Archive for March, 2007

Sunday, March 25th, 2007

McCartney, Reading Festival, Blair, The Rumble Strips, Justin Lee Collins

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!

Sunday, March 18th, 2007

Mr Agreeable! The column in which the words “fuck” and “cunt” are asterisked

I read with some interest and a raised eyebrow that the million-selling Las Vegas combo Panic! At The Disco are riding high in public esteem currently, with their new single “Build God, Then We’ll Talk”.

Oh, yes indeed! Panic! At the disco! That’s precisely what the sight of these silly little painted f***ing tampon armed little twats is inducing up and down the f***ing country! One blast of their experimental blend of “pop” and “punk” and the dancefloors of Leeds and Manchester clear, the exit doors jam with a terrified humanity leaving trails of f***ing diarrhea in their wake, glitterballs shatter into a million shards and DJs cower in their booths covering their f***ing ears, cursing their own folly in dabbling with such shockingly subversive sounds! “Eek! He’s a man. . . and he’s wearing . . . foundation!!! Run for your lives!” F***wits! If you’d called yourselves Total F***ing Indifference! At The F***ing Disco As Everyone Dances To Hi-Ho Silver Lining And Come On, Eileen Rather Than A Bunch Of Clueless F***ing Flunkies Like Us, C***s That We Are, you’d have been a bit more f***ing nearer the mark! Not a f***ing idea in your head that hadn’t been comprehensively done to f***ing death by 1979! Still, if that’s what goes down these days, watch our for my new f***ing sitcom! Set in a Torquay hotel it’s called Fowlty Towers, and features a dim-witted waiter from Spain called Miguel and a hilarious episode in which the manager, Bazzle, goosesteps around in front of a group of f***ing German tourists! Yeah, that’ll f***ing do! Pathetic f***ing wankmeisters!

Australian premier John Howard suffered a narrow escape this week. A plane on which he was flying during a visit to South east Iraq was forced to make an emergency landing after the cabin filled with smoke.

F*** me, thank f***ing Christ for that! Phew! That was a f***ing close one! Oh, please, don’t f***ing scare me like that again, Mr Howard! I cannot imagine the turmoil world politics would have been plunged into if a vile, irrelevant little tit like you had died of f***ing asphyxiation! The words “loathsome little c***flake” are ludicrously fawning and f***ing flattering when it comes to f***ing Howard, a fat little maggot living three feet up George Bush’s f***ing rectum subsisting on the red meat lodged in his f***ing intestine! If I was that pilot I’d have f***ing crash landed that plane whether there’d been smoke in the cabin or f***ing not, if I’d known a skidmark on the f***ing underpants of mankind like Howard was on f***ing board! C***!

Keith Allen is back on our screens in a new, three part ITV series called Mobile.

Jesus shat in my f***ing mouth, is there anything this cocky, malingering f***ing stranger to the f***ing razor blade and terminal f***ing tart Keith Allen isn’t f***ing fouling up with his utterly unwanted f***ing screen presence right now? It’s not enough that he’s spawned that tediously stroppy f***ing overheard-loud-conversation-among-teenagers-at-a-f***ing-bus stop waste of f***ing lipstick Lilly Allen! Face it, not unlike the words “Rowland Rivron” or “Jo Brand”, is anything guaranteed to induce a bigger, bowel-deep sigh than the news that what you’re about to watch is infested with the f***ing involvement of Keith f***ing Allen? F***ing makers of edgy new f***ing drama series, listen! It is not f***ing mandatory for you to include Keith Allen in every single f***ing one of your productions! Next time he calls, just tell him to f*** off and if he persists, have security carry him out by the f***ing trouser seat and dump him in the f***ing skip round the side of the building! Mega-c***!

Jazzwise, the magazine are to celebrate their tenth anniversary with a special week of concerts at the Pizza Express Jazz Club in London. Among those who’ll be playing are such luminaries as the Michael Wollny Trio and the Stan Tracey Octet.

