Don't Look Back At Me In Anger You Cunts

 

This one is for my best mate, Nick, who loves Oasis. 

It's also for my mate Ray and others who hate Oasis. So there's a little something in it for every cunt. Ray specifically asked for this one. See, we do take requests. 

 

In fact, there have been plenty of requests over the years: James Corden, Ed Sheeran, James Corden, Dua Lipa, James Corden, Kasabian, James Corden... You get the picture. There are more deserving people to UNCUNT than the Gallagher brothers. But we're not here to people please or go for the obvious choices. (Puff Daddy). We're here to call people cunts.

 

One of our newer readers told me last week, after the Charli XCX debacle, that UNCUNT was "speaking truth to power". It's true. With great power comes great responsibility. If some fucker abuses that privilege, it's our duty to pillory them. We will deliver on that promise. So buckle up, Nick! Let's get into it. 

I've been looking back in anger recently...

 

I know, I know. You're not meant to. I just slipped inside the eye of your mind. Or was it my mind? I'm not too sure now. The senior Gallagher brother wasn't particularly clear on whose mind one was meant to slip inside of. 

 

I suppose it doesn't really matter now. It's all completely and utterly irrelevant now isn't it? Just like every Rolling Stones tour post 1972, every embarrassing Sex Pistols reunion and every Shed Seven Christmas concert, the renewal of Oasis's love affair with the British public is an irrelevance in 2025. 

 

Don't get me wrong, Oasis were absolutely fucking brilliant from 1993-97. But not now! Morrissey once said a similar thing about his idol David Bowie. He's a cunt isn't he, Morrissey?

 

But let's not get sidetracked just yet.

This is a difficult one for me. Like my mate Nick, I bloody love Oasis. They're an important part of our childhood. They're national treasures. In a way. 

 

So, pinpointing when exactly they became cunts is tricky. First off, let's dispose of the facts. Are they actually cunts? While it's important to fact check, it's also a bit late to be asking that now. I've already called them cunts. 

So, on that basis, let's just crack on. 

 

Calling them cunts will of course be problematic for many of you. We know that. If you want the Samaritans helpline at the end and a disclaimer about being affected by any of the issues raised, you've come to the wrong place I'm afraid. Grow up.

But, genuinely, this one has had me questioning myself. It's a bit like when we asked which of the Strokes are cunts, all those years ago. Spoiler alert: it was all of them, but still, that never obstructed us from accessing the unrestrained joy of their first three albums. 

 

The 'first three albums' thing is key here. It applies to Oasis too. In fact, many bands fall into the 'first three albums' category. Three great albums get made, and then they fall off a fucking cliff. They've spunked their load. 

 

Why don't they just leave it there? "Our work here is done," sort of thing. When you think of great bands of the past – the Beatles, the Jam, the Smiths – their legacy has remained pristine, unquestionable, near perfect, because they quit while they were ahead. They didn't carry on flogging the horse until it died. They got off the horse and did other things. They sealed their legacy in the tomb marked eternally brilliant.  

 

Oasis didn't do that, did they? They rode the horse into the ground, like those donkeys you see on holiday in Spain where you've a good mind to report the owners for animal cruelty and contact a donkey shelter back home. 

 

Liam on a donkey. That's a lovely image, actually. Whipping it with a stick he's ripped from a palm tree. Liam as Jesus of Nazareth riding into Jerusalem. What would Liam do? He'd probably call someone a cunt. Not sure how that would have gone down in the Bible. Full of cunts isn't it, the Bible.

 

But let's not get sidetracked. 

 

Very few bands continue to be good after the first three. However, sadly, that doesn't often mean they stop there. Having spunked their loads, they continue wanking away, hoping for a dribble of seminal fluid to leak out. But they've dried up. They suffer the music version of erectile dysfunction, but instead of going celibate, they reach for the Viagra and somehow bust another nut. Another release. Another issue. 

 

Don't worry, I'm not doing the bukkake analogy. We did that last week. Instead I'm imagining a mentally ill person of no fixed abode compulsively masturbating in public. A vagrant fisting away at his withered penis. Liam, as a deranged hobo running around the streets of Burnage, flashing. A metaphor perhaps for the Oasis reunion tour.

