Archive for September, 2007

Monday, September 17th, 2007

Goodness gracious c***, it’s MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of eggs benedict, wholemeal dry toast, grilled mackerel, low calorie grapefruit juice and a septic tank full of Jamaican overproof rum topped off with a single olive, I lay aside my teak breakfast tray and peruse a selection of periodicals to absorb the latest tidings in the worlds of culture and current affairs. Therein, I read that the classic rock group Led Zeppelin are set to reform.

Insert a f***ing baby shark in me, in what other world but that of “classic rock”, could the news that three 60something greying f***ing dried out prunes with f*** all to say or do about anything are going to be trundled back onstage to go through a bunch of self-parodic, geriatric motions that are supposed to remind us of their f***ing former glories? Why don’t we just reunite the f***ing Little Rascals, rounded up from their f***ing Florida nursing homes, bathchairs and colostomy bags and all, and get them to re-enact one of their old routines where they go scrumping for apples and wind up getting involved in a f***ing boxcar derby by mistake? The people who put this idea together are stupid c***s, the people onstage are stupider c***s, but the people who are the stupidest c***s of all by far are those who shell out money – actual money, not commemorative, printed up pseudo-money with Robert Plant sitting like f***ing Boadicea on the banknotes to troop along and see these f***ing dessicated arsetwats caterwaul and noodle their way through their bollocktwisting f***ing songs about f***ing elves and shit! God, people were f***ing morons in the f***ing Seventies! The decade f***ing evolution forgot! I’m surprised we didn’t all end up having f***ing tails again after that one!

Michael Parkinson has recently complained that programmers on chat shows are somewhat conservative in their selection of guests, looking only in the top 10 of the Hit Parade. By contrast, he cites his own record of having booked a “then unknown” Duke Ellington onto his own show in the early 70s “something he believes would not happen nowadays”.

Oh, for c***’s sake, Parkinson, it’s a f***ing wonder you never sounded f***ing muffled, talking and f***ing sitting down at the same f***ing time! Did that f***ing emu bludgeon all the last sense out of you or f***ing what? Duke Ellington “unknown” in the f***ing 1970s? He f***ing died in 1974 after a lifetime’s f***ing high profile achievement, dating back to the f***ing 1930s! There’s a f***ing difference between “unknown” and “Michael Parkinson not knowing about them” which is why it’ll be a solid 20 years before you and f***ing U2 become acquainted! Conceited f***ing twatlump! Parkinson? No wonder they named a f***ing disease after you! Every f***ing week, it was the same! One week you have Kirk Douglas on, for 20, feeling like 40 minutes, wending his way through some Sunday driving f***ing anecdote about how some old woman begged him for his autograph, said she was his biggest fan, then when he gave it her, said, “Thank you very much, MR STEWART!!” Cue gales of f***ing sycophantic laughter! Then the week after it’d be f***ing Jimmy Stewart on, with some similarly, arseachingly long story about some old woman begging for his autograph, says she’s his biggest fan, he gives it her and she says, “Thank you very much, MR DOUGLAS!!” Cue gales of sycophantic laughter! Northern c***!

Prince has become rather annoyed at cheap viagra the number of people filming clips of his gigs at the O2 concert hall and posting them up on YouTube. He feels his art has been stolen and violated.

Woaah, wait a f***ing second, you pepperpot sized, preening f***ing prick! You’re the one who was among the first to suck the f***ing cock of the internet when you realised there was no f***ing way you could sell records the proper f***ing way any more! And then, down the f***ing line, you were the one who rinsed your mouth out and started sucking the f***ing cock of the mobile phone companies, by going with a f***ing O2 sponsored f***ing venue for your latest, umpteenth, desperately f***ing laboured, vain, in every f***ing sense of the word attempt to resurrect your f***ing relevancy! Now you’re f***ing complaining! F*** you sideways, f***ing Mail On Sunday boy!

Jim Davidson, the popular comedian, has been ordered off the Celebrity Chef series after he made a reference to “shirtlifters” during the filming show, betraying his chirpy, cocksparrer, knees up Mother Brown, roll out the barrel, good old fashioned political incorrectness.

You know what, why the f*** don’t you slit your sagging scrotum with a f***ing rusty Stanley knife blade and slowly f***ing bleed to death, you vile, odious c***?

Finally, it seems that Menzies Campbell, the Liberal Democrat leader, inadvertently described himself as a “failure” in an interview with Sandi Tostvig regarding nerves prior to Question Time. This has only exacerbated the debate regarding his place at the helm of the party.

Yeah well, f***ing face it, you wretchedly senile, patently not up to it fool, the only reason the Lib Dems elected a f***ing Godfrey like you to lead them is because they’re f***ing subconsciously dedicated to the idea of f***ing failure! There they stretch, like a f***ing hammock of sleepy complacency between the Tories and Labour, the “left and right” who in f***ing reality are as ideologically poles apart as two competing f***ing estate agents! We need the f***ing Lib Dems like we need a f***ing third buttock!


