Waking up to a breakfast of kippers, lightly margarined toasted soldiers, boiled free range eggs, muffins, grapefruit and a a quart of my own still heavily alcohol-laced urine, I partake of my repast, then turn to a handful of periodicals to peruse the latest goings on in the world of popular culture. In so doing, I read that the singer Pete Doherty has been released pending sentence for numerous drugs offences and as part of the condition of his bail must stay with a family, or some other strangers, while he continues rehab, rather than return to his own London dwelling. He appears on the front cover of the New Musical Express with a cigarette hanging from his mouth.
F*** me, I’ll tell you what – he can f***ing come stay round my f***ing pile! I’ll give the c*** f***ing rehab! 9AM! Woken by my f***ing rotweillers, Satan, Gouger, Terminator IV, Terminator V and Fido The Impaler! 9.05! Lick the f***ing cesspit dry under my f***ing supervision! 9.10! Rinse out mouth by being held down in f***ing toilet bowl for ten f***ing minutes! 9.30! Take functional, serf-like role at f***ing clay pigeon shoot of f***ing Babyshambles CDs, as, pissed up to the f***ing gills, I take wayward aim with my f***ing rifle, shooting you square in your fatuous f***ing face a couple of times! Rest of day! Be pursued across difficult f***ing terrain by psychotics on horseback armed with f***ing maces! You, Doherty, are the pasty-faced, obnoxiously extraneous, sheer distillation of c***dom in a human piss-streak! You are a f***ing malignant grape up the f***ing anus of mankind! You’ve got off way too f***ing light for way too f***ing long! And get that f***ing fag out of your never-shut, fatlipped f***ing mouth, you vacant, futile, spacewasting, carcinogenic f***ing c***!
I note that Lisa Tarbuck, daughter of the Liverpudlian golfer and comedian Jimmy Tarbuck, is appearing in a series of adverts for the supermarket chain Asda, posing as a homely trainee, taken aback that at the store you can purchase a pair of jeans for three pounds and accosting an African-Caribbean customer with these terrific retail tidings.
For c***’s sake, woman, Lord f***ing forbid your f***ing conscience should be troubled by fronting for Asda, bastard f***ing spawn of Wal-Mart, the world’s vilest f***ing retailers as anyone with a f***ing three digit IQ should have f***ing divined by now, but Christ on a f***ing cockstick, does it not occur to wonder how they can afford to put out f***ing jeans for three quid? By the Asda bosses agreeing to work for £15,000 year and cash their f***ing stocks and bonuses into the fighting fund in order to pass on savings to the f***ing customer? F*** that! It’s by running f***ing sweatshops! Some poor Third World c*** has to work for what you’d consider parking meter change per diem and add a couple of hours on the end of his shift to make the size of jeans that’d accommodate your f***ing fat arse! I don’t care how black the bloke is in the advert, you have sucked the f***ing cock of Satan, gargled and spat back the spunk in the faces of the f***ing poor and oppressed!
Casting an eye over the range of magazines upon the newsstands, I am intrigued by the uniform obsession shared by magazines such as Heat, Closer, etc. Charlotte Church, it seems, has gained a few pounds. Anthea Turner, however, has lost a few pounds. One or two of The Spice Girls are in danger of gaining a few pounds but are exercising hard in order to lose a few pounds. And so forth. And so forth.
Oh, for bellowing out loud, is this how we’re gonna spend the last few f***ing decades of f***ing civilisation? An entire popular magazine culture devoted solely to monitoring the f***ing weigh fluctuations of a gaggle of f***ing females whose sole contribution to the world is to inflate and deflate occasionally? It’s that f***ing sad! Woman who was moderately famous for doing pretty much f*** other than fill a television screen about ten years ago! Go out, binge on f***ing six straight pounds of chocolate confectionery! Next, have an enormous f***ing shit! Finally, appear on the cover of some spurious f***ing health/celeb magazine bragging about how you lost six pounds in three f***ing minutes! Be the envy of millions of gawping, dead eyed f***ing water cooler natterers whose own, sad non-story is that they’ve gained 12 pounds in 12 f***ing years! Hate to say it, folks, but step one pace forward the one gender solely responsible for this f***ing bullshit! Ex-f***ing-actly! Not the f***ing wombless one!
Finally, my attention is drawn to a “smackdown”, due to take place, this Sunday evening, at the Mucky Pup, Old Queen’s Head St in Islington, between a certain David Stubbs, who will be championing the cause of Krautrock and a certain Mr Andrew Mueller, who will be countering with a selection of Country & Western. All are welcome, free of charge, to witness the confrontation.
Well, f*** me, loath as I f***ing am to champion Krautrock, the recorded, tuneless, mirthless, soulless emissions of a f***ing Düsseldorf power plant passed off as f***ing art, it’s shinola compared to the f***ing shit option of Country & Western, the preferred musical choice of those who use their f***ing big toes to operate their f***ing steering wheels, who burn crosses on the lawns of minorities in their midst (ie the f***ing two-eyed), and base their f***ing rabid, nail-bomb-y’all-disagree-with-me-in-the-land-of-the-free fundamentalist f***ing Christian theology on the teachings of the f***ing Flinstones, then f***ing Krautrock it’s gonna have to be! See you at the f***ing front, pockets laden with past sell by date soft f***ing fruit!