There's enough slightly musty, menopausal devotees out there in Julioland to ensure he never ends up peddling his pert nut-brown ass on Eurovision. And we Brits, well we'll just congratulate ourselves on boasting way too much dignity and innate sass ever to afford such a perma-tanned oleaginous gimp that much credence. Tom Jones is different of course.
