Waking up to a breakfast of poached kippers, egg-white omelette, braised cucumbers, parsnip tea and eight pints of preserved urine retrieved from a dead tramp who lived on fortified wine for 30 years, I consume the repast then set aside my dinner plate to peruse the latest tidings in the world of rock and pop music. I duly read that a "treasure trove" of 149 Bob Dylan acetates has been discovered from the late 60s and early 70s containing "unreleased versions of songs, in some cases with different overdubs, sometimes without any overdubs, many with different mixes, different edits and, in a few cases, completely unreleased and unknown versions". These are currently for sale for thousands of pounds.

F*** me with a bent f***ing spanner dipped in f***ing phosphorus, I bet this has given the f***ing Dylanologists out there the first f***ing hard-on they’ve had since 1978! Ooh! Nnnnggghhh! Noises of old man excitement! An even older man once made some f***ing recordings we haven’t heard! Ignore all other f***ing music! Raid the f***ing pension fund! We must have these! Have them!" F***ing listen to yourselves, you saggy scrotumed, buzzard necked old c***s! Did you read the f***ing blurb? Unreleased! Unknown! Does it not occur to you f***ing completist cockwasters that that’s another way of saying "shit"? Shit Dylan wouldn’t ever have wanted anyone to hear, which is why he heaved it into a f***ing bin? And given Dylan’s f***ing low limbo pole setting when it came to stuff he actually did think it was worthwhile foisting on the f***ing public, this is some f***ing shit we’re going to be talking here! Shit like a f***ing asthmatic sneezing and dropping his f***ing guitar on his foot! I bet Dylan f***ing wishes he’d kept the bog roll he wiped his f***ing arse with rather than flushed it in the 60s, he could have f***ing flogged it to you gullible twats at a hundred f***ing dollars a f***ing sheet!

An interview with Jake Bugg by Hunger TV has "gone viral", so to speak. As well as featuring the sparkling, illuminating thoughts of Mr Bugg himself, it features a photo session in which he poses alongside a band of naked women, posing suggestively with their rock instruments.

Christ on a c***stick, it’s a wonder this blank-faced, bone-brained f***ing trudger along the muddy path of chord changes most travelled can move his f***ing arms about unassisted, let alone play any sort of tune on a f***ing guitar, however much it sounds like a terminally ill f***ing dog that’s just vomited up one its own f***ing turds! Have you read this f***ing interview? On touring: "It’s all about the music for me and touring is a big part of that." Is that a fact, you dozy, mopheaded, useless f***face? Touring, like, you do the music, don’t you, on stage, so that’s why you do the tour, to do the music bit, so if you’re going to do the music bit to people, you’ve got to go on tour, with your guitar, to play the music and sing to people and that. Thanks for that! On recording his second album; "it felt quite natural. It wasn’t something I was conscious of." What, you mean you f***ing fell asleep in the studio, bored by one of your own f***ing sentences and when you woke up you discovered the world’s shittiest, most uninspired f***ing elves had sneaked in and laid down the whole f***ing thing for you, as well as cobbled you some shit f***ing shoes? On life: "I’ve learned a lot. People do change as life goes on, as you meet new people." That’s what happens, is it? Why, Oscar, you’re spoiling us with your pearl-handled wit and insights! You gormless sack of tenth-hand, tenth-rate f***ing cocktwat! If Noel Gallagher had shat a five pound turd, baked it, taken it out of the oven and shaped it into a f***ing gingerbread turd prodding two holes in its f***ing head to make a pair of f***ing eyes it’d have more about it than you, Bugg! Mind you, there’s a f***ing hole in the middle of the f***ing High Street in f***ing Dewsbury with more about it than you, come to f***ing think of it. And while we’re on the f***ing subject of f***ing learning, maybe after you’ve learned the f***ing number you get after you’ve run out of f***ing fingers and toes to count, maybe you’ll learn that women aren't the mannequin playthings of your banal, needledick, prepubescent, sub-Robin Thicke little sexist fantasies, you catatonic, t-shirtful of tedious f***ing toss!

Industrial hip-hop outfit Death Grips have decided to quit while they are "at their best" after three "busy" years.

"Busy" years, eh? Busy phoning round for gigs, only to be met with a thousand variations on the phrase "F*** right off, no c*** wants to hear what sounds like a bunch of shouty f***ing refuse collectors doing the f***ing rounds trying to make themselves heard above the noise of their own f***ing cart!"? Busy lugging unsold crates of f***ing albums back into the living room from the f***ing van? Busy trying to think of another way of cutting a track that doesn’t involve a f***ing rhyme, a tune, or an original f***ing idea? You’re at your best? Maybe you should have tried being at your worst, it’d have involved roughly the same amount of f***ing ingenuity and effort! Shirtless c***s!

Ed Sheeran has marked his career thus far with an account entitled Ed Sheeran: A Visual Journey, featuring illustrations and text. It’s the story of his rise to fame as a singer-songwriter.

Jesus H C***bucket, Ed f***ing Sheeran, the man the f***ing world needs like it needs another f***ing "Is Andy Murray British or Scottish now?" joke. The most superfluous, sock-faced sack of f***ing snail slime who ever strapped on a f***ing guitar and gurgled emotionally flaccid f***ing doggerel into a f***ing mike while some poor sound engineer on the other side of the f***ing glass contemplated f***ing murder-suicide! Why didn’t you wait till the f***ing end of your career, you twat? Like in three months time? Sea levels are going to f***ing rise when they dump unwanted copies of this over the f***ing side of the remainders boat, you colossal, pillocking pillar of f***ing anus-ache!