Waking up to a breakfast tray of sliced cucumbers on a bed of boiled Quinoa, sugarless Muesli, a peach medley and three gallons of overproof rum swilled in a Dublin spitoon with a slice of lemon, I take in the repast, before turning to the latest news from the world of rock and pop, the comings and goings of the Hit Parade, and so forth. My eye is first caught by news that the New Musical Express, sometimes known as the NME, has apologised for inadvertently implying that Morrissey, former lead singer of The Smiths, is a racist.
F*** me with a beached whale’s rib dipped in hot tar, Morrissey? A racist? Definitely f***ing not! A preening, bloviating f***ing sack of acrid, mouldering f***ing irrelevance, yes, but not a f***ing racist! A truffling f***ing attention hog who makes Stephen f***ing Fry look like f***ing Lord Lucan, but not a racist, certainly! A sub-Alan Bennettian, sub-Wildean, toxic, meretricious f***ing half-wit who actually looks worse than the f***ing portrait in his attic nowadays, but no racist! The hulking, clothbrained f***face and f***ing gullibility profiteer responsible for turning indie music into a funkless, monochrome perma-drizzle of f***ing underachieving, sullen, extraneous f***ing mediocrity, yes, but a racist? I f***ing think not! Never was an apology more f***ing deserved! If the f***ing NME had got any f***ing vestige of f***ing insight, they’d have realised that being one of the world’s most prominent anti-racists is the c***’s sole redeeming feature! You only have to look at everything he’s ever f***ing said and everything he’s ever f***ing done to see that! Duh!
Mumford & Sons are well on the way to completing work on their second album. Says Ben Lovett of the group, "There’s no pressure… we’re really excited about it. We’re looking forward to putting the record out there."
F*** you and f*** you hard with your own torn off f***ing limbs, you simpering, waistcoated f***ing gaggle of poverty-parodying junkyard superpricks! When the f***ing ravenous hordes of the f***ing revolution track you and the rest of your privileged c*** of a class to your f***ing townhouse lairs and tear down the f***ing boards you nailed up during the f***ing food riots, they’ll f***ing drag you outside and boil you alive in vats of the melted down vinyl of your f***ing insult-to-f***ing injury, obscenely f***ing unnecessary albums! You and your f***ing fans, all of whom are called "Ollie", spiritually at any f***ing rate! Death, violent, slow, painful and immediately administered f***ing death to all "Ollie"s!
Usher is back with a new album. Striking a note of self-absorption unusual in the world of contemporary R&B, it’s called Looking 4 Myself.
Oh, looking for yourself are you, Usher? Mislaid yourself? I think I know where you might f***ing find yourself. Have you tried looking in the charts? Hard to locate nowadays, I f***ing agree, as no one gives an airborne f***ing shag about the f***ing charts any more but I think that’s where you’ll f***ing find yourself, clogging up the f***ing works with the f***ing over-produced, vacuum-sucked, reality-of-life-for-black-people-denying, generic f***ing glucose syrup that passes for f***ing African-American music in this f***ing day and age, you long, useless, flaccid f***ing wanksock!
Finally, in important news, it turns out that Stone Roses failed to play an encore at an Amsterdam concert after drummer Reni refused to come back onstage. In sympathy with the disgruntled crowd, singer Ian Brown described his co-band member as a "cunt".
"C***"? Why, that’s unwarrantedly strong language. Reni a c***? It isn’t possible. He’s a member of Stone Roses. None of Stone Roses are c***s. Chancers but cowards, who when randomly offered the opportunity to become the biggest group since the f***ing Beatles because a bored, fieldbound, rave-addled generation needed a white guitar group, any white guitar group, to fill a large, Beatles-sized hole, f***ed off to Wales for six f***ing years, leaving us to the mercy of the even f***ing worse f***ing Oasis, but definitely not c***s! Played a f***ing gig at Reading so legendarily bad that even the f***ing empty bladdered took refuge in the f***ing toilets but certainly not c***s! Arseholes, yes, but not c***s! Actually, scratch that Brown was f***ing right. They’re f***ing Stone Roses, for f***’s sake. Of course they’re c***s. In fact, now that I come to think of it, Morr – (thank you – Ed)
