Friday, February 18, 2005


(NOTE - Oh wow, two old posts fused into one. The good news is that, since these were written, Keane's popularity has slithered down the plughole - hooray! The bad news is that in 2005, we've had to endure the Kaiser Chiefs, one of the ugliest [and I don't use that word lightly ; they'd get Simon Weston crooning Barry White numbers into the mirror, they're that repulsive] retro / panto bands to have ever disgraced national TV. The singer desperately wants to look like Simon Le Bon, though he's easily 3 stone off target, and is hell bent on radiating the radical charm of......Paul 'Rodney' Weller. Fucking hell's bells. One of these cunts has long greasy hair and braces, which I suppose would have been your average Crystal Palace FC hooligan back in 1976, so there is a smattering of distasteful retro-authenticity in some [hind] quarters, at least. But have you seen the slovenly 'rude boy' wannabe in his turd-brown, ill-fitting suit and shitty little porkpie hat? I mean, is this what we want British music to be remembered for? This fucking TRAVESTY?? Apologies for having to read the 'puking girl at Slimelight' story again, I'd forgotten I'd also related it in the Goths post)

This is the Chinese Year of the Rooster, which is good news for us Dragons - wealth, influence, wealth, wealth, more wealth and a smattering of wealth on top, can't wait! Maybe your sign's fucked, but I'm alright Jack - pull the ladder up.

Anyway, back to fox hunting. I was disgusted to see a load of Hunt Sabs on the news last night, being whacked around the heads by hunters. For God's sake, can't you punch them back, you feebs? And what's with the camouflage army jackets, surely these went out of fashion ages ago??? But if you DO insist on wearing them, please don't let ITN film you CRYING with a minor cut on your forehead and blubbing that you're anti-hunting cos it makes you a better person. Arrggh, don't these people even know the basics a) wear a balaclava ; b) carry a sawn-off pickaxe handle ; c) throw marbles on the ground to break the horses' legs ((ironically, sabbing hunts is the one time you can legitimately get away with animal cruelty - horses are Stakhanovites anyway, as Orwell pointed out. How many working class children were crushed under the hooves of countless emperors', tsars' and despots' armies? How many protestors have been trampled into the dirt by police horses, suffering broken limbs, necks and worse? Sorry Trigger , but you're on the hit list til you do something sufficiently anti-state, and no, dying during the filming "Battleship Potemkin" does NOT qualify you for martyrdom, you long-faced, four-legged cunt)) ; d) attack ITN cameramen.

It's simple isn't it, but you wouldn't know it watching yesterday's farrago. I mean, the old guy slapping this hippie kid, he had a side parting and a cardigan. You can't let people who look like THAT wallop your face and get away with it! Kid, you wept, and even your crustie women friends didn't have it in them to boot the bastard in the bollocks. I've always maintained that Hunt Sabs should spend less time listening to Back To The Planet and more time listening to Extreme Noise Terror. BUT ANYWAY, thanks for making all hunters look like brickhard bad boys.

But back to the Year of the Rooster. Actually, no I can't, I'm too angry now. Freud (either Sigmund or Clement, I can't remember) once said that there's a connection between our desires for food and for sex, which is why the next best thing (after beating up someone smaller than you in a drunken fit) when you haven't pulled a girl at the local 'Yates'Wine Lodge' is to go and stuff a chicken kebab down your lagered-up gullet and then ejaculate it back all over the pavement. It might also explain why, a few years back, supposedly sane men started developing giggly schoolgirl crushes on self-styled 'domestic goddess' (ie-she spent hours in the kitchen) Nigella Lawson. You know, to everyone else she was just this daughter of a fat old Tory MP who had a stupid first name (I suppose I could get away with calling a daughter Martina, if I had a paternal bone in my body, but what if my name was Roger? I'd probably kill myself). (Hey, remember Roger Cook? My themes are all running together for once).

Anyway, cooking and Nigella. Contrary to common belief, I didn't spend my Tuesday evenings jerking off to Nigella sucking off a black pudding brochette on TV. No, I never saw her appeal, to be honest. Apparently, when her husband John Diamond died, she had his head removed and preserved and kept it in a shopping bag. One night, when her new lover, art ponce Charles Saatchi, came round for a Shiraz and alphabet spaghetti feast, Nigella placed John's severed head in a cuckoo clock in her bedroom and set the timer for midnight. So the story goes, Old Man Saatchi was busy licking crumbs from her snatch when suddenly the clock struck twelve, causing him to shit the bed as John's head came bobbing in and out at him on a coil, while Nigella threw her hair back and screamed, "HERE'S JOHNNY!!!"

