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

Sunday, June 17th, 2007

Oh, my anus, it’s MR AGREEABLE

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!

Sunday, June 3rd, 2007

More family fucking fun with MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of muesli, grapefruit juice, a yolkless omelette and a gallon of absinthe drunk through a hose, I peruse the periodicals and learn that the line-up for this year’s Glastonbury Festival has been announced. It will include The Who, The Arcade Fire, The Kooks, The Gossip, Paul Weller, Shirley Bassey and Chas N’ Dave. “We’ve surpassed ourselves,”  says Michael Eavis, who presides over the festival.

You certainly f***ing have, you eggheaded, absurdly bearded f***ing arse! If this line up was a f***ing muckspreader, it’d shower enough f***ing shit to fertilise half the f***ing county! It’s a f***ing index of excrement! The Who? Two dead, one deaf and one whose singing makes you envy the f***ing deaf! The Kooks? I’d rather drink from the contents of a f***ing hospice bedpan! Shirley Bassey? Oh, my aching f***ing sides! The Gossip? Yeah, she’s f***ing fat, point made, now f*** off back to oblivion and health complications brought on by gross f***ing obesity! Paul Weller? Why don’t you just stick a f***ing scarecrow in the middle of the field and have done with it? Anybody who goes to f***ing Glastonbury is a moron but three days of exposure to this moneygrubbing, pointless vast and vacant f***ing parody of a f***ing festival will come back a f***ing double moron! C***s!

Gordon Brown, heir apparent to the leadership of the Labour Party, has made a number of policy statements, including a wish to extend the period in which terror suspects can be detained beyond the current 28 days. He would, however, ensure that civil liberties were safeguarded were such an extension to be implemented. After “New Labour”, it is anticipated by many that Mr Brown’s reign will be best described as “True Labour”.

Yeah, sure, of course it f***ing will, and the woods will become a f***ing bearshit-free zone and the Pope will join the f***ing Orange Order! F*** all this “Och, yes, I’m a tremendous fan of the Arcade Monkeys” bollocks! Brown’s gonna be exactly the same as f***ing Blair, only scruffier and f***ing grumpier! Head half way up George Bush’s rectum? Check. Continued tax breaks to the f***ing rich and lectures to the poor? Check. More f***ing PFI disasters in the f***ing pipeline? Check! “C*** Replaces C***” should have been the f***ing headline, and the three last words on this odious, dour f***er!

Justin Lee Collins is back on our screens, with a new series of The Friday Night Project!

Christ on a f***ing dildo, just what the f*** is this West Country f***ing rodent-boy doing anywhere near a f***ing TV programme? “Hoi! Moi name’s Justin Lee Collins, oi shout loike this the whole toime and oi’m from Bristol! Thart’s the joke!” How the f*** has he extended this into a f***ing career? Did he catch the f***ing controller of Channel 4 in bed with a f***ing farm animal or what? As eloquent an argument for the f***ing reinstatement of the f***ing ducking stool as Youth TV has yet presented! Useless, hairy f***ing twatrag!

My Chemical Romance are back in the fray, with a new single entitled “Teenagers”. Among their influences are Queen and Iron Maiden.

F*** me into the middle of next week, have you heard this f***ing bunch? The squarest, brownest, samiest, rockiest shit to come trundling off the f***ing NME neoconservative f***ing conveyor belt since the one the f***ing week before! They’re f***ing rubbish! The last scrapings of the bottom of f***ing rock’s bowels! It would, have been better in all solemn seriousness, and weighing the pros and cons regarding the betterment of life on this earth, if these c***s had been influenced by their f***ing heavy metal favourites to go on some massive f***ing killing spree in their high school, than formed a f***ing band! I f***ing mean it! In fact, I contacted some of your f***ing high school classmates and they all f***ing agreed with me! They’d have cheerfully taken the f***ing bullets! Grade A f***ing tosswipes!

Finally, India Knight has used her column in The Sunday Times a fortnight ago to draw attention to the current state of the housing market. It seems that property prices are currently exceedingly high, pricing the likes of schoolteachers and nurses out of the market. Her suggestion? That something needs to be done. “Urgently,” as she puts it.

Well, gee, yes, now that you say so, India, there’s something in that. Thanks for the f***ing early warning, too! I’m amazed this unextraneous observation hasn’t been made before, practically on a daily f***ing basis, over the last ten f***ing years by practically every c***! Yes, that’s certainly food for f***ing thought there, India! You slackarsed, slow-witted, f***ing waste of f***ing space! If you were paid more than 15p to hack out this prolonged statement of the haemorrhaging f***ing obvious, it’s a f***ing scandal! And what the f***’s “India” all about? If you’d been born a f***ing boy, would you have been called “Belgium”?