F*** me dickless, I grew a f***ing beard just reading that f***ing announcement! It’s the f***ing 21st century, what sort of corduroyed f***ing c*** still listens to f***ing parpy, drearioso old man’s bollocks like this? An ‘octet’? A twattet, more f***ing like! “Ooh, wait for it, here comes the trombone solo!” I am going to every f***ing evening of this poxy, spunk-encrusted f***ing festival of yours and I will be at the front, throwing things, that’s my f***ing promise to you, you noodling f***ing knobrashes! You should be thanking God you’ve managed to last ten years without angry members of the f***ing League Against Silver-Framed Spectacled F***ing Pullover Fillers coming round and burning down your f***ing offices, you c***s!

Paul Wilson of The Observer’s column, regarding proposals to have penalty shootouts instead of draws in football games is trailed as follows on the newspaper’s website; “Talk Of Scrapping Draws Just Shows How American We Have All Become”.

Listen, you f***ing arseholes, who the f*** is this f***ing “We” you’re constantly f***ing invoking, whether it’s Why We’re All Obsessed With Kate Moss, Why We Love Our Gas-Guzzling Vehicles or Why We’re All Watching Fame Academy? No “we’re” f***ing not, you lazy, celeb and shit-addled f***ing hacks! The only f***ing “We” you can include me in is Why We’re No Longer Buying The C***ing Observer!

Finally, it seems that proposals are afoot to reduce the UK’s carbon emissions by some 60% over the forthcoming decades. This would mean dispensing altogether with such luxuries as cars, foreign holidays, TVs, DVDs and central heating, if targets are to be reached.

Yeah? Well, you can go whittle a f***ing stick and swivel f***ing hard on it, twattos! You might as well f***ing ask us to hold in our farts to reduce f***ing methane emission levels! So, it’s like this, right? The only way life on earth is f***ing sustainable is if we go back to a miserable-as-f*** agrarian existence, entertaining ourselves by worshipping Gaia, shaking pig’s bladders in an amusing way, tending f***ing cabbage patches, boiling our sandals for f***ing soup and dying out every few years of disease, plague and f***ing pillage? F*** that! Whose f***ing fault is global warming? Our f***ing useless c*** of a planet, that’s whose! F***ing “fragile eco system” my arse! Any planet that can’t sustain a standard of f***ing life the average f***ing pub dog wouldn’t tolerate doesn’t deserve to f***ing survive!


What’s in YOUR future?? This week: Aries

Aries, the star sign, is ruled by Mars, giver of determination, energy and power and symbolised by the Ram. Determination, energy and power certainly have made you Top Dog in your f***ing sales department. However, come next Tuesday, after you’ve downed a shitload of f***ing Stella at a post-regional sales conference f***ing bonding session, you will cut across a f***ing field by way of a short cut back to your f***ing hotel. As you squelch through the f***ing cow patches, your natural Aries instinct will draw you to the sight of a slumbering ram. Stirred by the lust that comes with f***ing intoxication, you decide you will have that ram and clamber astride the beast, demanding satisfaction. However, the animal resists your advances with a powerful kick of its hind legs and you tumble back into a barbed wire f***ing fence. It is three days before you are discovered, soiled, suit torn and trousers round your f***ing ankles. No one raised the f***ing alarm because your absence in the sales department wasn’t actually f***ing noted, you being, when push to comes to shove, a f***ing spare tool.

WARNING The above item is a piece of “fake” or “spoof” astrology and should not, therefore, be taken seriously. For an authentic horoscope, a more accurate prediction of what will happen to you this week, look instead to trained and qualified astrologers such as as Jonathan Cainer in the Daily Mail or Neil Spencer in the Observer. BEWARE OF PHONEYS!

Sunday, March 11th, 2007

Red Nose Day, Kaiser Chiefs, Kate Moss, Racist Tory MP

IT’S that time of year again – Red Nose Day rolls around on March 16. A cavalcade of comedians will be doing their bit to raise the rafters with a few laughs as well as raise millions for charity, with Africa once again among the key beneficiaries as Comic Relief strives to create a “world free from poverty‚”. This year’s extravaganza is in part sponsored by Sainsbury’s.

