Waking up to a breakfast of lightly grilled kippers and a cask of my own stored and refortified urine, I read with interest that Sir Cliff Richard may well have been denied victory in the 1968 Eurovision Song Contest by General Franco, whose henchmen ensured that the Spanish entry, ‘La La La’ by the chanteuse Massiel, reached the top spot by systematically bribing foreign jurors in exchange for votes. In the end, Cliff’s ‘Congratulations’ lost by a single point.
Aw, there’s a f***ing shame! British Song with all the f***ing artistic merit of a f***ing eight year old girl’s turd loses out thanks to Fascist corruption! Tell you f***ing what, Cliff, it’s a f***ing pity South Africa isn’t part of f***ing Europe, what with all the f***ing fans you picked up there when you defied a ban and toured the f***ing place during the f***ing apartheid era like the clueless Christian c*** you are! You’d have f***ing walked the contest! If Franco fixed this, it was the best thing the old f***er ever did, second to f***ing dying! I could pretty much forgive him his f***ing conduct in the f***ing Spanish Civil War if by whatever f***ing means necessary he knocked you off your f***ing perch of pop pillockry! Cliff! Go f***ing throw yourself off one, you prune-faced pile of sun-dried f***ing arserag! Seriously, in all f***ing seriousness, you’re f***ing 67, die!
It seems that Scarlett Johansson, star of Lost In Translation, has made an album of covers of Tom Waits songs, featuring contributions from David Bowie. It was produced by David Sitek of TV On The Radio.
Oh my f***ing Christ – Scarlett. Has it f***ing occurred to you that there’s a f***ing downside to getting to a f***ing point in your life when any proposition that floats through your f***ing minimally appointed head and finds its way out of your mouth is greeted with, ‘Oh yes, of course, Ms Johansson, you can do anything you want!’ Including this f***ing piece of shit? You can no more f***ing sing that a f***ing goat can toss the f***ing caber! The only redeeming thing you can f***ing say about this album is that it’s not as bad as that pile of ooh, aren’t slitty-eyed people strange? shite Lost In Translation! And Tom f***ing Waits? I’d rather listen to a f***ing dosser vomiting! In fact, I suspect I f***ing am listening to a f***ing dosser vomiting! As for David Bowie, well, you f***ing knew that desperate old twat would have got his f***ing yellowing, vampiric f***ing fangs involved in a f***ing project like this! Ah. Yes. TV On The Radio. Marvellous. Yes, I’m very up to date with the modern scene. Bright new labels like 4AD. Young music. Young blood. The blood of the young. Blood! Blood! Must have blood! Come hither, my young ones. Chateau owning c***!
Finally, The Kaiser Chiefs have let it be known that in order to keep it real, their next album is to be produced by hip-hop/rock producer Mark Ronson, nephew of tycoon Gerald Ronson and brother of Samantha, Lindsey Lohan’s party pal.
F*** me, Leeds, eh? Rickets. Peter Sutcliffe. The f***ing Kaiser Chiefs. You know, if we wanted to see if our f***ing nuclear bombs were still f***ing working after all these f***ing years in storage, I can think of f***ing worse ideas! Trouble is, like the obdurate f***ing cockroaches they are, the f***ing Kaiser Chiefs would probably survive the f***ing blast, scuttling around like pointless little f***s, predicting f***ing riots! What the f*** do you still exist for, you rancid f***ing streaks of f***ing cockrot? You know, when even Boris Johnson – Boris, flabby faced f*** Johnson – slags you off for being too f***ing tame, the game’s f***ing up! It just f***ing reminds you of the old wives’ f***ing adage that you can’t shove shit back up the arse of f***ing mediocrity! As for f***ing Mark Ronson, you overprivileged, undertalented twatpiece – P Diddy? Robbie Williams? Christina Aguilera? The f***ing Kaiser Chiefs? Is there anyone you f***ing wouldn’t work with, on f***ing principle? Is there f***! If General Franco were discovered to be f***ing alive and well and living in f***ing Bolivia, you’d be right on the phone to him offering to give his f***ing new album of Patriotic Military Marching Songs a radical, edgy, hip-hop sheen, wouldn’t you, you little c***?
