Waking up to a breakfast platter of poached quail’s eggs, a medley of seasonal vegetables, multigrain cereal, pomegranate juice and a lump of peat soaked overnight in a vat of Scotsman’s whiskey urine, I partake of my refreshment, set aside my tray and peruse selected periodicals bringing recent tidings in the world of of music. Therein, I read that Robin Thicke, noted R&B songwriter, has released an album, Blurred Lines, following the success of his recent single of the same name.
F*** me sideways with an elephant’s dildo, the viewing figures on the Youtube video accompanying this monumental f***ing discharge of baboon spunk show that it’s been seen over 128 million f***ing times. 128 f***ing million times! That’s it, it’s time for f***ing life on earth to f***ing stop and for us to hand over the planet to the f***ing cockroaches! It’s not so much his f***ing name. I’m sure there’s a Senor Twatte in Spain who has no f***ing idea how his name comes across in other countries, or some unsuspecting German bloke called Eimer Koch, who hasn’t the foggiest notion what’s remotely f***ing funny about that, or some Brazilian called Edson Araldes Do Cordobes Nascienta De Assis Moriera Cunt who has no clue that there’s anything untoward about his name either. It’s not even the fact that he looks like what would happen if David Brent grew a womb and Simon Cowell f***ed him hard up the arse. It’s that Robin Thicke is, bar none, the smuggest, wankiest, creepiest, oiliest, smegma-breathed little shit ever to have f***ing sashayed into the f***ing public realm! A spoiled young Saudi Arabian Prince who trafficked Ukrainian prostitutes to lick jelly off his balls all day and insisted they live in dog kennels on the grounds of his estate in between sessions would watch this video and think, “Actually, I find this quite sexist.” Check the f***ing look on that poor woman’s face at 4:20. “Can I go now? Seriously, can I f***ing go now?” Just as well it fades otherwise we’d actually see her vomit. Robin Thicke! What an absolute f***ing cock of a c***!
Robert Plant has recently signed up to a range of social networks, including a Twitter account which, among other things, will link to his website which features a docu-series on his recent travels to Mali.
Robert Plant’s joined Twitter? Fantastic! Because I don’t know about you, folks, but if I was ever confused about what the f*** was going on in this sad and broken world, lost in a fog of incomprehension about current affairs and the vagaries of human nature, the first f***ing person I’d turn to for wisdom and enlightenment is Robert f***ing Plant and his sagacious 140-character aphorisms! “What would Robert Plant do?” I always say to myself in times of trouble and strife. What would he do? Do what he f***ing always does – release an album of rasping, neo-hippy shite and then follow it up with a bunch of interviews in which he refuses to talk about the one f***ing thing anyone’s interested in about him, ie, what the f*** Led Zeppelin were doing with that f***ing shark in that f***ing hotel that time! So, you went to Mali to feel all global and world musicky, eh? Good for you. I hope you got a warm welcome. I know I’d give you one if I was from Mali. “Hey! Catweazle? Got £30 million you can spare? No? Well, f*** off.” Hairy, addled twat!
It seems that Jack White has had a restraining order from his ex-partner. In the filing, Karen Elson said that White sends her emails laced with profanity and calls her derogatory names.
Yeah? Well that is bang out of order, White, you wretched, primped-up f***ing pillar of Caucasian cockache! I know how you f***ing feel, Karen – I filed a restraining order against White forbidding him to occupy the same f***ing solar system as me back in 2003 but the c***’s been in breach of it ever since!
Finally, it seems that Hugh Laurie has released an album of blues songs, entitled Didn’t It Rain.
Well, gosh, yes, because if anyone was entitled to holler the lamentably overrated, cheerless, shitspreading “Here comes the second line, ooh, what a f***ing surprise it’s the same as the f***ing first line” genre that is the blues, then it’s f***ing Hugh Laurie. His life’s so f***ing harrowing I’m surprised sharecroppers in the deep South don’t have an annual f***ing whipround for him! Seriously, how audaciously conceited a c*** would you have to f***ing be to use your celebrity f***ing leverage, the spare time you can afford through being so lavishly f***ing rewarded for the shit that you do not only to record a f***ing blues album, but then to bang the f***ing drum and actively f***ing encourage people to spend their limited f***ing cash on the f***er, hogging attention spans and f***ing column inches along the f***ing way? Paris Hilton starring in a f***ing biopic of Anne Frank wouldn’t be as f***ing obscene! Didn’t it rain? That wasn’t f***ing rain, Hugh. That was God himself hauling himself to his feet, unzipping his flies, parting the clouds and pissing directly onto you, for your unbelievable f***ing cocktwattery, you c***!
