He is not “grumpy”. He is not a “curmudgeon”. He is fucking angry and fucking rightly so.


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 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!


Monday, August 20th, 2007

Rancid dickpaste! It’s MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of cucumber wafer slices, wholemeal cornflakes with low fat milk, mint yoghurt and a can of petrol topped up with the urine of an alcoholic tramp, I set aside my breakfast tray and peruse a handful of recent periodicals. Therein I read that this last week was the 30th anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley, the “King” of rock’n’roll, who died aged just 42.

F*** me sideways, are people still celebrating this greasy, cummerbunded sack of f***ing hamburger excrement? Shouldn’t it be some sort of f***ing sectionable offence to dress as the c***? Can’t we put them away, the way we f***ing do people who dress as f***ing Napoleon? I mean, everyone laughs at these sad f***ing suet brains but f***ing think about it, it’s thanks to their sort that we’re lagging behind evolutionarily as a f***ing species! If it weren’t for these f***ing greased back Elvis Conventions-in-Doncaster attenders, the chances are the human race would be well on the way to growing extra f***ing fingers by now! He was the King of f*** all, you docile twats, except the f***ing appallingly decorated bathroom in which he shat his f***ing sloppy kilograms every evening before the f***ing Colonel hammered on the door and shouted at him to get his fat arse in the f***ing van to Vegas!

It seems that Tim Henman, after a lengthy career in which he was much loved and supported by British fans, is on the point of retiring.

Well, you know, I think it kind of might make f***ing sense, don’t you, Tim? Now that you rank 845th in the world among people listed as “Henman” in the f***ing phone book! How you f***ing dare show your blank little ferret face f***ing year in, year out, with a solid career of 100% crushing disappointment behind you, I’ve no f***ing idea! With every f***ing advantage on your f***ing side – pampered upbringing, sorbet-brained Daily Mail readers braying you on, you still f***ed up, like clockwork, every f***ing time, to some f***ing Belgian! A spine made of f***ing wet lettuce! Even if you’d gone into every match with a two set head start just for being “Tiger Tim”, you’d still have f***ed up, because you are a 24 carat, died in the wool, copper bottomed, certified, Grade A, sure fire loser, as well as being the man who extracted the “Shorpe” from f***ing Scunthorpe!

India Knight has been writing in the Sunday Times, musing on the subject of “Wags”, or wives and girlfriends, who recently suffered the wrath of Roy Keane. She first of all brings to our attention the fact that “Wags” is now used as a word, which she finds quite amusing. As to whether or not “Wags” are a good thing or a bad thing, she keeps an open mind. However, she does observe the following. “Is there really such a huge difference between being a stay-at-home mother who relies on her husband’s income and a shopaholic Wag flashing the cash? The principle’s the same, it’s just the amount that varies.”

An open mind? An empty f***ing mind, more like! Did you even think this worthless f***ing piece through before you started, or just start f***ing writing in the vague and vain f***ing hope that eventually you’d stumble upon something that made sense? Yes, you vaporous f***ing saphead, to answer your f***ing question, the one you’re paid to f***ing answer not f***ing ask, there is an enormous f***ing difference! One’s a homemaker, the other’s a f***ing permatanned f***ing parasitic symbol of the monumentally avaricious f***ing gormlessness of 21st century “lifestyle”, one aided and f***ing abetted by the f***ing broadsheet supplements who used to be a f***ing antidote to this sort of f***ing hooray horseshite!

Finally, it seems that The Pigeon Detectives, Leeds’s latest indie sensations, have been knocked off their number one perch with their single, “Take Her Back”, no longer roosting atop the hit parade.

Christ on a f***ing kebab skewer, have you seen or heard these f***ing chimps? Sweaty f***ing potatoheaded skull wasters who if they ever came across a f***ing hairbrush would probably stuff it down the front of their f***ing spunk encrusted f***ing underpants! I would rather have six straight pints of lager spilt over my head than listen to this lairy, ogling piece of chantalong wankery ever again! Imagine the f***ing Cure left in a dustbin for ten years straight, then dragged out through several hedges, pissed all over by a bunch of f***ing drunk students, then presented to the f***ing British public with a “Will this do?” C***s!


Tuesday, August 7th, 2007

Fiddly fucksticks, it’s . . . MR AGREEABLE!

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!