 

Not sure where that came from. But anyway, let's move on. 

 

This one is also similar to when we listed all the bands who don't know when the fuck to quit. Although, to be fair to Oasis they did quit! After smashing each other in the face with a cricket bat. 

 

In that old edition of UNCUNT, we said that REM releasing 15 albums was too many albums and described it as "like sitting on the toilet and doing a large and satisfying poo and then getting greedy and trying to poo out more and more until eventually you get piles." Well, Oasis have released seven studio albums, five compilations (money-grabbing cunts) and two live. That's 14 albums. Someone pass Noel the Anusol, drop his pants, and splay his rectum. Not for a pegging; to deal with the haemorrhoids.

When I asked my long-term collaborator to contribute to this one, I wasn't expecting an illustration. Better still, I wasn't expecting an illustration of Liam and Noel with their little willies out. But here we are. There's no turning back now is there. Their cocks are out. The dicks are exposed. 

 

Small, leathery, wrinkled, flaccid penises. Pissing in your face. Cos that's what they've done isn't it, with those ticket prices? Come on, you know it. You're all going, I don't need to namecheck you. Nick. You've all opened up, gargled, and swallowed their wee. Sorry to be crude, but you have.

Right, that's the piss-gargling analogy done. I might return to that later. But for now, let's get under the skin of these cunts.

When you think about the 'first three albums' rule, what happens with some acts is that they then go on to do other things. They explore the range of their creative imaginations. They don't just keep plugging the Fender guitar back into the Marshall amp and turning it up to 10. 

 

In fact, often there's the inverse rule. Some great bands' first three albums aren't their best, but they grow into themselves and push to get better and better. The Jam's earliest albums aren't great. Fuck it, the Beatles' early albums aren't the finest records ever committed to vinyl! Nor the Rolling Stones' or the Kinks'. Radiohead's debut is ropey. But the Beatles, the Jam, the Kinks, Radiohead, the Who, the Stones and, indeed, Oasis's biggest rivals Blur, all went on to experiment. 

 

They tried new instruments, they went in different artistic directions, they made concept albums. In the case of the Beatles – Oasis's biggest influence and heroes – they went on to reinvent popular music as we know it; ushering in an era of limitless possibilities that created whole new genres. Blur's main songwriter went on to make music with musicians from Mali and animated cartoons! 

Did Oasis do that? Did they fuck. The nearest Oasis ever got to innovation was when they appeared as guest vocalists on other artists' dance tracks. The Chemical Brothers and Death in Vegas come to mind. They may have felt that covering the Jam's glowering discordant lo-fi masterpiece Carnation was a great leap forward. It wasn't. It had Steve Craddock on guitar for a start. Craddock has never really leapt forwards has he. He's always leapt backwards if anything, by many decades. 

That was one criticism of Oasis at the time. And there weren't many, by the way. It was hard to say anything bad about such a force of nature; about the juggernaut they were in those heady days of Cool Britannia. But the few quiet dissenting voices said Oasis were derivative of the 60s and 70s; ripping off the Beatles, Slade, T-Rex and the Sex Pistols. I never went along with that. 

 

Sure you can hear some Slade and T-Rex in there. Yes, Shakermaker, was a wholesale copy of an advert jingle that became a children's nursery rhyme to sing at school. But, like all great bands that emerge to change things, to rip up the rule book, Oasis sounded like the future while making you feel like you'd heard them before in some distant déjà vu. 

 

When you chucked in the facts of them fighting with West Ham's ICF firm on a cross-channel ferry, getting deported from the Netherlands, the wibbling rivalry interview about Johnny Cigarettes and Noel staying in his room reading books and all that, it was an electrifying time to be alive as a young teenage indie music fan.  

So, where did it all go wrong? Having fused the brilliance of the Stone Roses with the blunt force of Nirvana, why did they then resort to churning out rock-n-roll-by numbers for the next three decades, under the Oasis banner, Noel's High-Flying Birds and Liam's utterly embarrassing Beady Eye? 

