Archive for April, 2007

Sunday, April 29th, 2007

More ribbing and ribaldry with Mr Agreeable!

Waking up to my silver breakfast tray of poached eggs, figs, lightly buttered toast, grapefruit and a gallon of homebrewed whiskey in a rusty petrol can, I pick my newspaper and read with interest that Prince Harry, or “Cornet Wales” is to be sent to Iraq after all, despite the interest his deployment will attract from insurgents.

Griddle my f***ing cock, if the gung ho little ginger f***ing twatrag wants to f***ing go and get himself f***ing splattered like a f***ing hedgehog all over the f***ing roadside for God, Grandmummy and St. George, I say let the ginger f***er go! Shove a stick up his ginger f***ing arse and parade him around Baghdad out the top of a f***ing tank! Draw their fire! They might as well be firing into f***ing empty space, which they f***ing well would if they shot him anywhere between his f***ing ears! Or watch, as he gets kidnapped and a f***ing national whipround for this right royal boil on the penis of mankind raises precisely 78p! C***!

It would appear that Snoop Doggy Dogg, having been refused permission to enter the United Kingdom, has now similarly been denied entry to Australia. This, it seems, is because he has failed to pass the Australian character test which takes previous convictions into account.

Oh, my f***ing giddy Aunt’s c***, excuse me for a second while I pick myself off the floor and clear my f***ing windpipe, but did I f***ing misread this or are the three notions of  “Australia”,  “convicts” and “no, you can’t come in?” conjoined here? The f***ing Australian character was forged by f***ing convicts, you Antipodean, kangaroo-eating arses! I know you hate being reminded of it, the same way as you f***ing hate being reminded that you don’t f***ing talk properly, but it’s the f***ing truth! You should be f***ing lucky anyone visits you down there in the f***ing fly-infested, arsepit of the f***ing globe! As you should f***ing know given that every f***ing boat and plane leaving Australia is crammed to the f***ing rafters with you c***s, all on f***ing one-way tickets!

After several years of hard rocking and international touring, Cooper Temple Clause have decided, with a heavy heart, to call it a day and split up.

Y’know, folks, there’s a theory  –  some call it chaos theory, but call it what you will –  that even the slightest action, say, a butterfly flapping its wings in one hemisphere, is capable of triggering a chain reaction which will initiate hurricanes in the other hemisphere. In other words, all events are inter-connected, every slightest occurrence has within it the potential to alter destiny in ways that are eventually profound. There is one event which is the exception to this, however, and that is the disbanding of Cooper Temple Clause. This is an event of such minuscule f***ing significance that it will make f*** all difference to anything or anybody! F***ing Cooper f***ing Temple f***ing Clause, the group who mixed up Goth, Prog, hardcore, New Pop and Electro and came up with precisely bugger all! Cooper Temple Clause? C***er C***le C***s, more like!

Recently, in The Observer, the columnist Jasper Gerard wrote, “France is so serene it is stiff; Monty Python would declare it a dead country. Now Newcastle produces no coal, this should become the new cliche: whenever one gives the recipient something he absolutely doesn’t need, say that it is like sending serenity to France. After a joyous year of revolting, the country fell into a serene slumber that began with a picnic of ripe brie, gurgling Burgundy and drowsy sex one sated, sensuous, sozzled summer’s afternoon in about 1969 – and it has never woken up.”

You really are a fatuous c***, aren’t you, Gerard? It’s just one endlessly unfurling, brown f***ing carpet of shite from you, week in, week out! Why don’t you just f***ing strangle yourself with your own f***ing bow tie and have f***ing done with it?

Finally, it seems that the “rock satirists” Spinal Tap are among the latest act to be booked into Live Earth, the 24 hour rock extravaganza on July 7, to promote ecological awareness.

Well, I dunno what f***ing satire Spinal Tap have got in mind but it can’t hope to f***ing match the monumental act of satire that is f***ing Live Earth! A bunch of f***ing million watt burning f***ing megastars jetting in from their vast, fossil fuel burning f***ing estates, c***s who spend their lives stamping all over our faces with their f***ing carbon footprints, gathering in one gigantic, throbbing, rainforest-ruining orgiastic emission of collective f***ing eco-piety? You might as well have a f***ing rally of the Leather Booted Goosesteppers Against The Nazis! Or f***ing Muslims Against Allah! F***ing up the eco-system with your f***ing squanderous, ozone destroying f***ing tosh is what you do, you c***s!