Tuesday, July 17th, 2007

By the gripey farts of the infant baby Jesus, it’s MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a light breakfast of poached eggs, steamed greens, wholemeal toasted soldiers and a quart of Jamaican overproof rum with an aftershave chaser, I peruse the newspapers to see that there is still a large measure of sneering over last week’s Live Earth concert, in which major celebrities, many of whom own private jets and boast carbon footprints strong enough to put through your television set, nonetheless urged us to save the planet at their inspirational behest. It is very easy to sneer, some suggested.

Yeah? Well, it’s f***ing easy to breathe, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t f***ing do it! Even if it was incredibly difficult to f***ing sneer, more difficult than holding your f***ing breath for 10 minutes, you can bet there’d be a f*** of a lot of people willing to have a f***ing punt at these f***ing f***ers anyway! Still, maybe we should cut f***ing Madonna, Live Earth and the rest of these c***s some f***ing slack – after all, if it hadn’t been for their massively, obscenely egotistical, ozone-depleting f***ing squandering of the world’s resources for their own f***ing neon-lit, hairsprayed f***ing glory these past 20 years, we’d probably be in the throes of a f***ing Ice Age by now! But still, hesitant as I am to carp at the tireless f***ing Green efforts of Duran Duran, Christ’s cock in a f***ing blender, it was a bit like a f***ing Ku Klux Klan Against Racism extravanganza! “Okay, it’s important to remember why we’re here, because racism is a bad thing and we should all try to do better and stop it for the sake of our children and our children’s children. Awwright? Lecture over, HELLO LONDON, LET’S HAVE A F***ING LYNCHING!!!”

Lowri Turner, a writer who normally steers clear of mining her private life for inappropriate column fodder, has written this week of her ambivalent feelings towards her 12 month old daughter, whose pigmentation is rather dark as a result of her Indian father. “She seems so alien,” she writes, “with her long, dark eyelashes and dark brown hair, she looks nothing like me.”

For c***s sake! Well, skipping aside from the f***ing obvious point that any baby who bears as little f***ing resemblance as possible to a squat, peroxide f***ing toad like you, what the f***ing f***? There’s a f***ing reason she feels f***ing alien to you – unlike you, she’s a f***ing human being, and not some vile f***ing invasion in vaguely corporeal shape from the planet Shameless, Ignorant, Self-Obsessed, Right Wing Rag Filling C***! Racist against your own f***ing daughter? Why don’t you just bury your f***ing self alive?

The Enemy are a band currently much touted. Hailing from Coventry, they take as their inspiration Paul Weller, Oasis and the grey streets of their hometown, as their album, We’ll Live And Die In These Towns, attests.

Allah’s f***ing armpits, the world needs another bunch of c***s like this like it needs more bovine flatulence! There’s only one good thing to have come out of Coventry and that’s the motor – no, f***ing scrub that, the motorway’s scum-infested  from having gone anywhere near f***ing Coventry in the f***ing first place! Your f***ing album should have been called We Leave This Town The Moment We Learn How To Operate Our Thumbs And To Write The Name Of Another Town, Any Other Town, On A Piece Of F***ing Cardboard! You don’t take pride in being f***ing shite! Mind you, if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be looking for f***ing ideas to that f***ing dessicated, tight arsed weasel Paul Weller or those terminal f***ing Rutles wannabes Oasis, you cretinous, cockfaced, clueless c***s!

Finally, it seems that Boris Johnson is to run for the post of Mayor of London, following much speculation.

And the David Cameron Great Ideas Generating Machine spews out another f***ing cracker! F*** me, bandy, apart from Darius f***ing Guppy, who the f*** else is gonna vote for this galumphing, brayingly elephantine f***ing twat to run anything more important than his own f***ing bath? I wouldn’t entrust this fat pot of rhinoceros toss to be Mayor of f***ing Trumpton! I bet Abu f***ing Hamza would pick up more f***ing votes on a straight run-in! If this is the best we can do, we might as well resign ourselves to living in a f***ing one party state, with Gordon Brown’s f***ing kid as our next Dear Leader! C***s!


Sunday, June 24th, 2007

More highly colourful language from MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of freshly sliced pineapples, mint yoghurt, pumpernickel and a gallon of lager sloppings from my local hostelry which I acquired for nothing as the pub dog had been drinking from them, I push aside my breakfast tray and peruse the weekly journals. Therein, I read that Annie Lennox, alongside Corinne Bailey Rae and James Morrison, are to head up a special “Peace One Day” concert. “Something that is common to every man, woman and child on the planet is the notion of peace,” said Lennox.”Without peace, we cannot survive,” she added.

