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 monthly press conference, about his admiration, in certain buy viagra 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 generic viagra 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 viagra online 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!


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