Sunday, April 8th, 2007

Sergeant Pepper album, Tolkien, captured soldiers in Iran, They Might Be Giants

Musing drily on the week’s current affairs with a dig and a tickle of the ribs

As I trawl the numerous gazettes outlining the goings on and “up and coming” events in the world of music, I observe that a number of contemporary pop groups, including Oasis, The Killers, Razorlight, Travis and The Fratellis, will be covering tracks from The Beatles’s noted 1967 album Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band for a BBC2 studio special on the 40th anniversary of its release.

Douse my cock in f***ing acid, what c***brained, anus-faced retrograde f***ing barrel-scraper came up with this desperate f***ing idea? This Being For The Benefit Of precisely which Mr C***? Frankly, I’d rather watch the Director General publicly wiping his arse on live TV with the f***ing money I pay towards my f***ing licence fee than watch some greasy-haired f***ing 21st century nobody hacking his way through f***ing “Lovely Rita Meter Maid”! Have these f***ing loathsome little snotsworths not got one original f***ing idea between them? Suppose 40 years ago, The f***ing Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who and The Kinks had f***ing got together to re-record a version of that delightfully seminal 1927 wax cylinder recording “Step Into The Gazebo, Gertrude, My Frolicsome Gaiety Girl” by Claude “Snake-Hips” Dullard And The Syncopated Toe-Tapping Blackface Banjo Boys? We’d have thought, what a gaggle of complete c***s, and rightly f***ing so, you extraneous, execrable f***ing arsewarts!

It seems that, 30 years after his death, the author JRR Tolkien is to produce another novel in his Lord Of The Rings series, retrieved from notes begun in 1918 but never completed.

Ooh! Ooh! Goody! The elves! The Orcs! Morgoth, to whom the noble Hurin shall not yield! Middle Earth! Ooh, I can’t wait! For c***’s sake! They’re f***ing kid’s books! Get it? Children! Not those with a childlike sense of f***ing curiosity but the actual, verifiable under f***ing 12s! Anyone with f***ing pubic hair caught reading a f***ing Tolkien book should be treated the same way as you would a grown adult caught f***ing loitering around a kids’ playground, ie bundled into a f***ing paddywagon, taken down the station and kicked black and f***ing blue by the f***ing desk sergeant all the way down to the holding cell! C***s!

There has been some dismay expressed at the conduct of the 15 British military personnel held captive by the Iranians for supposedly having entered their waters before being subsequently released. Andrew Roberts of The Sunday Times has expressed his dismay and disapproval that the soldiers did not confine themselves to merely giving their name, rank and serial numbers to their captors, and speaks of his “gorge rising” at the full confessions they gave on Iranian TV regarding their supposed trespass.

It’s been f***ing edifying, hasn’t it, and certainly gorge-lowering, witnessing the f***ing armchair courage of the Fourth Estate in full effect! If it’s not that fat f***ing dickwilter Littlejohn, it’s f***ing blue-arsed trail of f***ing Tory ooze Roberts! Listen, you vile, column-filling crock of f***ing smarm, if you were in palpable f***ing danger of being dangled by your f***ing knackers from a lamppost in the main square of f***ing Tehran with members of the f***ing Revolutionary Guard whacking you like a f***ing pinyatta, you’d have confessed as quickly as you browned your f***ing trousers, you toadlike little c***!

Peter Manfredo, the pugilist who has made such an impression on American audiences with his success in the reality TV show The Contender, attempted last Saturday to make good his dream of becoming world super middleweight boxing champion when he challenged Wales’s Joe Calzaghe. Millions of Americans tuned in and watched in hope.

And Calzaghe trounced your sorry, hyped-up American arse, didn’t he? It was f***ing hilarious! He didn’t even have to punch you, he just had to slap you about a bit, like a f***ing girl! F*** your dream, you were 10 seconds away from being put in a f***ing coma! Reality TV meets actual f***ing reality and it’s a f***ing no contest! They might as well have had f***ing Gareth Gates in there! The headline in tomorrow’s New York Times should be “C*** From Nation Of C***s Gets Roundly Twatted Like The Twatty C*** He Is” but I’ve a funny feeling they’ll skirt round that uncomfortably profound f***ing truth!

They Might Be Giants are back! They have a new album, The Else, due for release on July 13.