Monday, May 21st, 2007

Holy cunts! MR AGREEABLE!

Waking up to a breakfast of boiled egg and lightly toasted soldiers, waffles and syrup, peppermint tea and a petrol can full of overproof rum with a slice of lemon, I pick up one of the monthly rock music periodicals and observe with a start that Tom Chaplin of Keane has spoken of how he was “suicidal” at the depths of his addiction to alcohol and cocaine.

Didn’t actually f***ing do it, though, did you, you f***ing wuss! Am I the only one who’s had it right up to their f***ing tits with confessional rock stars and their tedious f***ing Drugs Hell reminiscences? “But I’m out the other side now and back with a shit album”, you know the f***ing score! Why didn’t you come out and tell us all about this when it was happening, f***face! “‘I’m Feeling Very Suicidal Just This Minute’, Says Keane’s Chaplin.” We’d have supported you! I’d have led the f***ing charge! I’d have been the one shouting, “Go on, jump, you c***, jump! You know it’s for the f***ing best!” F***ing Keane! 100%  shit on a f***ing memory stick! I’d rather stand in a f***ing field on a rainy day staring at a cow for four solid f***ing hours than listen to five seconds of one of their f***ing albums!

On a generally disappointing night of “no shows” at the BAFTAS, Victoria Wood did pick up two awards, including one for Best Actress.

You know, life is full of f***ing mysteries – where is little Maddie, how does Cliff Richard maintain his eternally youthful looks and why does toast always fall butter side down, but topping the lot is this one – who the f*** are all these cretinised c***s who find Victoria Wood remotely f***ing funny and what precisely are they f***ing laughing at? Just because she talks like some f***ing over-enthusiastic Northern grammar school hockey mistress who never shuts the f*** up? Is that supposed to be the f***ing joke? Is it her neighingly f***ing whimsical outlook on life and f***ing jokes about striped curtains? Her f***ing songs? Please don’t tell me it’s her f***ing songs! Because if it’s her f***ing songs, I swear I will have to take a stroll through the suburbs with a f***ing pump action shotgun firing at random, the thinking being that if I take out at least one f***ing Victoria Wood fan, it’ll have been f***ing worth it! C***s!

The Twang, the boisterous West Midlands group described as a cross between The Stone Roses and The Streets are currently carrying all before them on the road, notching up some impressive milestones such as a sellout concert in Norwich. Here, their lead singer comments on their success.”It’s a good sign that we are stepping up so quickly, and the ticket sales are doing quite well at the moment, so when we get stuck into that tour there should be a few more sold out shows. It’s just ace, you know, that people are getting to us and spending their dough to come and see us, especially if we’ve been there before and they come back – then we’re doing a good job.”

Christ on a f***ing wankstick, you boring little c***! Is this how you talk, all the f***ing time? Is this what your f***ing stream of consciousness, your f***ing internal monologue is like, f***ing day in, day out? In a f***ing Birmingham accent, as well? God’s rancid spunk, I’m amazed you haven’t joined that c*** from Keane on the f***ing ledge! How can you stand being that f***ing tedious? The f***ing Twang! I’d rather f***ing drink water straight from the f***ing canal! Arseholes!

Here’s our old friend Jasper Gerard in The Observer, discussing a recent trip to Riga, in Latvia, during which he took part in a tournament. “We were playing footer. We lost 17-1. Or so we think; the referee lost count. This was despite being lent the opposition’s goalkeeper for the second half. Still, our captain displayed his true talent with the post-match spin: “Well done, chaps. Fantastic we scored that crucial away goal to bring back to our ground.”

You really are a woeful streak of f***ing cockache aren’t you, Gerard? “Footer”? What the f*** is a c*** like you doing writing for The f***ing Observer? What the f*** is a c*** like you doing writing?

Finally, it seems that Prince will be doing a 21 date tour of London, with tickets naturally sought after by the capital’s pop fan.

Oh, f***ing yeah, I’m really f***ing excited by this – after all, this is Prince’s seventeenth straight year of producing nothing but f***ing bloodstreaked bullshit, surely he’s got to get good any second now! And Bryan f***ing Robson’s gonna do a f***ing shit-hot job at f***ing Sheffield United! Listen once and listen good, you silly f***ing pricks on the f***ing hotline for tickets in the desperate f***ing hope of being squashed like sardines alongside fellow f***wits watching the coiffured little runt jam his way through two hours of solid jazz-funk tedium, these concerts will be a waste of f***ing time! Life’s too f***ing short! And even if life was too f***ing long, they’d still be a waste of f***ing time!

Sunday, May 6th, 2007

Bringing a cheery titter to those cheeky chops, it’s… Mr Agreeable!