 

Why not test yourselves? Push the boundaries? The answer is that they couldn't. They still can't. That's why they're playing songs from 30 years ago that don't really mean anything any more.

Speaking of Nirvana, the first sign of Oasis being cunts was the day the news was announced that Kurt Cobain had died. Oasis were on tour in Middlesborough and Liam said, onstage, that Kurt was "a sad twat who couldn't handle fame". It's hard to find these remarks on the internet but they were reported in that week's music press. Here are Liam and Guigsy talking about Kurt a few months later. 

Not long after that, Noel said he wished Alex James and Damon Albarn would "catch AIDS and die". Now, that's not very nice, is it? Would Paul McCartney have said that about Mick Jagger and Keith Richards? No. No, he wouldn't.

At the time of course, all of that was part of the controversial schtick that made Oasis exciting. The days when they called each other "our kid" like characters off Coronation Street but with massive cocaine habits. 

 

Noel gave up drugs when he woke up one morning at Supernova Heights, his house in Primrose Hill, and instead of having breakfast, got a can of Red Stripe out of the fridge and chopped out a line. Nowadays, you're more likely to hear Noel talking about a microwave meal he's heated up, or a pint of real ale he's had in his local, or the school catchment areas in his borough, or the guarantee of the triple-lock pension, than doing drugs or cussing people. 

 

He did cuss The 1975 fairly recently, to be fair to him. So he hasn't completely lost his edge. 

 

By the way, watch the video below to the end and you'll see the NME 'music writer' (there are no music writers anymore, except here at UNCUNT, speaking truth to power) saying that he "rates" The 1975. Yet another example of why we started UNCUNT. Cunts like that, writing about music, who think that The 1975 are good. Utterly disgraceful.

 

 

I'm not saying that Noel is boring now or trying to paint a picture of a depressed middle-aged man. But he is recently divorced. Which is why this whole reunion is happening. He's probably lonely for a start. His therapist will have told him he needs to keep himself busy. More than that, his divorce is costing him £12 million. 

 

You're paying for Noel's divorce, Liam! And all you fans! It's a lovely gesture, but bloody hell it's cynical of Noel. 

Aside from speaking ill of the dead, stagnating the rock scene, flattering to deceive, wishing AIDS on people and ripping us off, my main gripe with Oasis over the years has really been their refusal to use their platform and influence to say anything helpful or influential when it comes to politics, society, racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia and so forth. 

 

Just one little example. We can plausibly guess that at least, hmm let's pluck a number, 52% of Oasis fans voted Leave in the EU referendum, right? So, what if the Gallaghers had said something to persuade them that actually being part of Europe is brilliant and that people from other countries coming here is actually brilliant? I'm not saying Oasis could have stopped Brex... wait. Actually I am. That's exactly what I'm saying. Oasis could have stopped Brexit. And the cunts chose not to. Shame on Oasis, the Brexiteer cunts!

 

Look at their heroes the Beatles, who promoted peace and love, vegetarianism, the legalisation of marijuana and other worthy causes. Okay, Ringo voted Brexit, the daft cunt, but you get what I mean. 

 

Look at their hero Paul Weller and his radical anti-Thatcher, Red Wedge, socialist movement in the 80s. 

 

Look at their hero Morrisey and ... okay let's not get sidetracked. 

He's a cunt isn't he, Morrissey?

Fuck it, let's wrap this up. My heart's not in this. Neither is Noel's to be fair. He'd rather be doing anything than this reunion tour. Playing Scrabble, watching Gardener's World, decorating the bathroom. And yet, he'll still be doing reunion tours in the year 2047, when he's 80, just like those cunts Jagger and Daltrey (he voted Brexit too), boring their grandchildren to death. Because he can't do anything else now. He's pigeon-holed himself. 

Old dears will be chucking their knickers at Liam. When I said this to my mate Nick, he replied, "I'll be there, throwing my incontinence pants 😂"

 

Fair play. I might join. If only to gargle their piss. And there will be piss. Thrown in plastic cups. Showering the faces of the OAPs. Shower is the collective noun for cunts by the way.  