Tuesday, September 11th, 2007

Kicking against the c***s, it’s . . . MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of unsweetened muesli, a fresh fruit platter, lightly grilled kippers, pumpernickel and a gallon of illegally homebrewed cider which has already caused an epidemic of blindness in the West Country, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse some recent periodicals devoted to current political and cultural affairs. Therein, I read an article penned by Mr Martin Amis, concerning the events of September 11 2001. After many thousands of words, many of them devoted to the numerology of the phrase “9/11”, Mr Amis comes to a bold conclusion; the people who carried out these attacks were fanatics.

Well gee, Martin, thanks a f***ing lot for that luminous f***ing shaft of insight! You earned your f***ing four figure fee there, didn’t you? Because I’d always wondered if, in fact, the attacks had been carried out by the f***ing moderate wing of Islam. Which really made me worry, because, f***, if this is the sort of thing the moderates get up to, imagine what the radicals would do! Gosh! But now you’ve set me mind at f***ing rest – I feel more assured and more f***ing educated. Thank f*** we’ve got Martin Amis to tell us what’s what. You dismal, dentally dysfunctional f***ing c***! Who the f*** appointed you Mr f***ing 9/11 in the f***ing first place, anyway? Just because you were first in there, like an unseemly rat up a f***ing drainpipe, with your f***ing “Out of the clear blue skies sailed Death, like a shark” piece, now we’re gonna have to put up with you clacking out excoriating bollocks like this annually! As if it’s not f***ing bad enough that thanks to these self-charcoaling, suicidal clothheads that you can’t find a f***ing waste paper bin within a ten mile radius of a f***ing railway station nowadays, we have to put up with Amis aching our balls with his tortuous, tedious f***ing musings like he owns the f***ing tragedy! Arsehole!

Luciano Pavarotti, the acclaimed tenor opera singer, has died of cancer. He was, as you may not have been reminded, famous for his rendition of “Nessun Dorma”, which became theme to the 1990 World Cup Finals, his supreme achievement to provide the soundtrack to Paul Gascoigne’s tears.

Well, I suppose they had to bury the fat c*** because if they’d cremated the fat f***er, they’d have had to lay on catering and f***ing accommodation for three f***ing days for the f***ing mourners while he burnt away like a f***ing forest fire of f***ing flab! Why the f***ing long faces, folks? Every f***ing account of the man’s life is a study in sheer f***ing fatty twatdom! A philandering, fat, overpumped f***ing warbler with zero f***ing consideration for the people who had to work him or made the f***ing mistake of booking him and imagining he’d do them the f***ing courtesy of actually turning up and do his very easy, very pampered f***ing job, ie wearing a scarf and vibrating from the f***ing neck upwards! I hope Il Fatso’s in f***ing purgatory right now, stacking all the chairs that had to be stacked early at events because he f***ing blew them out, the fat, self-indulgent f***ing c*** of a deceased, c***faced cock!

It seems there is a new cat in Downing Street – according to the BBC news website, the animal is the property of the new Chancellor of the Exchequer, Alistair Darling.

Well, there’s one thing this important f***ing story reminds us all of – and that’s that we actually f***ing have a Chancellor of the f***ing Exchequer! I mean, f***, who the f*** would have that f***ing job, with that Caledonian c*** next door hovering over you all set to put his hand up your chicken arse like f***ing Keith Harris and make you do what the f*** he wants unless you f***ing second guess him? F***, Captain Darling in f***ing Blackadder had more f***ing independence than that malleable, careerist blob of f***ing Whitehall grease Alistair does! They might as well put the f***ing cat in charge of the Treasure for all the f***ing difference it’d f***ing make!

Finally, it seems that Ian Brown, former lead singer of The Stone Roses, has released an anti-war track, in collusion with formerly bald chanteuse Ms Sinead O’ Connor. Entitled “Illegal Attacks”, it features the following lyric; “It’s a fact, it’s an act/These are illegal attacks/ So bring the soldiers back/ These are illegal attacks/It’s contracts for contacts/ I’m singing concrete facts/ So bring the soldiers back!”

Well, I’m telling you, the f***ing hawks in the Bush administration are giving each other f***ing high fives tonight! Because if anything was going to act as a f***ing buttress against the growing anti-war sentiment on both sides of the f***ing Atlantic, it was the news that that mumbling, talentless, clueless, barely-out-of-chimpdom, excremental syntax machine Ian Brown had decided to tell the world that the war was a f***ing bad idea! You wait till this kicks in – the next anti-war demo will consist of half a dozen confused SWP members wondering when the f***ing tide turned unexpectedly in favour of a quadrupling of commitment of British and American troops to f***ing Iraq! Because, let’s face it, if Ian f***ing Brown wrote a song protesting that the earth was f***ing round;The earth is round/Round as a pound/I’m talking facts right, dead sound/Round, I’ve found/It’s fooking well round”, membership of the f***ing Flat Earth society would jump into the f***ing millions overnight! C***!