She’s really, bending over, jiggling her f***ing arse and asking to be f***ing kicked into the middle of f***ing next week, isn’t she? How f***ing self-righteous, bleeding heart obvious, vaguely platitudinous, Aretha Franklin imitating, ego-swelling and f***ing obscenely, rampantly, you’d-rather-listen-to-your-own-dog-being-f***ing-strangled unlistenable is this steaming, rank farrago of cocksucking f***ing dysentery-infected horseshite likely to be? It’s tempting to raise a f***ing private army, steam across the f***ing North Sea and provoke a war with f***ing Holland just to f***ing piss Annie Lennox off! “Without peace we cannot survive”? What the f*** are you talking about, you dessicated, f***tarded streak of f***ing peroxide? There’s probably not been a moment in your sorry, superannuated f***ing lifetime when some c*** hasn’t been raining hellfire down on some other poor c*** but you’ve survived and f***ing thrived, more’s the f***ing pity!

The Hard Rock Cafe is to open a theme park, based upon its own activities, in California, it seems. A launch for the park will be held in London, with Sham 69 in attendance.

Sure, because it’s not enough to f***ing turn rebellion into burgers, fries, Thousand Island dressing and bottles of f***ing pissy beer, is it? Now you’ve got to have some c***y theme park, run by c***s for c***s, whose working title should be “The C***ing C***erama” if you had a f***ing shred of f***ing integrity! I hope the f***ing place burns down within two days and His Holiness The Pope himself flies over from the Vatican just to dance on the f***ing graves of each and every one of the f***ing victims!

The Blazing Zoos are a hot new country and western combo, much touted in some quarters and much in demand on the live circuit. They hardly need any introduction, naturally, but those among you who have perhaps been to Mars these past few weeks are directed to their site, http://www.myspace.com/theblazingzoos where you can hear them perform their latest smash, “I Didn’t Have The Material”. Their lead singer and songwriter is, I am given to understand, an Australian of some description.

“I Didn’t Have The Material”? Let me f***ing tell you something pal – you still f***ing haven’t! Christ on a giant, revolving f***ing cock-shaped Turkey Twizzler, this is the f***ing aural equivalent of a f***ing basement flood in a f***ing redneck bar! “Mess” isn’t the f***ing word! It sounds like some sort of “Can farm animals play music?”-type experiment! This wretched f***ing group constitute a f***ing wart on the genitals of mankind! What the f*** persuaded a f***ing kangaroo eater to go into Country & Western, anyway? Australia’s answer to f***ing Johnny Cash? I don’t f***ing think so, unless Johnny Cash asked the question, “Would the world’s biggest, most talentless, tin-eared f***ing c*** please step forward and form a record-breakingly unnecessary band, please?” Still, nothing wrong with the name, or at least nothing that couldn’t be fixed by changing two of the words to “F***ing” and “Arseholes”!

India Knight has recently taken advantage of her column in the Sunday Times to muse upon the important topic of Katie Hopkins of The Apprentice, a topic which has been starved of attention in other quarters of the media. Regarding Ms Hopkins, a self-styled “superbitch”, Ms Knight suggests that perhaps she was “incredibly unpopular at school” and that she proves that in business being too nice can be an impediment. “Nobody gets a job in business because they’re a lovely human being,”  she informs us, adding that “Everybody has been talking about Katie for the last 11 weeks.”

For screaming out f***ing loud, how many million more times does it have to be said? Who’s this “everybody”?” You and your equally f***ing vaccum-headed, gossiping, f***ing lunch-doing, f*** all-better-to-talk-about friends are not “everybody”, do you f***ing understand? A life in which more than ten seconds are spent watching The f***ing Apprentice is a life that should be f***ing donated early to medical science the better to determine how some f***ing specimens of humanity have devolved into such total, time-wasting tits in the f***ing 21st century! Nobody gets a job in business because they’re a lovely human being? Just as well someone gets a job at The Sunday Times because they’re a stupid human being, that’s for f***ing sure!

Finally, Home Office minister Liam Byrne has suggested that the identity card scheme will in years to come be an institution on a par with the railways, one we shall wonder how we ever did without.

What the f*** is it with these New Labour tossrags? Have they all had that part of the brain that tells you, “Jesus, if I were to come out and say that I’d sound like a right f***ing twat” surgically removed? It’s not us who should be identifying ourselves to you, Byrne, it’s jumped-up f***ing functionaries of the state like you who should be identifying yourselves to us! Can I suggest a tattoo on your f***ing forehead reading “CONTROL-OBSESSED C***”  might just do the f***ing job in your case?