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Mr Agreeable

Give Him A Bono And He'll Gnaw It. Mr Agreeable Reviews U2
Mr Agreeable , March 2nd, 2009 07:44

And so, like another f***ing TV series of any f***ing kind involving f***ing Keith Allen, like another f***ing word from the f***ing mouth of Tony Blair, like a f***ing hairy pig's nipple discovered in a f***ing bag of pork scratchings, like another f***ing Manchester United f***ing league title victory, the world gets what the world could least of all f***ing do with – another f***ing U2 album! It wouldn't be so bad if you knew this was the f***ing last one, that the light of U2lessness was glowing at the end of the f***ing tunnel – but you know this bobblehatted bunch of ageing, greying f***ing plumbers in tight f***ing leather trousers have got at least ten more f***ing albums to go yet before NATO forces actually wake up to their f***ing duties and does what it should have done f***ing years ago, and that's to bomb their f***ing studios back into the f***ing stone age!

F***ing Bono – how much worse is this self-important f***ing channeller of the f***ing flatulence of Satan going to get? I tell you, with this c*** it's gonna get worse before it gets even f***ing worse! In all f***ing seriousness – it's gonna get to the f***ing point where f***ing lawyers refuse to take on deserving but f***ing penniless clients for free, for fear that people mistake the phrase “pro Bono” for them being f***ing fans of U2! Once again, legal justice will be the sole prerogative of the f***ing super rich thanks to the stigmatic f***ing impact of one twat who refused to do the f***ing decent thing, ie dig a f***ing hole in the ground big enough for him, his ego and his f***ing nose and f***ing bury himself in it!

Anyway, let us consider without f***ing prejudice and with a fine f***ing toothcomb this goat's abortion of a f***ing album! Passing over the f***ing title track, through which Bono f***ing caterwauls like a f***ing hooter monkey who's been victim of a f***ing rectal pineapple attack by a jealous rival in f***ing mating season, we have “Magnificent”. Is this, I f***ing ask myself, an example of the famed f***ing U2 irony? Because if it was, that means that in their earnest early days, they would have had to call this “Load Of Shit” - because that's what it is, and U2 are Christians, and Christians mustn't tell f***ing lies. But they don't. They call it f***ing “Magnificent”. Because they are first and foremost c***s, every last c*** of them.

“Moment Of Surrender”? Here's a f***ing doozy. U2 discover an entirely new genre called f***ing trip-hop! Attention all Bristol bands, thrashing about for some sort of new f***ing musical direction! Here's a track you might want to f***ing take inspiration from and f***ing rip off! Once again, U2 pave the f***ing way! But the lyrics are the f***ing topper. “I was punching in the numbers at the ATM machine/I could see in it a reflection, a face staring back at me.” So what did you f***ing do, Bono, do what we'd all love to do and start punching that instead? And then, for sure, don't the f***ing subway stations turn out to be the stations of the cross? Bono compares his lyrical trials with those of Jesus f***ing Christ? There's a f***ing first! Tell you what pal, if you ever did find yourself getting f***ing crucified, they wouldn't exactly be queuing up with ladders and pairs of f***ing pliers!

See, what gets me about the überc***meister Bono is that he always has to take the f***ing windy, 30,000 feet above sea level route in these f***ing songs. Take f***ing “Unknown Caller”. “I was lost between the hour of midnight and the dawning.” You mean you couldn't sleep! THEN JUST SING THAT, YOU F***ING ELEPHANTITIS SNOUT FACED TWAT AND A F***ING HALF! If you talked like that in real life you'd have your arse kicked up and down the pavement and rightly f***ing so!

What else? “I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight.” “The right to appear ridiculous is something I hold dear”, sings the f***ing cockrotter. No. You don't f***ing appear ridiculous. It's not a f***ing guise or f***ing illusion. You f***ing are ridiculous! And a c***, to boot. As for the f***ing single, well, if you're beaten off in today's charts by f***ing Lady Ga Ga, then you suffered a f***ing humiliation equivalent to being beaten in a f***ing arm wrestling contest by f***ing Pam Ayres! “I don't want to talk about wars between nations”, sings the f***ing c***gobble, in this f***ing impersonation of Elvis Costello impersonating Bob Dylan. Well, gee, Bono, that's a f***ing tragedy. Who else would tell us that “wars are sad, uhhhhuuhhuhhhhooo/people die in them and that's bad, uuwhahooooooooo!” if not you?

“Stand Up Comedy”! By some f***ing streak, the least necessary track ever recorded in studio f***ing history! “Fez – Being Born”, in which Bono reflects on the most unfortunate f***ing event of his life! Ooh, and here comes “White As Snow”, in which Bono reflects on war-torn Afghanistan. “Our faces pale as dirty snow”, he sings, f***wittedly. Dirty snow isn't f***ing pale, you basic cognitive skills-lacking f***ing moron! Oh, and f***ing guess how many times the f***ing words “I” and “me” crop up in this drivelling f***ing ballad as opposed to the f***ing words “war torn Afghans”!

Finally, there's “Cedars Of Lebanon”, in which Bono writes from the f***ing perspective of a f***ing war reporter – ie puts on his f***ing fake flak jacket and a silly hoarse voice and fantasises about doing something brave and f***ing useful in his f***ing life, a bit like some beerbellied c*** in an ill-fitting football shirt fantasising about scoring the f***ing winning goal in a f***ing Cup Final! Oh, and just in case you thought that f***ing keyboard motif in the background was an example of U2 scraping up the first f***ing original idea in their entire f***ing career, you should f***ing know it's lifted wholesale from a f***ing Harold Budd album!

And so, once again, hurtle headlong into the f***ing stratosphere of f***ing high visibility and epic pomposity leaving straight white vapour trails of f*** all substance, destination own collective f***ing sphincter, contents 100% dried out f***ing shit! Retire, you desperate, dessicated old c***s, retire! You have nothing to say and increasingly f***ing fewer people to say it to!

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