Tuesday, September 4th, 2007

Golly golly gumdrops, it’s MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of cold consommés, wholewheat cornflakes, low calorie grapefruit juice, peppermint tea and a gallon of hillbilly moonshine confiscated by the US authorities after it caused several cases of blindness, I lay aside my teak breakfast tray and rusty petrol can to peruse some of the more recent periodicals. Therein, I read that chanteuse Amy Winehouse, whose troubles with drugs have been the source of much newspaper speculation, has been nominated for the Mercury Music Prize.

F*** me bandy with a second hand monkey wrench, how f***ing starved are we of f***ing thrills in this celebrity toilet of a f***ing country that a f***ing coffee table Goth haddock like f***ing Amy Winehouse gets to f***ing dominate the column inches like the f***ing Second World War did in the early f***ing 1940s? Stupid, Strange Faced F***ing Bint Takes Drugs is about the f***ing gist of it, if the f***ing truth be known! Let’s face it – this is where the f***ing Pete Doherty law applies – if the f***ing drugs haven’t killed you yet, you’re not f***ing taking enough of them! Still, fingers crossed for the f***ing Mercury Music Prize, that fine, interesting and relevant f***ing institution – or Turning Rebellion Into Radio Two Sleepytime Fodder, as it’s also f***ing known! C***s!

Gordon Brown has been speaking, at his generic viagra monthly press conference, about his admiration, in certain respects, for Mrs Thatcher, whom he describes as a “conviction politician”, like himself.

For f***’s sake, you loathsome, Caledonian f***ing cock, are there no f***ing limits to the vacuous f***ing flexibility of f***ing New Labour? Oh, yes indeed, Jane Tomlinson, Nelson Mandela, Mrs Thatcher, they all had virtuous virtues which you can talk about in a virtuous-sounding, virtuous sort of way on f***ing Sky News! If your balls hadn’t f***ing dessicated to f***ing Whitehall grey 20 years ago, what you would have f***ing said is, “Thatcher? That vicious, dried out c*** of a hellbitch? Yeah, she was a ‘conviction politician’ all right  – she should have been f***ing convicted for the murder of dozens of f***ing Argentine conscripts, to say nothing of selling off Britain’s collectively owned fixtures and fittings to a bunch of f***ing greased back pinstripe f***ing Hoorah bandits, thereby precipitating a poverty gap which is driving this country brakeless down the hill to hell in a f***ing handcart! Hang the hag from the highest lamppost in Whitehall!” But you didn’t, because you’re a mealy-mouthed, flabby-faced c***!

A new TV documentary entitled Dumped traces the process of a chosen number of contestants as they attempt to survive on a rubbish dump outside Croydon. Who will win? Who will lose? Will there be tears along the way?

Christ on a f***ing kebab skewer, could we just once, just f***ing once have a programme commissioned that didn’t f***ing depend on the pretext of pitting a bunch of attention starved cathode munchers against each other, for the f***ing reward of being able to charge £200 per personal appearance in a few local pubs for six months till everyone forgets who the f*** they were? Failing that, here’s an idea for a new programme – “C***s In The Pit!” Eleven c***s. A thirty foot deep pit. We throw the c***s in the pit, no food, no water, no means of communication, come back week by week and see which c*** has managed to gnaw, bite, stab and clamber its way to f***ing survival and the prize of a sole bacon sandwich located at f***ing surface level! With a few tears along the way, of f***ing course! Incidentally, Croydon is a f***ing rubbish dump, you silly c***s!

Finally, it seems that Universal intend, as a matter of urgency, to rerelease the works of that noted Nineties combo, Cud.

Well, let’s face it, this is what the f***ing music industry is all about, isn’t it? A company like Universal grows through a long, sometimes f***ing decades-long process of merger and acquisition. As it acquires, one by one, companies like Island, once a formidable label in its own right, succumb to the omnivorous Behemoth that is Universal, become subsumed in its ever-growing belly. The City looks on with intrigue and apprehension with each new move Universal makes towards absolute hegemony in the global music industry. Shares fluctuate with each tremor of uncertainty and speculation. However, come 2007, and Universal’s dominant market share is assured, and, across 80 foot long oval tables, the corporation’s creme de la creme meet and decide their next, strategic move. As a hush descends, the Chief Executive rises to his feet, clears his throat and announces what will prove to be the Corporation’s next, decisive move in the quest for checkmate on the Board of Ultimate Conquest in the music world. “Colleagues,” he announces, “As a matter of priority, and as a shot across the bows to assert our intent to establish total pre-eminence in all territories, known and unknown, we shall be reissuing, in full, the works of that bunch of fatuously, self-defeatingly squitty stumpfaces and all-round purveyors of risible sawn-off twatty, ugly indie whimsy, those c***faces little twots and future minicab drivers known as f***ing Cud!” You gormless f***ing arseholes! I hope Western Civilisation falls as a result of this elephantine act of corporate f***wittery, you c***s!