Waking up to a breakfast of Beluga caviar, Emmental cheese slices, peppermint tea and a can of petrol with a slice of lemon, I peruse a selection of periodicals and organs of the Fourth Estate. I come across an item concerning Queens Of The Stone Age, whose lead singer, Josh Fromme, has asserted that The Rolling Stones rely rather too heavily on their older material.
And in other f***ing news, woods said to be excessively full of f***ing bearshit and Pope deemed insufficiently f***ing Protestant! Christ on a f***ing dildo, man, d’you think any c*** would pay more than a f***ing 20p cover charge to hear those dried out old scroteflakes play a f***ing selection of tunes from Mick Jagger’s solo albums? Or their 2006 masterpiece “I’m So Zonked And F***ing Senile I Can’t Find My Way Out Of The Walk-In Dressing Room In My Fabulous Pagoda Apartment Blues”? Keith f***ing Richards’ right arm has probably shrivelled into a f***ing claw that can only f***ing play the f***ing chords to “Gimme Shelter” and “Satisfaction”. Still, I don’t suppose anyone gives a f*** whether Queens Of The Stone Age play their f***ing old stuff or their f***ing new stuff because even the stuff you wrote and recorded in the last f***ing month has the green, furry f***ing constitution of a plate of six year old f***ing goat’s cheese left on a f***ing window sill for six years! C***!
Kylie Minogue is to be given an award by the Music Industry’s Trust in October. A spokesman for the Trust said that the reason she would be receiving the award, quite disconnected from any inducement to her to attend their dinner, was because she was “one of the greatest entertainers of all time”and an “icon of pop and style”.
Roast my f***ing cock, what the f*** is it with the entire f***ing world and Kylie Minogue? Has ever a more minuscule f***ing portion of talent been more f***ing lavished with superfluous f***ing flattery and munificence? Life’s supposed to a be a f***ing near-impossible struggle against the universal forces of oblivion and indifference – except if you’re f***ing Kylie! Every f***ing day it’s something! Kylie Given Lifetime’s Supply Of Enormous Cakes Simply For Existing! Millions Pay £1000 Each To watch Kylie Being Carried Around Stage In A Sedan Chair Covered In Feather Boas By Six Gay Men! Kylie Wiggles Arse In Exchange For Sum Equivalent To GDP Of Small Third World Nation! Kylie Great Because She’s Great, Critics Who Should Know The F*** Better Decide! Kylie Let Off Having To Have A F***ing Surname Like The Rest Of Us Poor, Luckless F***s By Royal Decree! Jesus! ‚ÄúEntertainer‚Äù? I’d rather go to f***ing church! You could shove her talent all the way up a f***ing gnat’s arse without the f***ing gnat even noticing!
Here’s Jasper Gerrard in this week’s Observer, interviewing the guru of “slow food” Carlo Petrini, in a large piece revolving around the important fact that he recently met Prince Charles. “Not since Jesus rustled up a feast from some fishes and a few loaves of bread – beat that, Nigella – have we invested food with such spiritual qualities; and if food has become the faith of a decadent West, its high priest is Carlo Petrini.”
Well, Jasp, got to admit you’re on top f***ing form this week – that Nigella crack, had me f***ing splurting coffee all over my f***ing keyboard, it did! Heh, heh! The loaves and the fishes, heh! And love the use of the word “we”. Because, I think “we” all agree that food is f***ing spiritual, don’t “we”, my fellow community of nodding Observer opinion-formed clones? Utter, utter f***ing twatrag! For writing this sterile, stearine f***ing drivel you should be drowned in a giant f***ing saucepan of recently boiled f***ing Pot Noodles, you empty-headed, witless f***ing carafe of f***ing equestrian piss! Why don’t you just f*** off from The Observer so that David Astor can stop spinning in his f***ing grave?
OBES, MBEs and knighthoods have been meted out to the various deserving in this year’s Honours List. Among the recipients are singer Joe Cocker, Wallace And Gromit‚ actor Peter Sallis and, of course, Sir Ian “Beefy” Botham.
They gave a f***ing award to f***ing Joe Cocker? For what? Ruining a f***ing Beatles standard by dumping half a ton of gravel on it 40 years ago and doing f*** all since? Peter Sallis? He was playing a f***ing Old Age Pensioner in f***ing Last Of The Summer Wine in f***ing 1972, how f***ing old is he, 136? As for f***ing Botham, there you f***ing go, your f***ing reward for 25 years of loudly grovelling to the f***ing monarchy! Now take your f***ing gong, walk backwards, still f***ing grovelling, then get hence to lick out the f***ing Royal Latrine, there’s been a f***ing stain in there no one’s been able to budge since the f***ing Queen Mother died!
Finally, Sting, the singer and promoter of greater ethical lifestyles, has been in court recently with his wife Trudie Styler, following their making redundant their chef when she incurred their displeasure by becoming pregnant. It had already been established that she was unfairly dismissed by the couple; a hearing then took place to determine the level of damages she would receive. Sting has lodged an appeal against the judgment in favour of the chef, who was once obliged to travel from Wiltshire to London to prepare a bowl of pasta for Sting.
My f***ing Godfathers, Sumner, are you not even dimly aware of the full extent of your reputation for double-barrelled, unmitigated, class A f***ing c***itude? Are you not aware that “Sting” is to “c***” as “Rod Hull” is to “Emu” or “Adolf” is to “Hitler”? F*** saving the planet, if they could devise a way of converting your infinitely f***ing self-deluding conceit into energy for a f***ing barrage balloon, humanity in its f***ing entirety could be airlifted into outer space and onward to a more f***ing habitable planet! A bowl of f***ing pasta!”C”, “U”, “N”, “T”, the word is c***, the word is f***ing Sting!