Let’s f***ing face it, the world needs a f***ing They Might Be Giants revival like it needs a f***ing tuberculosis revival! A life spent wondering when They Might Be Giants are gonna make another f***ing album is a life that should have been humanely terminated many f***ing years ago! Anyone who is caught buying, downloading or playing this f***ing album should be battered repeatedly around the f***ing head and face with a f***ing dead elephant’s dick in a stocking! Specky c***s!

Finally, it seems that Wembley will play host to a concert in honour of the late Princess Diana, who died ten years ago. It will take place on July 1, which would have been her birthday. Among those booked for the concert, which is being overseen by the Princes William and Harry, are Dire Straits, Meatloaf, James Morrison, Rod Stewart and Joss Stone. It is also hoped that Take That will participate, perhaps even be joined by their founder member Robbie Williams.

You know, ten years after she died, Diana’s bloom remains undimmed. She was, and will be for ever more, England’s first and finest flower, beaming radiantly throughout eternity, from Heaven where she sits, next to God and the late Princess Margaret. It is deeply moving that a whole host of top pop stars have taken time out of their busy schedules to pay tribute to she who still reigns o’er our hearts. I therefore beseech you, Almighty God, who chose for doubtless good reasons to take back your favourite daughter that fateful night in Paris, to see to it that the night of this concert is not marred by a squadron of hangliding suicide bombers descending into Wembley Stadium, led by my goodself, on a mission to f***ing reduce the c***iness of the UK by a third at a stroke by taking out the legions of c***s who were c*** enough actually to have bought f***ing tickets to this cavalcade of f***ing clapped out c***rags, f***ing has beens and inexplicably still-ares, caterwauling tossbloaters and syncopated shite shovellers, these f***ing dead-arsed, dead blonde loving diarrhea squirting unapologetically from the f***ing arse ring of humanity! Because that’s not what the Princes would have wanted!

Sunday, April 1st, 2007

Lennon, Andrew Marr, The Saw Doctors, Travolta,

I note with the faintest of twitches of my eyebrow that a DVD is to be released of a documentary broadcast just last week entitled The USA Vs John Lennon. It shows the former “moptop” in his revolutionary period, which included going to bed, befriending the Black Panthers and writing songs about the IRA with the invaluable assistance of his wife Yoko Ono. It also shows how the FBI monitored his movements and attempted to quash his bid to become an American citizen, arguing that he was a dangerous revolutionary.

Christ’s smelly f***ing loincloth, if you ever needed proof that the Americans couldn’t find their own gigantic f***ing arses using both hands and a f***ing multibillion dollar laser guided arse-seeking device of their own making, this has to be f***ing it! Lennon’s f***ing revolutionary period? You’re talking a few f***ing months in about 1972, squeezed in between his screaming-for-his-f***ing-mummy phase and his brandy bender f***ing midlife crisis phase! He wore a f***ing beret for a while, end of f**ing story! He lost all f***ing interest the night Nixon “won” the election! Screaming Lord Sutch made more political f***ing impact than f***ing John Lennon! And thank f***ing Christ! Ever hear his searing f***ing analysis of the Irish situation? He goes on about f***ing leprauchauns! Leprauchauns! Or rather, his cretinous f***ing wife does! “Imagine no posessions!” Yeah, that’d have become a general reality about six months into any f***ing administration in which Lennon had been anywhere near the levers of f***ing power! No posessions, no food, no jobs, loads of f***ing money, mind you, ridden around in f***ing wheelbarrows, but that’s only because a f***ing wheelbarrow full of money would have been worth about five f***ing pence as inflation hit 2000%, thanks to Lennon’s radical “Power To The Leprauchauns” policy! “The USA Vs John Lennon”? “Stupid C***s Vs Even Stupider, C***ier C***, more f***ing like!

A review, commissioned by the BBC entitled Household Values has in its early stages already reached the conclusion that the BBC is “too upmarket”, over-investing in such heavyweight, analytical figures as John Humphrys and Andrew Marr, as well as period dramas, all of which alienate lower income families, while not paying enough attention to programming like EastEnders or Radio 1 figures such as Chris Moyles.