Imagine, if you f***ing will, folks, what the world was like before Comic Relief. Why, you’d barely recognise the f***ing place ! Africa was a fetid f***ing cesspool of poverty, despotism and corruption, the West was a consuming itself into an early f***ing grave, spoonfed by a diminishing f***ing handful of increasingly f***ing bloated corporations. Thanks to Comic Relief, however, the West is consuming itself into an early f***ing grave, spoonfed by a diminishing f***ing handful of increasingly f***ing bloated corporations, Africa is a f***ing cesspool of poverty, despotism and corruption but now they have two new f***ing water pumps thanks to Dawn c***ing French and Ade twatting Edmondson! Don’t you get it, you docile f***ing c***s? I f***ing appreciate the likes of f***ing Victoria Wood and Lenny f***ing Henry reminded me of how life isn’t all laughter and sunshine by attempting f***ing comedy routines! But you’d have more chance of alleviating f***ing world hunger by launching giant catapults filled with f***ing custard pies from the f***ing Norfolk plains and hoping they reach f***ing Africa, than by going to bed with the f***ing giant retailing outlets, goosestepping over the f***ing faces of the world’s emaciated and f***ing starving! A world free from poverty is a world free from f***ing Sainsburys, you clueless f***ing cockgrinders! And a world free of f***ing Richard Curtis’s criminally obscene f***ing bank balance, fattened from the profits of such masterpieces as Giant Underpants, Actually.  the specky f***ing arsewart!

Ricky Wilson of hot top pop combo The Kaiser Chiefs has a bit of a bone to pick with his fans, it seems. Speaking recently in an interview, he commented, “You never get used to all the attention away from being on stage. People will say or do anything to try and elicit a negative response from you, and it can get to you. People are always shouting, ‘Ricky! We want Ricky on his own!’ It’s like they want to cause a rift between us and get us to split. It can make you paranoid.”

Yeah? Well, I’ll tell you what’d make me feel f***ing paranoid, “Ricky”. Knowing that the vast, vast majority of the f***ing population would like to club you senseless with a broken off f***ing chair leg, their gorge rising to f***ing levels not registered since the f***ing heyday of Marti Pellow, every time your knee-like f***ing face appears on television! Knowing that those selfsame f***ing millions would like you to expire, slowly of a strain of constipation so f***ing virulent your turds turn to f***ing stone and your bladder eventually bursts like a giant f***ing appendix! Have you f***ing heard, or should I say f***ing smelt that new f***ing Kaiser Chiefs single, people? It’s like four nondescript f***ing blokes you think have come round to tar your garage roof have climbed into a f***ing Retardis taking them back to the year 1980, when men in tight grey trousers playing dull-as-Doncaster f***ing power pop ruled the f***ing airwaves with a leaden f***ing fist! You should be astounded and f***ing grateful that you have any f***ing fans at all, and only then because our f***ing educational system is so collapsed that you can get a f***ing A level for writing your own f***ing name on an exam paper without having to Google it! You should be writing to everyone who bought that single of yours personally, offering them individual, under-the-table oral f***ing relief! You should be thanking God for your f***ing canine-like fanbase and their scraping-into-double figure IQs, you dismal f***ing penis!

Kate Moss, who recently caused a stir by failing to present Primal Scream with an award at an NME show, is about to launch her own perfume. It seems the world can’t get enough of Kate Moss!

Y’know, this f***ing puzzles me, really it does. How the f*** does she do it? Does she have f***ing portrait of herself in the attic saying and doing remotely f***ing interesting things? If you sawed off her skull and scooped up what was inside, you’d barely fill half a f***ing teaspoon! She’s got a f***ing face you could open a f***ing bottle of wine with, the body of a f***ing small boy, yet she’s made millions through her shrewd, uncanny knack for f***ing existing! Don’t you just yearn for a f***ing giant hand to descend from the f***ing heavens and administer a general f***ing slapping in times like these? Who the f*** would want to smell like Kate Moss? Not least because you’d have that terminally useless, floppy-faced, gangly streak of f***ing rancid, stale toxins and all round pair of eyebrows attached to a c*** Pete Doherty sniffing around you all f***ing day! You’d be better off spraying yourself with f***ing aniseed!

