Waking up to a breakfast of boiled egg and lightly toasted soldiers, waffles and syrup, generic viagra peppermint tea and a petrol can full of overproof rum with a slice of lemon, I pick up one of the monthly rock music periodicals and observe with a start that Tom Chaplin of Keane has spoken of how he was “suicidal” at the depths of his addiction to alcohol and cocaine.
Didn’t actually f***ing do it, though, did you, you f***ing wuss! Am I the only one who’s had it right up to their f***ing tits with confessional rock stars and their tedious f***ing Drugs Hell reminiscences? “But I’m out the other side now and back with a shit album”, you know the f***ing score! Why didn’t you come out and tell us all about this when it was happening, f***face! “‘I’m Feeling Very Suicidal Just This Minute’, Says Keane’s Chaplin.” We’d have supported you! I’d have led the f***ing charge! I’d have been the one shouting, “Go on, jump, you c***, jump! You know it’s for the f***ing best!” F***ing Keane! 100% shit on a f***ing memory stick! I’d rather stand in a f***ing field on a rainy day staring at a cow for four solid f***ing hours than listen to five seconds of one of their f***ing albums!
On a generally disappointing night of “no shows” at the BAFTAS, Victoria Wood did pick up two awards, including one for Best Actress.
You know, life is full of f***ing mysteries – where is little Maddie, how does Cliff Richard maintain his viagra for sale eternally youthful looks and why does toast always fall butter side down, but topping the lot is this one – who the f*** are all these cretinised c***s who find Victoria Wood remotely f***ing funny and what precisely are they f***ing laughing at? Just because she talks like some f***ing over-enthusiastic Northern grammar school hockey mistress who never shuts the f*** up? Is that supposed to be the f***ing joke? Is it her neighingly f***ing whimsical outlook on life and f***ing jokes about striped curtains? Her f***ing songs? Please don’t tell me it’s her f***ing songs! Because if it’s her f***ing songs, I swear I will have to take a stroll through the suburbs with a f***ing pump action shotgun firing at random, the thinking being that if I take out at least one f***ing Victoria Wood fan, it’ll have been f***ing worth it! C***s!
The Twang, the boisterous West Midlands group described as a cross between The Stone Roses and The Streets are currently carrying all before them on the road, notching up some impressive milestones such as a sellout concert in Norwich. Here, their lead singer comments on their success.”It’s a good sign that we are stepping up so quickly, and the ticket sales are doing quite well at the moment, so when we get stuck into that tour there should be a few more sold out shows. It’s just ace, you know, that people are getting to us and spending their dough to come and see us, especially if we’ve been there before and they come back – then we’re doing a good job.”
Christ on a f***ing wankstick, you boring little c***! Is this how you talk, all the f***ing time? Is this what your f***ing stream of consciousness, your f***ing internal monologue is like, f***ing day in, day out? In a f***ing Birmingham accent, as well? God’s rancid spunk, I’m amazed you haven’t joined that c*** from Keane on the f***ing ledge! How can you stand being that f***ing tedious? The f***ing Twang! I’d rather f***ing drink water straight from the f***ing canal! Arseholes!
Here’s our old friend Jasper Gerard in The Observer, discussing a recent trip to Riga, in Latvia, during which he took part in a tournament. “We were playing footer. We lost 17-1. Or so we think; the referee lost count. This was despite being lent the opposition’s goalkeeper for the second half. Still, our captain displayed his true talent with the post-match spin: “Well done, chaps. Fantastic we scored that crucial away goal to bring back to our ground.”
You really are a woeful streak of f***ing cockache aren’t you, Gerard? “Footer”? What the f*** is a c*** like you doing writing for The f***ing Observer? What the f*** is a c*** like you doing writing?
Finally, it seems that Prince will be doing a 21 date tour of London, with tickets naturally sought after by the capital’s pop fan.
Oh, f***ing yeah, I’m really f***ing excited by this – after all, this is Prince’s seventeenth straight year of producing nothing but f***ing bloodstreaked bullshit, surely he’s got to get good any second now! And Bryan f***ing Robson’s gonna do a f***ing shit-hot job at f***ing Sheffield United! Listen once and listen good, you silly f***ing pricks on the f***ing hotline for tickets in the desperate f***ing hope of being squashed like sardines alongside fellow f***wits watching the coiffured little runt jam his way through two hours of solid jazz-funk tedium, these concerts will be a waste of f***ing time! Life’s too f***ing short! And even if life was too f***ing long, they’d still be a waste of f***ing time!