Waking up to a breakfast of cured bacon, lightly poached free range eggs, melon slices and kidneys, extracted from a recently dead alcoholic tramp, I consume my repast, set aside my breakfast tray and peruse the latest headlines from the world of rock and pop. I read that Amy Winehouse the troubled and dishevelled chanteuse of note, is to form her own record label.
Jumping f***ing Jesus on a crucifix shaped f***ing pogo stick, is there anything left of the f***ing shit you were on when you came up with this f***ing idea? Because I want it straight in my f***ing veins! You couldn’t run a f***ing bath, let alone a f***ing record label! Is your head gonna be out of a f***ing toilet bowl long enough for you to be f***ing involved in this f***ing enterprise on a daily f***ing basis? Is half your money gonna be joining your f***ing head down the f***ing toilet bowl when the whole enterprise’s sorry arse gets credit crunched to f***ery? This venture will f***ing fail! You might as well call the f***ing label Colossal Mistake Records, sign up your first six bands The Flops, Tax Loss, We’ve Got An Advance And We’re Going To Piss It Right Up The Wall, The Surplus Stock Dumped In The Canals and Dumpy’s f***ing Rusty Nuts and have f***ing done with it! Even if there were a worldwide f***ing music shortage, with punters prepared to pay f***ing black market prices for music, any f***ing music like it was f***ing knicker elastic in wartime, your label would still fail because you’re in charge of it and you’re not fit to be in charge of your own f***ing body functions, you scraggy, hopeless, f***ed up waste of 80 pounds of f***ing flesh and bone!
Ah, they’re back! Yes, Sisters Of Mercy that is, who but 20 years ago were at the forefront of the "Gothic" music movement. They are to play dates across Europe in cities including Brussels, Dresden, Munich and Cologne. They will be supported by the combo of note I Like Trains.
The return of f***ing Sisters Of Mercy, that’s what we f***ing need like the return of f***ing polio! I thought the Goths were f***ing dead and gone, hanging upside down like f***ing bats in a barn in f***ing Whitley Bay! I thought we’d heard the last of f***ing Andrew Eldritch and his f***ing stentorian f***ing arseguff about f***ing standing tall like thunder in the shadows of pain and fear, or whatever f***ing verbiage the c*** used to f***ing excrete! Still, at least they’re only playing in f***ing Europe, Continent Of The Clueless, where they’re still walking around with f***ing leather jackets and big hair thinking it’s still 1988 because no one could be arsed to learn f***ing Belgian to tell them it f***ing isn’t! I Like Trains, eh? Just as f***ing well, because it’s not like a bunch of extraneous f***ing c***wits like you could scrape together enough money for a f***ing van, is it, you f***ing losers!
Finally, it seems that Geoff Hoon is somewhat nettled at the organisers of the Latitude festival, who regard his authorisation for another runway at Heathrow Airport as incompatible with Green values. Hoon, a fan of the festival, has retorted that, on the contrary, he is committed to the environment and claims to have cycled all the way to the festival by way of demonstration.
Sure, Geoff! Sure, you f***ing cycled. I bet you f***ing cycle everywhere. I’m certain, for example, that when you ventured all the way up the f***ing arse of the f***ing aviation lobby in your capacity as no-questions-asked facilitator of corporate interests, you did so by f***ing bicycle! You flabby faced, colourless, invertebrate, career, suit-filling, light-of-idealism-went-out-in-your-eyes-30-years-ago, mealy-mouthed, fatuous f***ing c***! You should be committed to the f***ing environment! Buried 30 feet underground, with your f***ing bike and f***ing concreted over, you world-destroying twat!
