Mr Agreeable: Like Ten Thousand Spoons When All He Needs Is A Gun

Over a breakfast of lightly grilled kippers Mr Agreeable casts his sparkling eye over news concerning Razorlight, Oasis and My Bloody Valentine.

Waking up to a breakfast of low calorie bran flakes, dried apricot and pineapple segments, Earl Grey tea and a gallon of a half of Thunderbird wine passed through the system of a horse and urinated into a bucket, I consume my repast then set aside my breakfast tray and peruse a selection of periodicals bringing the latest tidings from the world of the Hit Parade. Therein, I read that leaked reports of the new Oasis album Dig Out Your Soul speak of its songs featuring, among other things, a sitar, “Krautpop” elements and the use of samples from films.

Sweet fancy f***ing Mother Mary with a strap on f***ing dildo, what the f*** are you trying to do, Noel, scare us all shitless with your confounding, futuristic notions!? A sitar? On a rock record? Why, the like has never been f***ing known! And importing influences from the f***ing German Krautrock scene? Please, your sheer quantum leaping and innovative thought processes are giving me air sickness! But what’s this – samples? From films? Used on a rock record? Please, it’s like being aboard a time travelling spacecraft of relentless f***ing originality hurtling headlong for the 24th century! The G-force is tearing the flesh from my f***ing jaw! You stupid, slow-witted little c***! If you’d emerged from your own, self-satisfied f***ing arse any time these last 20 f***ing years, you’d have some f***ing idea just how cluelessly behind the f***\ing times you and your guitar groping f***ing combo of puddingheaded f***ing ignoramuses are! A f***ing sitar, my rotting f***ing cock! Gee, Noel, why not just blow our minds completely and use a f***ing stylophone? Tosser!

Johnny Borrell of Razorlight has let it be known that he plans to have the lyrics from one of his songs tattooed onto his person. He proposes to have the words “She lives on Dissilusion Row” on his bicep.

You know, in these times of credit crunch, economic and social adversity when you sometimes wonder whether the f*** it’s worth carrying on, thank goodness there is one sustaining thought, and that is the fantasy of pinning down and punching Johnny f***ing Borrell, hard, in the face, for 12 hours f***ing straight, like the shirtless, white trousered twat of a c*** that he is! “Dissilusion Row”? I hope the f***ing tattooist charges you f***ing extra for the (SIC) he’s gonna have to put in brackets after that, you special needs arsehole! And I hope he works that needle on a few f***ing junkies dragged in off the f***ing street before he works it on you, and your f***ing arm gets infected and falls the f*** off leaving you with as many arms as you’ve got musical ideas, you c***wart!

Finally, it seems that Irish rockers My Bloody Valentine, led by Kevin Shields, are due to release an album shortly, as a quickfire follow up to capitalise on the success of their last album Loveless, released in 1991.

You know, Shields, you’re some unique f***ing stripe of c***, you really f***ing are. You must have f***ing balls the size of the Jupiter’s moons, the f***ing cheek of you. Suppose you’d been working in the hardware business? Bloke comes in, woolly hat, gives you a f***ing shopping list – you know, nails, hammers, spirit level, joists, regular f***ing shit, and you demand cash upfront, so he hands it over, no problem. Then you excuse yourself while you go out back, and out the back door, onto the street, where you blow the f***ing cash. Then you come back to your f***ing store where the poor c*** in his woolly f***ing hat’s been standing there for three hours wondering what the f***’s going on. And he says, you know, not unreasonably, where’s my stuff? And you tell him “I’m working on it.” And there you stand, hands in the pockets of your brown overcoat, staring at him in a vacant, glassy eyed sort of way, blatantly doing f*** all! 17 years pass, you’re still f***ing standing there, cobwebs hanging off you, and the f***ing ghost of the poor c***, who’s now reduced to a f***ing skeleton and a f***ing woolly hat standing there in front of you calls out from the f***ing twilight world between now and the afterlife, “Wherrrreee’s my stuffffff??” And you say, “Oh, yes. It’ll be with you shortly.” It’s a f***ing My Bloody Valentine record, you twat, it’s not like it’s actual music! It should take as f***ing long to record as it does to f***ing play, you cacophonous f***ing arsewit!

More Mr Agreeable here.

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