Former shadow security spokesman and Conservative MP Patrick Mercer has spoken out regarding his sacking regarding remarks about black people in the army. He believes he was a victim of “political correctness”.

No, you f***ing weren’t! You were the victim of fossil-brained, shouldn’t-even-be-in-charge-of-tying-your-own-f***ing-shoelaces-let-alone-in-public office, f***wittedness! The only politically correct thing to do with a loathsome, racist f***ing arsehole like you is nail you to a tree by the f***ing balls and spin you round like a f***ing Catherine wheel till both your bloodshot eyes pop out of their f***ing sockets, you dessicated old c***!

Musicals, musicals, musicals! First it was Abba, then it was Madness, now there is talk of a Jackson Five musical. Still, none of them can match the “Daddy of them all” – Ben Elton’s We Will Rock You, a musical fanstasia based on the rock group Queen.

You know, I’m a f***ing humanitarian at heart. I look on with f***ing approval at the repeal of the f***ing Corn Laws, the emancipation of the f***ing common man and the defeat of those dictators who would enslave the masses, deny them their freedom and their dignity, treat them as less than the human beings they are, with all the inalienable f***ing rights that come with that condition. But I’m also a f***ing firm believer that the Cro-Magnon f***ing mouth breathers who herd daily like f***ing Taser-stunned livestock into the f***ing Dominion Theatre to sit through the f***ing Dung Cathedral at the heart of the Kingdom of Shiteness that is f***ing We Will Rock You should be herded right out the f***ing rear doors after the show, pitchforked into f***ing lorries, driven up to the coast, then loaded into giant f***ing cannons and shot into the f***ing sea. Job done, drive home, feet up, cocoa and shipping forecast. It’s the only f***ing way, folks, it’s the only f***ing way. C***s!

Finally, break out the peroxide – it seems that The Police are to reform after almost a quarter of a century. Said their leader Sting of the reunion, “I’ve done this because it’s some kind of healing.” He also spoke of the “tearing” that took place when he and his band members reunited.

“Healing”? What the f*** is all that about, you addled, new age f***ing knobrag? You were in a shit group, you had a shit solo group, now you’ve reformed the shit group, for money and maximum feeding of Jupiter-sized f***ing ego. It’s not the f***ing laying on of hands! You’re not raising the f***ing dead, with the possible f***ing exception of f***ing Andy Summers! “Healing!” Unless you’re talking about the f***ing gaping arse wound you suffered when a posse of f***ing music lovers hunted you down, de-trousered you and put that f***ing lute to a more practical and pleasing use than the one you f***ing managed with it, Mr f***ing Hey Nonny Nonny! And what the f*** is this “tearing” business? The word’s “crying”, you windy twat! If that’s the sort of f***ing education you provided in your f***ing teaching days, no wonder every c*** in Geordieland is running round hanging f***ing monkeys or living off f***ing Tennants and deep fried f***ing rats on a stick! Truly, you are the c*** to end all c***s!


What’s in YOUR fortune? This week’s Star Sign: VIRGO

The alignment of the stars suggests that events will reach a most auspicious turn this Thursday. Like all Virgoans you are an anally retentive little c***. So expect the elaborate set of metal shelves upon which you store your properly alphabeticised CD collection to come tumbling down upon you, pinning you to your bedroom floor, after you noticed a Barclay James Harvest CD was fractionally out of place and attempted to remedy the situation without a f***ing stepladder, you stupid little prick. However, like all Virgoans you are a loner, a strange little person with no f***ing friends, so nobody hears your whimpers for emergency assistance and you die, slowly, asphyxiated by your own meticulously ordered f***ing album collection. It’s the way you would have wanted to f***ing go, knowing that death from sheer ecstasy during sexual congress with a willing Amazonian companion was never really on the f***ing cards!


The above item is a piece of  “fake” or “spoof” astrology and should not, therefore, be taken seriously. For an authentic horoscope, a more accurate prediction of what will happen to you this week, look instead to trained and qualified astrologers such as as Jonathan Cainer in the Daily Mail or Neil Spencer in the Observer. BEWARE OF PHONEYS!