Waking up to a breakfast set upon a silver salver of grapes, low fat pineapple yoghurt, pumpernickel and a can of petrol siphoned from the tank of a jackknifed lorry in a fatal road accident, I finish my repast and arise from my bed to read that The Sex Pistols are currently writing their first material together in 30 years, having reformed to play a festival at the Isle Of Wight.
Jesus H f***ing cockrot, what c*** in their right f***ing minds wouldn’t rather eat f***ing melted down waxwork than watch these sun-dried, legacy squandering, mentally atrophied f***ers churn through the f***ing punk motions with zero f***ing sense of the tragedy of f***ing irony of what they’re f***ing doing? Fact! Anyone who moves to f***ing LA automatically forfeits their f***ing right to presume they have anything of f***ing cultural worth to offer the f***ing world! And that counts f***ing double in the case of the f***ing Sex Pistols! Steve Jones? He’s what happens when classic rock f***s lard! Glen Matlock! A f***ing div from day one! Paul Cook? He’s the f***ing drummer, who gives a f***? And John f***ing Lydon? A cross between Kenneth f***ing Williams and Krusty the f***ing Klown! Twats!
French house duo Cassius are the latest group to release an album for the Nike+ running series. At 45 minutes, it’s made up of a warm up, mid-section plus warm down. Commented Phillipe Zdar of Cassius, "We didn’t know what to think at first . . . it seemed a brand we could relate to and after finding out more about the project they had conceived we started looking at the wider picture we thought why not try something that is a new challenge?"
Yeah, f***ing right, you were so impressed by Nike’s conceptual and spiritual immaculateness you’d have done the f***ing thing for free, wouldn’t you? Bull-shit! The wider picture my flaking scrotum! For starters you’re exposed as complete smegma wipes for using the f***ing word brand, which is only f***ing acceptable if preceded by the word "Russell" and followed by the words "is a loathsome little c***!" Face it, that statement should have read as follows; We didn’t know what to think at first . . . it seemed like a cheque we could relate to and after finding out more about the cheque they had conceived we started cheque cheque cheque cheque cheque cheque cheque cheque will suck for cheque. French house! What the f*** does that mean, no f***ing bathroom? C***s!
Finally, Coldplay have released their latest album, Viva La Vida, to some laudatory reviews. Is it time, perhaps, that we get past his celebrity marriage and fruit-based policy of child naming and recognise the towering genius of our age that is Chris Martin?
Yeah, well, it’s been some f***ing decade! Let’s go back. The Fifties brought us rock & roll. The Sixties brought us The Beatles, flower power, the countercultural revolution. The Seventies brought us punk, the Eighties post-punk, Acid and Techno, the Nineties grunge, jungle, triphop. And what has this f***ing decade given us? Kids with their trousers half way down their f***ing arses and f***ing Coldplay, in that order of f***ing merit! A handwringing guppyfaced, snivelling streak of f***ing cock all like Martin would have been laughed out any other f***ing decade! Coldplay are f***ing homeopathic music a gnat’s kneecap-sized particle of f***ing substance diluted to the f***ing power of 10 zillion gazillion! Fretting vaguely about the f***ing environment over a f***ing piano tinkling like water dripping from a piece of f***ing ten year old wet lettuce, then blasting your own China-sized hole in the f***ing ozone player with your private jet? Arsehole! And those f***ing lyrics! "Those who are dead, are not dead, they’re just living in my head." What, that’s where we f***ing go after we peg it? I tell you this, I’d rather be griddled by Satan’s most malicious minions for all f***ing eternity than spend it in the vaporous f***ing drivel generator that is f***ing Chris Martin’s head! Truly, the c*** to end all c***s!
