Like ‘Girlfriend’ by Avril Lavinge and ‘Smile’ by Lily Allen and ‘Pieces of Me’ by Ashlee Simpson, ‘That’s Not My Name’ by the Ting Tings is a surefire 100% stoneground fucking dead dick detector. Basically if you don’t like it then you have literally have a dead dick for a brain and almost certainly hate women.
"But they went to stage school or something", you blather. "And that woman is not real. She was in a band called Dear Eskiimo and before that in a fluffy girl pop combo called TKO. She has a history, a history I tell you! Real musicians do not. They pop fully formed out of God’s vagina. And they have penises."
Oh shut the fuck up, Saint fucking Paul. What does any of that that matter? If the Ting Tings were chiseled out of Simon Cowell’s frozen cock cheese how the fuck would that detract one iota from the unarguable fact that this is a chilled-to-the-bone pop classic and everything you like is inadequate, joyless and raisin-testicled indie rubbish?
Or am I pushing at an open door here? Has the fact that the Ting Tings have been warmly embraced by that tiny part of the indie pop community that doesn’t hate women indicate that alt.pop has finally grown up? Does it fuck. Same thing happened to Lily Allen. And just look at the spittle-spraying hate that’s poured out every time her name’s mentioned on any alt.pop website.
My decades long jihad against the bogus notion of indie authenticity might have successfully led most of the rock intelligentsia into the bright sunlight of pop, but the vast bulk of the mouse-cocked indie massive still skulk in the sexist shadows, muttering misogynist death threats against anyone with a cunt that sings.
And for you scum, I have a message. Concentrate now. (Seriously, this only works if you concentrate really hard). Pow! That’s me smacking you really fucking hard in your virtual ladyboy mouth with my virtual Mighty Jo Young sized pop-powered superfist. Concentrate, you fucker! Bam! That’s me virtually stamping on your virtual head until your virtual brains leak out your virtual nostril. With my cosmic Skinheed from the fourth issue of Viz sized pop-powered steel-toecaped 19-holer DMs. And that’s right, I did say nostril singular because you’ve got a crap and really badly drawn avatar that’s got a really crude blob for a nose and is a wearing a T-shirt that says I AM A SAD INDIE CUNT that makes you look even more indie cunter than you actually are.
Pop like this and ‘Smile’ and ‘Girlfriend’ and ‘Who Let the Dogs Out’ is like gaydar in reverse. IndieTwatDar, I call it. It’s a pop litmus test. You’re either on the Ting Tings bus or you’re a fucking dick. Or some fucking disgusting parasite-and-disease-infested hippy who doesn’t wash because soap is like manufactured man. In either case you are banned from pop forever. And are forbidden from reading any more of this article. Go on. Fuck off back to your hedge, you disgusting, lice ridden dog fucker.
Even better, this record serves as a superdick detector. A superdick is a special category of dick. If you don’t like ‘That’s Not My Name’ but you do like Los Campesinos! or Belle and Sebastian or the Decemberists or Tim Buckley or Big Star or Morrissey or Nick Cave or (fill in the name your own current super fave filthy little rubbish mock pop band that I’ve not heard yet here) _____ then you are officially a pop leper and should be put in the pop stocks and pelted with bricks until you are half dead and then castrated, mutilated and eviscerated and made to watch as your ears, nose, lips, genitals and guts are burnt in front of you by a huge and incredibly muscular hunchback wearing a shiny black unitard and a leather hood.