 

Let's leave it on a positive note. For those of you going to see them at Wembley this weekend, here's a useful guide. UNCUNT's Oasis Reunion Tour Survival Tips: 

 

 

1. Don't look back in anger. If you do, the cunt behind you will knock you spark out in front of your kids*

2. Don't live forever. It's impossible for a start, unless the Gallaghers have invented a time machine or corporate-branded anti-ageing serum

3. Don't look up in the sky, or you'll get a mouthful off piss that's been chucked towards the stage in a plastic cup

4. Slide away (preferably before the encore, so you can beat the crowds on Wembley Way)

5. Cast no shadow. If you do, some cunt standing behind you will knock you spark out in front of your kids*

6. No morning glory please. There are kids around. Plus, all that Stella Artois and 25% cheap cocaine has the effect of dampening sexual arousal. Look at the Gallaghers' willies. Go on, look at them!

7. Don't stand by me. If you do, I'll knock you spark out in front of your kids*

8. Be here now. Or get there earlier, if you want to see Richard Ashcroft going through the motions as main support

9. Tell yourself it's getting better (man) as the gig goes on. Or just head to the bar for your sixth pint of Bud piss. Cos it's really not

10. Look back in anger. You've earned the right. You've paid for this shit. Look back really fucking furiously. Then knock the cunt behind you spark out in front of his kids*

*Only joking, it will be a nice family friendly vibe. We went to Liam Gallagher at Knebworth a few years back and it was all peace and love. A scouser even offered us ecstasy and bought my nephew a pint. Peace.

brat (cunt)

"A thrilling hostile takeover by a pop star at the peak of her powers" was the headline of the Guardian's pathetically fawning, desperately eager-to-please five-star review of Charli XCX's tedious, mediocre, plasticky, conceptual jerk-off of a Glastonbury set. 

A thrilling hostile takeover by a pop star at the peak of her powers. Yeah, alright mate 👍 A hostile takeover thrilling a pop star at the peak of her powers. A thrilling peek at the powers of a pop star taking over; hostile. Peak hostile star pop takes over, thrillingly. Thrilling! Peak powers! Her take over! Pop star! Hostile! Pop takes over her thrill peak star. Hostile pop stars of the world unite and takeover. 

Those are all words. All meaningless words, like the Guardian review. Every one of the 538 words prematurely ejaculated onto the page by the simp chosen by the Guardian to write its metaphorical hand relief of a review is meaningless, pathetic, fawning, desparate and just plain wrong. 

This is the reason we started UNCUNT in the first place. Not simply because the pop stars of our time are cunts but because those employed to critique them are fundamentally incapable of doing their job. You will note I have called the Guardian simp neither a critic nor a writer. There is no music writing anymore. There are no music critics. There are just fawning simps. It's pretty much the same with film. How one pines for the days when Peter Bradshaw would give scathing one-out-of-five reviews to shit film after shit film.

 

Because that's the thing isn't it: if something is shit and you write about it in a national newspaper, it's your duty to call it shit. Anything else would be a dereliction of duty. 

We started UNCUNT to make a point about the disappearance of a critical faculty in music journalism. Idiots such as Charli XCX et al are just the collateral damage of us critiquing people who should be doing the critiquing themselves. Cunts like this Guardian simp, who apparently felt that Charli XCX's set was so good that he spent the first paragraph writing instead about Kanye West (one of the biggest cunts the 21st century has produced thus far). A simp who should, in any just world, have his retainer contract terminated with immediate effect. 

Before we go any further, I should clarify that I'm not using "simp" in the incel/manosphere/misogynist sense. I despise those people. I'm using it to call the bloke a cunt. 

When we went away – UNCUNT, I mean – we didn't really expect it would go this far. Mainstream popular culture, I mean. D'you know what I mean? Like, seriously? When we left off, we were just joking really. Things weren't great, yeah, culturally, were they? They were a bit dire, we know. We get it. It was a bleak time. Kings of Leon and all that. It was bad. But look where we've got to now. Fuck. 

