In Which Mr Agreeable Casts Rheumy Eyes Over The Mercury Prize

Could it be Mr Agreeable's piles that have given him an existential sense of discomfort and rage this week or is it yet another arse-crimpingly boring list of Mercury Music Prize nominees?

Waking up to a breakfast of gently grilled aubergines, kippers and a petrol can of 30 year old Mark E Smith piss, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse The Quietus website. There, I read that the shortlist for the Hyundai Mercury Music Prize has been announced. Among the judges this year were Marcus Mumford of Mumford & Sons.

F*** me sideways with a pogo stick dipped in rancid goatspunk, Marcus f***ing Mumford? A man whose f***ing idea of good music is to f***ing imagine what would f***ing happen if Bono f***ed a dead f***ing Wurzel? Him and his f***ing Steptoe stadium rock? We’re waiting with bated breath to hear what this corduroy c*** thinks about anything whatsoever? Seriously, to whose f***ing idea of taste is this f***ing awards ceremony meant to f***ing pander anyway? The sort of hatchback driving stay-at-home dullard who watches f***ing Later With Jools Holland and wants to know what’s the one f***ing CD he needs to buy this year to boost his f***ing record collection to ten albums in f***ing total? I bet the poor f***ers nominated are f***ing shitting themselves in case it’s them who wins and joins f***ing Gomez and The Young Fathers down the chute and into the dungeon of f***ing oblivion! Let’s have a look at the motley f***ing cavalcade of cock they’ve picked randomly from the retro cesspit of 2017 shall we?

ALT J – Relaxer

No f***ing way. I’d rather eat an entire f***ing tuba than listen to this junkshop f***ing piss-bilge for more than three consecutive f***ing seconds! "Authentic"? "Worthy"? I look forward to the day when c***s like you c***s are chased into the f***ing sea by squadrons of giant f***ing disco robots!

Blossoms – Blossoms

Christ on an elephant dildo, how brassy are the balls on this bunch of f***ing titmice that they dare foist this thunderously vapid indie pop on a world that’s suffered enough? This is about as welcome as a f***ing curry fart in a crowded, broken down f***ing lift!

Dinosaur – Together, As One

Oh shower me in scented smegma, the f***ing jazz album. Does it reach the heights of last year’s nominees The Token Quintet? Or the stylings of 2015’s entry Jamie Token? Or 2014’s shortlisted Ted Token and the Tokens and their unforgettable debut album Token? Jazz! F*** off!

Ed Sheeran – Divide

For c***ing out loud, is there not one f***ing aspect of contemporary f***ing existence that is free from this blazing, blotchy-faced lump of twat all? Every time I look up at the f***ing sun I half-expect f***ing Ed Sheeran to be staring back down at me! Mind you, at least if he won the f***ing Mercury Prize it’d be the last we ever heard of the f***er. Give him it! Give him it!

Glass Animals – How To Be A Human Being

"English indie pop band from Oxford". F***ing great, because we f***ing need more of that like we need a f***ing itchy arse on a hot f***ing day! One of them is called Edmund Irwin-Singer, which is all you need to know about this bunch of floppy f***ing piss-ants and their criminally extraneous f***ing album for clueless hipster shitheads!

J Hus – Common Sense

Yeah, you weren’t f***ing picked at f***ing random were you? Twatty songs about how big his car is coming to you from some little c***’s phone on the top deck of a f***ing bus!

Kate Tempest – Let Them Eat Chaos

Kate f***ing Tempest, here to bring more spoken f***ing word sleet and misery to ruin the occasional sunshine of our f***ing lives. Face it, the only reason anyone listens, or at least pretends to f***ing listen to this terminally, relentlessly, monotonously f***ing morose windbag is the same reason anyone listens to poetry readings – a f***ing sense of guilt and obligation and please let it f***ing end soon!

Loyle Carner – Yesterday’s Gone

Confessional hip-hop from f***ing Croydon. Roll out the f***ing barrel. The only thing you should be f***ing confessing is that you’re a shit f***ing chancer who’s managed to monetise his f***ing moaning! C***!

Sampha – Process

A f***ing piano player? You can’t even walk through a f***ing railway station without some space wasting twat playing the f***ing piano and now we’re thinking of giving one of the c***s a f***ing award? You don’t give them a f***ing award, you give them ten seconds to get the f*** off that stool and scarper before you set about them with a f***ing baseball bat!

Stormzy – Gang Signs & Prayer

What the f*** is it with you and your f***ing Mum? Do you take her with you every time you go for a piss? As well as nine of your f***ing mates? You realise Jeremy Corbyn has no f***ing idea who you are, what you do and how the f*** you earn a living out of doing it, don’t you, Twatzy?

The Big Moon – Love in the 4th Dimension

You know what there’s only been about f***ing nine of on this list so far? F***ing white indie. About time we had some more. The Big Moon "resuscitate the golden age of indie". There was no golden age of indie, you pebblechewing pricks, just a steady drizzle of f***ing pale piss since about f***ing 1981! After the nuclear holocaust there’ll be only two things left – cockroaches and spectacularly unnecessary twats like you still making f***ing albums no c*** f***ing needs!

The xx – I See You

You know what we’ve not had since the f***ing last nominee? Some much f***ing needed white indie! Christ, what a giant bowl of tinned peas in a f***ing piss pot this list is. The xx? You should be called the yy! As in why, why don’t studio owners release f***ing alsatians on you any time you try to enter their f***ing premises?

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