Rim my f***ing dead dog, Andrew Marr a f***ing “heavyweight”? He’s as heavyweight as a f***ing Versace daughter! If the f***ing unwashed consider an inoffensive, noncommital, celeb-interviewing, medium-sized portion of f***ing Chardonnay-scented piss like Andrew f***ing Marr too intellectually f***ing intimidating, then it’s about time the f***ing unwashed had a long, hard f***ing look at themselves and asked themselves quite frankly if they aren’t letting the f***ing species down, endangering our f***ing “erectus” status in the evolutionary scale! And if the prospect of watching some ex-f***ing soap opera starlet poncing around in a f***ing bonnet on a f***ing Sunday evening is equivalent to studying for a f***ing Ph.D in English f***ing literature, you should really ask yourself if it’s the f***ing BBC’s fault if your brain could comfortably fit in one of your f***ing nostrils! Jesus S. Wept, if there’s one segment of f***ing society that’s already being over-f***ing serviced, it’s the Heat-reading, Chris Moyles a-lot-of-sense-to-making, Twizzler scoffing, living-in-Dagenham-but-Man-Utd-supporting, knucklescraping, satured fat coating the f***ing protein of mankind demograph!Bovine f***ing twatjacks!

This week’s Observer Sports Monthly takes a look at US magazine Sports Illustrated’s annual swimsuit edition, which abandons all pretence of covering sport in favour of pages after pages of young women like Beyonce Knowles in bikinis. “Don’t mock!” runs the blurb. “With 70 million readers in the US alone, this is the most consistently read issue of any magazine in the world. Ever.”

“Don’t mock”?? “Don’t mock”?? No! Mock! Mock, I f***ing say! Mock the fact that there are 70 million slavering f***ing wankers in f***ing America alone! Above all, mock because the f***ing Observer believes we should all genuflect f***ing reverentially in the face of vast sales figures, as if they’re proof of some awesome f***ing universal truth rather than evidence of the pitiful, risible, chronically incurable c***dom of all f***ing mankind! F***ing mock!

It has been confirmed that The Saw Doctors have been confirmed for the Acoustic Festival on July 28 and 29 at Dorfold Hall Park near Nantwich, Cheshire. Other acts scheduled to appear at the festival include Jethro Tull, Chris Difford, The Bluetones, Midge Ure and Hazel O’Connor.

Gnaw my f***ing left foot, is that the most arseachingly repellent farrago of pop f***ing deadweight you ever f***ing witnessed? How wild and how numerous would the f***ing horses have to be to drag you to watch this pack of c***s? It’s not so much a f***ing day out as a Dantean f***ing descent to some fresh f***ing circle of damnation! F*** f***ing Guantanemo Bay, they should just airflift those f***ing manacled terrorist suspects into f***ing Nantwich! By Chris Difford, they’d be lining up to sign up to full f***ing confessions, by f***ing Midge Ure, they’d have given you the full address and postcode of bin Laden’s f***ing cave, together with written directions as to how to get there from the f***ing airport! Now can you please get us the f*** out of here back to our 2′ by 4′ cells before f***ing Hazel O’ Connor comes on?

John Travolta appeared last week on Jonathon Ross’s TV show, discussing his new movie, taking questions from an enthusiastic Mr Ross regarding his ownership of jumbo jets and discussing his adherence to the Scientology faith. C***ing hades, if they did a f***ing microscopic, forensic analysis of Jonathan Ross’s f***ing tongue, how many f***ing hundreds of trace elements of celebrity f***ing excrement would they find embedded on it? Calm down, you toadying f***ing arsedweller! Stop worshipping the bloke like a f***ing Sun God just because he flies around in a giant plane in some laughably conspicuous display of phalliccompensatory twatitude! Ask him what the f***ing f*** he’s doing signing up to a religion with all the f***ing ontological credibility of the f***ing daleks, if you want to make yourself f***ing useful!

Finally, it seems like The Jam’s upcoming tour is a sellout – although of the group’s founder members, only Bruce Foxton and Rick Buckler will be playing.

My f***ing Godfathers, in the Pantheon of Patheticness this f***ing reunion has to take the premier f***ing plinth, does it not? A life whose immediate future involves a round f***ing trip to the Wolverhampton Lump Of Coal or the Droitwich Jug Of Sick or the Ipswich Cowshit Exchange or whatever f***ing venues these benighted pillars of petrified f***ing toss are playing is a life which might best contemplate the option of a trip to a f***ing Swiss clinic afterwards! Mind you, it could be f***ing worse – at least f***ing Paul Weller won’t be f***ing playing!