Well, it was red letter day – or should we say, "ginger letter" day for pop music as noted, all-round singer/songwriter Ed Sheeran released his new album No.6 Collaborations Project. It features the likes of Eminem, 50 Cent, Stormzy, Skrillex, Yabba, Justin Bieber and Young Thug, and Betway offer odds of just 1/3 that between one and five singles from the album go to number one in the UK, while it’s 3/1 that between five and ten top the charts. It’s hoped that the album will yield a string of number ones, lighting up the Summer skies like fireworks.
C*** me with a f***ing cockstick, this is another piss-stain of f***ing shame on the worst f***ing century in living f***ing memory! And what the f*** with these guest artists? Do you f***ing think, 50 years ago that f***ing Marvin Gaye, James Brown, Jimi Hendrix, Scott Walker and f***ing Sly Stone would have agreed to make guest appearances on a f***ing Des O’ Connor album? What the f***, did the hairy f***ing divot have dodgy photos of you all, or what? In which case, why didn’t you beat the squashed faced f***er up and make him hand them over? Jesus H Smegma, we can’t put a man on the f***ing moon and we can’t f***ing get famous without appearing on an album alongside f***ing Ed Sheeran!
The emergence of Sheeran as the biggest boil on the anus of f***ing pop is one of the mysteries of the f***ing universe. Put it to f***ing Brian Cox and he’d shrug his shoulders and say, "Beats me. People are just inexplicably mind-addled, masochistic twats, that’s all." Seems like once every f***ing half century, capricious Fate randomly hoicks out some conspicuously talentless, squat, ugly little f***ing busker from the oblivion in which they deservedly languish – the last one was f***ing Elton John, you’ll f***ing remember – and showers them with riches in exchange for their musical offerings which in the normal run of things would be f***ing bagged and disposed of in the nearest f***ing bin like the steaming white dogshit that they are! He’d spend his days being moved on from tube station to f***ing tube station, taking his guitar, his sorry, baggy arse and his f***ing rusty tin with 13p in it with him! This, readers, is the f***ing human condition and Ed Sheeran is the f***Ing state it’s in!
Anyway, to the f***ing album itself. Recommendation: If you listen to it on Spotify, listen on the f***ing free version, because, believe me, you’ll be grateful for the respite of the f***ing ads! ‘Beautiful People’ featuring Khalid. And a f***ing recurring theme on the album; how fame and fortune makes him feel a little bit awkward and a misfit in the glitzy circles he now f***ing frequents. Does it? Does it, Ed? Because there’s a f***ing reason for that. You don’t f***ing belong in these f***ing circles. You belong in a f***ing ditch in the f***ing 14th century, only still alive because you’ve no f***ing mates to pass on the f***ing plague virus to you!
Meanwhile, the production is as throughout the album; all the elements tweaked, diluted, processed, filtered, refried, defrosted, purified, reprocessed, diced, glossed, planed and repurified to produce an outcome ten thousand times f***ing blander than pork jelly, a substance you could shit three f***ing pounds of and your sphincter wouldn’t feel a f***ing thing! ‘South Of The Border’ follows, with Sheeran playing what sounds like a f***ing strong of catgut on a cigar tin as he whimpers that f***ing generic pop whimper that’s only there to assure you that, yes, kids, this is pop music, non-deviant, by-the-book pop music as you know it with all the little tics you’ve come to expect from pop music, the same pop music you’ve been listening to since 2003 and will still be listening to in 2043 when East Anglia has been f***ing flooded and Ed Sheeran is f***ing living ten feet under water!
‘Take Me Back To London’ follows, with Stormzy, contributing his sorry bit to this woeful f***ing exercise in homeopathic grime. The fascinating sentiment of the f***ing lyric is that playing Glasto and the Brits can be quite tiring and sometimes they’d like to relax at home! Really? Gosh. Reminds me of the f***ing pinnacle of Dylan’s career, ‘Back In My Own Bed’ on f***ing Blonde On Blonde on which he sings "Playing folk festivals and being shouted at for playing electric guitar is quite tiring / Sometimes I wish I was back at home / Taking a break from being famous for a bit". C***s.
The f***ing theme of deserved low self-esteem continues on ‘Best Part Of Me’ with Yebba – "Why do you love me because I don’t even love myself" – and ‘I Don’t Care’ with Justin Bieber ("everybody’s got so much to say/I always feel like I’m nobody." Spot on. And yet still you f***ing inflict yourself on us, to a f***ing self-assembly kit f***ing dancehall beat too. But ooh, more rap now with ‘Remember The Name’ with Eminem and 50 Cent and a f***ing exchange of sheer f***ing blingdolence. And now ‘Put It All On Me’ in which Sheeran, f***ing Sheeran, dares to complain about the "shit that I go through every day", to actual people going through actual, deadening, zero-hours shit every actual f***ing day, worsened a f***ing involuntary soundtrack of f***ing Ed Sheeran! You ARE the shit we’re f***ing going through, man! God, please, will they f***ing hurry up with those ads?
Now it’s ‘Nothing On You’, featuring, God knows, some c*** whining about the f***ing money he’s mystifyingly accrued for chundering f***ing morose doggerel into a f***ing mic. ‘1000 Nights’, with Meek Mill and A Boogie With Da Hoodie is basically a list of big cities ("New York! London!") and sounds like a f***ing Ibiza all-nighter stamping on a f***ing human face forever, though it’d f***ing take longer than forever to make it f***ing resemble Sheeran’s! And finally, ‘BLOW’, with f***ing Chris Stapleton and Bruno Mars which goes full on f***ing Tygers Of Pan Tang and actually makes you feel sorry for shit 80s British heavy metal for being pissed on like this. But then, metal’s like all music to Sheeran – just another genre, to try on, arse around with and then discard like a f***ing bored rich kid casually tossing whatever takes his f***ing fancy – rap, grime, metal, ballads – into the insatiable f***ing void of his no oneness. And so, this fly-blown, fetid, tottering heap of torn-off, bleeding bollocks comes to a f***ing conclusion. In a million other f***ing parallel universes, Ed Sheeran is annoying his f***ing co-workers braying ‘Wonderwall’ at a f***ing Amazon warehouse. Just our f***ing luck to be born into this f***ing one.
