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!

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