I note with a lightly furrowed brow that Sir Paul McCartney, formerly of Wings and The Beatles, is set to release his next album through the new record label set up by coffee chain Starbucks. This, he says, will offer him a new means to reach his existing fans “through the chain’s in-store promotion” and perhaps win him some new ones.
Sweet f***ing Jesus, Mary and Moses triple decker f***ing sandwich, this is f***ing great news, right, gang? Isn’t it f***ing nice when people help each other out like this? Two publicity-starved mavericks lending each other a helping f***ing hand in the face of an overwhelmingly f***ing hostile public who’d rather drink brown paint in a f***ing crack den than set foot in a f***ing Starbucks and rather listen to the mewls of kittens being f***ing microwaved than anything that wrong-woman-marrying f***ing idiot Paul McCartney is currently f***ing perpetrating! The f***ing irony is that Paul McCartney probably makes better f***ing coffee than you get in f***ing Starbucks and the average, paper-hatted, spotty employee behind the counter at f***ing Starbucks on a promise to f***ing kill themselves if they’re in the same job in 12 months time is probably capable of making more interesting and f***ing relevant music than McCartney’s managed since the f***ing pre-colour television age! Arseboils!
It seems that, due to a technical error, 3000 fans who thought they had tickets for the Leeds and Reading festivals this Summer do not in fact have them, though every effort is being made by organisers to rectify the situation.
Well gee, I’d like to f***ing say that I give one atom of f***ing sparrow’s shit about these poor c***s but frankly, given that these 3000 fans were probably under the impression that they had f***ing functioning brains when it turns out they clearly don’t, I can’t say I’m that f***ing arsed! Face it, people, we’re talking about a pack of tousled, cider-soaked c***wits who take baths in their f***ing jeans, have f***ing Kaiser Chiefs ringtones and whose sole use to f***ing society could only come if there were a national f***ing bogbrush shortage! Have you seen the f***ing Reading line-up these year? It’s a f***ing fence-to-fence c***erama of the first f***ing water, a musical f***ing mortuary! Razorlight? Ash? The View? The f***ing Twang? It’s a topography of turgid f***ing twattery! It’s f***ing arseache! C***s!
Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister has, it’s been reported, threatened to resign if he had been cautioned during the police’s continuing cash-for-honours investigation.
Oh, no, Mr Blair, please! Please, not that! Don’t, we beg you! Better that you press the f***ing nuclear button than you resign your post, please, anything but that, we beseech you on bended f***ing knee! Without your guiding hand the United Kingdom would career at once into the ditch of f***ing oblivion! Why, without your wise investment of billions and billions of taxpayer’s money in such vital national projects as the f***ing Millennium Dome, the national NHS database, the ID card scheme and the f***ing Iraq war, we wouldn’t enjoy our current f***ing standing in Europe among the f***ing Greeks and Moldovans! Jesus, man, is this meant as some sort of f***ing threat? Haven’t you got the message, you rictus-faced, mad-eyed, God-bothering f***ing twat and three quarters? The country’s f***ing begging you to resign! Notice how they’re f***ing yawning and stacking the f***ing furniture very loudly in f***ing Downing Street? The only reason you haven’t already been run out of Whitehall on a f***ing rail and pitched into the filthy end of the f***ing Thames is that all we’ve got in waiting is that 12 year old f***ing tossrag Miliband and that miserable old Scottish c*** who can’t even knot his f***ing tie properly!
The Rumble Strips, from Tavistock, are currently riding high, on an NME-sponsored tour alongside fellow rock hopefuls.
F*** me amidships, The f***ing Rumble Strips? What all night f***ing brainstorming session prompted you to come up with that shitstain of a f***ing name? Did, perchance, the suggestion “The C***s” come up in discussion? Because if it did, you should seriously have considered running it up the f***ing flagpole! The Rumble Strips are, I defecate you not, a f***ing sub ska/Dexy’s band. Yes, folks, you’d have thought that, much as we’ve evolved past the f***ing stage of sprouting tails out of our f***ing arses and ritually burning visiting f***ing policemen, we’ve mostly evolved, in the f***ing 21st century past the stage of f***ing playing brass instruments in an up and down jerky motion and bouncing around in f***ing grey trousers and white socks but news of all this, it seems, has been slow to reach the f***ing west country! Dismal f***ing spunkpewters!
Finally, speaking of the West Country, it seems the world can’t get enough of Justin Lee Collins. You can catch him on air every Saturday from three until six in the afternoon on the radio station Xfm.
Y’know, every time I head this eminently swattable, barking f***ing gumphead pop up yet again, I have to ask myself, what the f*** in the name of f***ing f***ery is this all a-f***ing-bout? How did he achieve anything beyond running a f***ing mobile f***ing disco in f***ing Devon, tricycling around from village to f***ing village with his f***ing soundsystem and copies of “The Birdy Song”? It’s like that f***ing Sergeant Bilko episode where they accidentally induct a monkey into the f***ing US Army! Isn’t there some sort of comedy f***ing customs official c***s like Collins have to get past? “Excuse me, sir, do you have anything that could remotely be described as an amusing joke in that briefcase?” “Arr, no, but I do shout a lot!” “Well, in that case, sir, f*** off back to the scrumpy-like genepool that spawned you, you funny-as-cot-death, hairy, timewasting twat.” We’ve got to tighten up, we really f***ing have!