But on a lighter note, Rock N Roll, this cruel mistress we find ourselves bound to and obsessed by (incidentally, I'm including everything vaguely cool/ counter cultural that's occurred in the history of sonic vibrations under the "Rock'n'Roll" banner here - this includes avant-garde jazz-funk legend Byard Lancaster honking out Rib Crib [and I once had the most fucking splendid spare ribs in Cafe Klos in Amsterdam, highly recommended].... the All-Japan Reggae Dancers gyrating to Buju Banton's Batty Rider......Vagina Dentata Organ playing, er, a pack of malnourished attack dogs live on Spanish TV......DJ Scud's remix of Asian Dub Foundation's Witness.....Dana International winning the Eurovision.....Bob Harris weeping tears of impotent rage as the New York Dolls swaggered through Looking for a Kiss on 'The Old Grey Bastard Test' and booted prog rock back into the 1700s......the Blue Peter garden getting vandalised....The Prefects tearing through Faults,surely the best 90 seconds of UK punk EVER....Stockhausen conducting a helicopter quartet.....the time I went home at 6am with this horny Indian punk bird with bad skin who I met in the notorious North London EBM / techno toilet 'Slimelight', only for her to fall over on the escalator at Angel tube station and then proceed to yack up all over her fishnets and my Chuck Taylors - I would have done the gentlemanly thing and walked her home and made her coffee and plied her with Nurofen and Coco Pops, and then maybe asked for a tit wank, but her vomiting racket attracted a couple of early Sunday morning London Transport jobsworths who subsequently discovered I didn't have a ticket, so I had to leg it and faredodge back to Oval.....Nietzsche might have whinged about monotheic immaterialism ((sorry, I made that up)), but did he ever have to sit in a tube carriage, plans of wild kinky sex cruelly dashed, with gastric juice and onion fumes wafting from his baseball boots? Cheers, princess...) may demand similar fanatical devotion from her blogging slave idiots, but I've come to the conclusion that I must be tone deaf. Because I've witnessed a recording of last week's Brit Awards, the cream of UK music in 2004, and I haven't subjected myself to such a dismal, painful and miserable experience since the time I had my eyelid stitched up in casualty in 1999.

I'm not messing around here - I actually found myself going through severe physical discomfort waching it. Is it just me, or does it seriously hurt to listen to those facially-challenged turnips Keane? And what in Pan's name was going on with Chris Evans presenting it? I thought this embarrasing, repulsive maggot had been finished off for good after being cuckolded by the most shit teenage diva since Jimmy Osmond. What was this ludicrous idea of giving Evans the job, some piece of post-ironic hip, like getting Ted Rogers or Jim Bowen or Adolf Eichmann to play host for the night? (And don't DARE try and pull me up on my mention of Dickie Davies two posts back. That wasn't being ironic - Davies was the John Peel of sports broadcasting! Can you imagine that slimey lickspittle John Inverdale bringing Speedway to the nation? Can you fuck as like) I never thought it'd be possible to get a band more On Golden Pond than Radiohead or Coldplay, but no, Keane have managed to exceed all expectations with their tedious dirge. As for Joss Stone, well I take back the above comment about Billie Piper. And even when Pharrell and Snoop came on - people, that track is boring. As if I hadn't squirmed in discomfort enough, the sight of Bono's, Sting's and Elton's mugs filling up my screen to big up Bob Geldoff finally drove me over the edge. People, don't go down the pub tonight, stay in and give me some fucken votes...I'm dyin' for another plaudit here...

So I could seriously be tone deaf, because the Brit Awards 2005 reduced me to a gibbering wreck, hands over ears, unable to even get a laugh from the whole sad, sorry spectacle. Either that or Britain's name has once more been sullied in the eyes of honest men. What must the world be thinking of us right now? Of course, this has a seriously nasty knock-on effect. In the dive bars of Torremolinos and Limassol, Keane and the cunting Scissor Sisters will be on heavy rotation all throughout Spring. Norwegian trawlermen will spit in our faces and offer to break our teeth in pubs all over Sandefjord. The Japanese will stop coming to London, writing us off as some airstrip populated by prozac-popping nerds. The musical equivalents of Paula Radcliffe and Ellen Mc Arthur (both shopping at C&A and moaning about immigration and the ungrateful masses who don't appreciate their struggles) have officially been declared the victors of what I reckoned was a pretty good year for shit-hot new releases. The Rock'n'Roll Goddess has been fucked over by the Domestic Goddess and, quite frankly, armed revolution is not enough.
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