Good Or Shit: Has Robin Thicke Taken Creepy Stalking To Another Level?

One way, or another, I'm gonna find ya, I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha...

Every breath you take, Every move you make, Every bond you break, Every step you take, I'll be watching you.

If you wanted to, you could interpret the above lyrics, from Blondie and Sting respectively, as being totally creepy and sinister, couldn't you?

The other day, someone sent me the latest video from everybody's favourite smarmy, sexist creep. “Have you seen the new Robin Thicke clip?” he asked me. “He's done it again.”

Eagerly I clicked on the link, rubbing my hands together and licking my chops. This'll be good, I thought, let's see how he surpasses his 2013 all-women-really-want-it hit Blurred Lines – the song that led to the Miley Cyrus twerking affair. You remember, the entire world bayed for her blood after their performance at the MTV Music Awards, and he skipped away without even the slightest crack in that smarmy smile.

Sometime after this Thicke and his wife Paula Patton, childhood sweethearts who have been together since they were teenagers, announced their separation. From the few things Thicke has said in interviews, it seems as though he was blurring a few too many lines, and Patton got jack of it.

So, like most artists do, Thicke channelled all his hurt and regret – I write this with a wry smile, it's so hard to imagine Robin Thicke in any sort of pain – into his art and birthed (or shat out) his latest album – Paula.

I honestly believe that if Robin Thicke wasn't such a nong, nobody would even pay attention to this album which consists of around 50-minutes of decidedly average songs that, if they were to improve the lyrics, Play School could probably make good use of. See Tippy Toes.

STALKER, the critics cry. Narcissistic “creepy crooner”, they sneer. In a nutshell, they're proclaiming that this album is a form of harassment that is less genuine heartfelt plea and just more of his disturbing, smarmy smile. That he is effectively, publicly, pressuring her and threatening her to take him back and, WHAT DOES THIS TEACH OUR CHILDREN?!

Get Her Back, the clip for the album's first single features a naked Thicke being rubbed up by a naked Paula Patton look-alike. Occasionally, it appears as though she is drowning in water and occasionally, like he is. There's blood on his face, there's blood in the water and, at one point he forms a gun-shape with his hands and points it at his own head. At other points it looks as though the model is wearing a Mexican Day of the Dead-type skull mask, and at the end an unknown hand holds a bloody heart. (Also, if you look closely at his lips, you'll notice that even though he's trying not to, he can't help smiling).

I can see why people are jumping up and down. I can also see how he's merely bashed the shit out of the I-can't-live-without-you metaphor.

I'm dying. I'm drowning. This whole love thing has got me acting CRAZY.

Come on, who hasn't watched a music video full of motifs ranging from the seemingly violent, eerie, disturbing, or straight up bizarre?

And what's more, haven't we all behaved like maniacs in one way or another? Especially when it feels like your heart is being ripped out of your chest by a force that looks like it's wearing a Mexican Day of The Dead skull?

I'm a fabulous stalker. At 16 I was obsessed with a boy from another school so, I found out what time he caught the train in the morning, and where. I got up extra early so that I could get a bus to said station, ride the train with him as far as I could without it being ridiculously obvious that I was not going anywhere near my own school, hop off at Redfern station and double back. After about a month of this, we started dating. And when he inevitably broke my heart, I called and called until my best friend had to practically restrain me.

(I may or may not have played Boys II Men down the phone to him. I can neither confirm nor deny this.)

You're thinking, But you were 16, that's kind of sweet-ish. Yeah, well let me tell you, in my late twenties, when the relationship I'd been in and out of for almost a decade died an explosive death, I spent months at home imaging some pretty unhinged scenarios involving my ex and his new girlfriend which, I quite happily shared with my poor, concerned friends.

In the end, I wrote a rage-fuelled column about him. Because that's what creative types do, they express themselves through their work. They tell stories, create characters, paint pictures, often not to be taken literally, open for interpretation, and largely embellished for dramatic effect. Google 'creepy love songs', you'll be surprised what you get.

These days, my ex and I are close friends. He's happy in his new relationship and I'm happy for him.

Time passes and as the pain subsides, so does the crazy.

I'm not a Robin Thicke fan, nor do I condone violence, or any kind of behaviour that's threatening or harmful. Thicke's new album may be a gross display of desperation, but who hasn't been through a stage in their life when they behaved like an absolute fool.

What he should have done was lock himself in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, Justin Vernon-style, and written better music. You certainly wouldn't win me back with any of the shit on Paula.

Tippy Toes. FFS.