Waking up to a silver salver of assorted high fibre cereals, grapefruit, melon, figs, green tea, lightly buttered bagels and a hosepipe connecting me to a septic tank full of Kestrel lager, I breakfast heartily then turn my attention to a certain periodical. Therein, I notice that the combo Gym Class Heroes have recently scored a hit, “Cupid’s Chokehold”, based around the Supertramp song. “Breakfast In America”. Said one of Gym Class Heroes’s number, “I remember the first time I realized I wanted to write songs. I was watching a Fruity Pebbles commercial and Barney Rubble started rapping and I figured if he could do it, I could do it too.”

Yeah? Well, it’s a f***ing pity you weren’t f***ing inspired by Wile E. Coyote, isn’t it? “I thought, like, wow, hey, man, if he can jump off the edge of a mile high precipice and come back two seconds later unscathed, like, I figured, like, maybe I could too.” A giant sized f***ing pity! When you say it’s ‘based’ on the Supertramp song, you’re basically f***ing saying it is the f***ing Supertramp song, aren’t you? Because face it, take away the f***ing Supertramp song from the f***ing equation, and it’s a bit like taking the horses away from the f***ing equation in the f***ing Grand National  – all you’re left with is a bunch of twats dressed like silly, jabbering little c***s running around like blue-arsed arses at the f***ing starting line with no business being at the f***ing races! Which is what you f***ers are!

Singer-songwriter and veteran anti-war campaigner Joan Baez has been barred, it seems, from performing to soldiers recovering in hospital from their tours in Iraq. Army officials intervened to prevent her participation.

Well, for f***’s sake, the American f***ing military might well be the most cementheaded, incompetent bunch of f***ing lunkheads currently running f***ing riot in uniform on the planet and about as f***ing subtle and sensitive in their operations as a f***ing 100 metre high concrete penis dropped from a f***ing B-52 onto a f***ing Red Crescent orphanage, but credit them with a modicum of f***ing compassion! If I’d had half my f***ing arse torn off by some insurgent’s f***ing incendiary device and was condemned to shit sideways for the rest of my f***ing life, the last thing I’d f***ing want is my that warbly, reedy f***ing bint Baez strumming at my f***ing bedside, sandpapering my f***ing eardrums! It was as much as f***ing Bob Dylan could do not to shove a wet dischcloth down her throat in the 60s! He only went f***ing electric to f***ing drown her out! “Turrrnn! Turrrrnnnn!! TURRRNNN!!” TURN IT OFF, YOU F***ING CRUEL AND UNUSUAL C***!!

The Sony Award Winners for 200, the biggest awards in radio, have been announced. They include the following; The Broadcaster’s Broadcaster Award to John Peel; The Lifetime Achievement Award for Tony Butler, BBC West Midlands; while Music Radio Personality Award goes to Chris Evans of BBC Radio 2.

John The Baptist’s f***ing jockstrap, what the f*** are these all about? I mean, bless his soul and great respect to f***ing Patron Saint of Elderly Obsessive Hamsters John Peel but unless I missed a f***ing seance, he hasn’t exactly been doing a lot of f***ing broadcasting these last twelve months, has he? And Tony Butler? You spend your f***ing lifetime trying, and f***ing failing to gravitate from the f***ing broadcasting backwater of BBC West Midlands and you get an Achievement Award? You achieved f***ing nothing, you c***! That’s why you’re still in the f***ing West Midlands! And finally, Chris Evans, personality of the year? What does that f***ing say about the rest of the f***ing DJs at BBC2, that they have inferior f***ing personalities to Chris Evans? What are they? Paeodophiles? Spaniel torturers? Granny f***ers? What?

The Arctic Monkeys latest album, Favourite Worst Album has been hailed as the most anticipated new release since The Stones Roses’s Second Coming, according to the NME.

Yes! F*** me, yes! And Could They Possibly Be The Greatest Indie Group In The World Since The Arcade Fire, The Greatest Band In The World Right Now? Meanwhile, Are Muse The Greatest, Most Godlike Band In Britain? Are Kaiser Chiefs The Greatest Band In England Right Now? Are The View The New Beatles? Or Even Better, The New Oasis? Is Every Generic Brown Square Lump Of F***ing Refried, Reprocessed Indie That Appears On The Cover of The F***ing NME The Greatest Thing Since Last Week Ever? C***s! Get this drilled through your f***ing fevered skulls! 2007 is the f***ing worst, the palpable worst year in f***ing music history since “How Much Is That Doggie In The Window” topped the f***ing Hit Parade! Truly, this is the era of c***s to end all c***s!

Finally, it seems that Tony Blair has just passed a milestone –  ten years as Prime Minister.

You deranged, gleaming-eyed, rictus grinning, pusillanimous, reptilian, toothsome, scumsucking, trust-abusing, Cliff Richard rimming, childkilling, poverty gap widening, cesspit dwelling, NHS up-f***ing, useless f***ing trail of terminal f***ing right wing slime! Bush’s f***ing cockboy! You should be made to pass a f***ing milestone, having first been f***ing forcefed it, one with the names of every poor f***er you sent to their deaths in f***ing Iraq inscribed on it, you loathsome c***!

Sunday, April 29th, 2007

More ribbing and ribaldry with Mr Agreeable!

Waking up to my silver breakfast tray of poached eggs, figs, lightly buttered toast, grapefruit and a gallon of homebrewed whiskey in a rusty petrol can, I pick my newspaper and read with interest that Prince Harry, or “Cornet Wales” is to be sent to Iraq after all, despite the interest his deployment will attract from insurgents.

Griddle my f***ing cock, if the gung ho little ginger f***ing twatrag wants to f***ing go and get himself f***ing splattered like a f***ing hedgehog all over the f***ing roadside for God, Grandmummy and St. George, I say let the ginger f***er go! Shove a stick up his ginger f***ing arse and parade him around Baghdad out the top of a f***ing tank! Draw their fire! They might as well be firing into f***ing empty space, which they f***ing well would if they shot him anywhere between his f***ing ears! Or watch, as he gets kidnapped and a f***ing national whipround for this right royal boil on the penis of mankind raises precisely 78p! C***!

It would appear that Snoop Doggy Dogg, having been refused permission to enter the United Kingdom, has now similarly been denied entry to Australia. This, it seems, is because he has failed to pass the Australian character test which takes previous convictions into account.

Oh, my f***ing giddy Aunt’s c***, excuse me for a second while I pick myself off the floor and clear my f***ing windpipe, but did I f***ing misread this or are the three notions of  “Australia”,  “convicts” and “no, you can’t come in?” conjoined here? The f***ing Australian character was forged by f***ing convicts, you Antipodean, kangaroo-eating arses! I know you hate being reminded of it, the same way as you f***ing hate being reminded that you don’t f***ing talk properly, but it’s the f***ing truth! You should be f***ing lucky anyone visits you down there in the f***ing fly-infested, arsepit of the f***ing globe! As you should f***ing know given that every f***ing boat and plane leaving Australia is crammed to the f***ing rafters with you c***s, all on f***ing one-way tickets!

After several years of hard rocking and international touring, Cooper Temple Clause have decided, with a heavy heart, to call it a day and split up.

Y’know, folks, there’s a theory  –  some call it chaos theory, but call it what you will –  that even the slightest action, say, a butterfly flapping its wings in one hemisphere, is capable of triggering a chain reaction which will initiate hurricanes in the other hemisphere. In other words, all events are inter-connected, every slightest occurrence has within it the potential to alter destiny in ways that are eventually profound. There is one event which is the exception to this, however, and that is the disbanding of Cooper Temple Clause. This is an event of such minuscule f***ing significance that it will make f*** all difference to anything or anybody! F***ing Cooper f***ing Temple f***ing Clause, the group who mixed up Goth, Prog, hardcore, New Pop and Electro and came up with precisely bugger all! Cooper Temple Clause? C***er C***le C***s, more like!

Recently, in The Observer, the columnist Jasper Gerard wrote, “France is so serene it is stiff; Monty Python would declare it a dead country. Now Newcastle produces no coal, this should become the new cliche: whenever one gives the recipient something he absolutely doesn’t need, say that it is like sending serenity to France. After a joyous year of revolting, the country fell into a serene slumber that began with a picnic of ripe brie, gurgling Burgundy and drowsy sex one sated, sensuous, sozzled summer’s afternoon in about 1969 – and it has never woken up.”

You really are a fatuous c***, aren’t you, Gerard? It’s just one endlessly unfurling, brown f***ing carpet of shite from you, week in, week out! Why don’t you just f***ing strangle yourself with your own f***ing bow tie and have f***ing done with it?

Finally, it seems that the “rock satirists” Spinal Tap are among the latest act to be booked into Live Earth, the 24 hour rock extravaganza on July 7, to promote ecological awareness.

Well, I dunno what f***ing satire Spinal Tap have got in mind but it can’t hope to f***ing match the monumental act of satire that is f***ing Live Earth! A bunch of f***ing million watt burning f***ing megastars jetting in from their vast, fossil fuel burning f***ing estates, c***s who spend their lives stamping all over our faces with their f***ing carbon footprints, gathering in one gigantic, throbbing, rainforest-ruining orgiastic emission of collective f***ing eco-piety? You might as well have a f***ing rally of the Leather Booted Goosesteppers Against The Nazis! Or f***ing Muslims Against Allah! F***ing up the eco-system with your f***ing squanderous, ozone destroying f***ing tosh is what you do, you c***s!