It's not okay is it. I mean, jesus god. It's really not okay. Like, Glastonbury has just happened and a huge chunk of the audience decided to mark the occasion by going to watch a sort of AI presence headlining the not-mainstage. No one's quite sure what those stages are called at Glastonbury are they. The M&S Food stage? The Rumbelows Cup stage? The illegal rave stage? The Currys-PC World stage? You know? 

It's bad these days, culture, isn't it though? It's not good, is it? Like, I don't bother actually consuming it but that's because, at a glance, it's utterly disheartening. Sabrina Carpenter etc. Is she an AI? It's hard to tell these days isn't it? Is she a spin-off? A remake? D'you know what I mean? 

Charli XCX, or Cunti XuntCXunt as I like to call her. Wait, that came out wrong. I don't like to call her that. It just tripped off the tongue, you know. It's probably not cool, is it? Calling a successful young woman a cunt, I mean. It's really in bad taste. Especially in this day and age, where women are now marketable in so many different ways compared to the past where it was more important to marketeers that they simply got their tits out. 

I mean, Cunti XuntCXunt does get her tits out too, don't get me wrong. Of course she does. I mean, why wouldn't she? That's a big part of her act. At least I think it is; I've not really had time to nail down what is and isn't a big part of her act to be fair. It is all an act, right? Or is it real? 

It's so confusing these days isn't it? Where's Ariana Grande gone? She was in that film with the green woman wasn't she. Was that all part of the brat campaign too or was she a different shade of green? 

It's weird isn't it, this brat thing. What is it and why have we been forced to hear about it for over a year? Won't it fuck off? That's what everyone's a bit confused about. Some people are like "oh right, yeah great, I get it, this is a banger" and others are like "please bring the assisted dying bill into law because if this is modern culture I'd rather be dead." 

brat is excretory waste-pipe bowel-felch isn't it? It's fucking shit, isn't it? It's the opposite of banger. It's diarrhoea shat into an ALDI bag then passed around and wanked into. 

There's my review, you simp cunt. 

Yet in response we've got people in the music press telling everyone it's good. I say "music press". There is no music press anymore is there. That's part of the problem. In the good old days of the NME circa 1970 to 1995, that magazine was never scared to slag people off – even good people! 

Today, with no NME to speak of, no Melody Maker, no anything, the mainstream publications are too scared to offend or simply critique artists, lest their labels or conglomerate-associated brand sponsors decide to pull advertising. It's pathetic.

During Charli XUNTcXUNT's Glasto set (I hate when people say "Glasto", I'm doing it ironically here but if you say it in real life, you're a cunt) everyone I know was watching either Neil Young or Doechii. You know, artists who were playing actual music, and quite well as it happens. But we all at one point or another, having noticed that the Pyramid stage crowd was thinned out, flicked over to see what all the Charli XCX hype was.

I messaged people, saying, "This isn't even music, it's just marketing and PR." To which, the replies from mates included:

"It felt more like a gym instructor running a session."

"I think it's what they call TikTok music."

"It's a terrible noise and she isn't even making it – it's all a backing track." 

"Music specifically designed to pop off on social media trends but otherwise unlistenable."

"Was she miming the whole set?" 

"A pleather bra and pants must be really hot in this weather" 

"Charli XCX is one of the shittest things I've ever seen." 

"Add this to the list of things in the world that are rubbish now."

All of the above throwaway reviews are better than that written by the Guardian simp. It wasn't just Charli CuntXCunt getting rave reviews at Glasto(nbury). All three of the main headliners on the Saturday night got 5/5 in the Guardian. Pathetic. Fawning. Every headliner was flawless? Perfect? Yeah, alright mate 👍 

Thankfully, The 1975, the worst band to have ever headlined the Pyramid stage, did not get 5/5 for their Friday night crime against humanity, and rightly so. They did however get 4/5 and were inexplicably described as a "world-class band". The drummer is of course the soon-to-be-husband of Charli X-cunt-X, so maybe there's some fawn overspill going on here. 

My mate Suzanne messaged me during the 1975's assault on common decency, saying, "Not enjoying the 1975. The singer – if he isn't abusive and/or fascist – seems like an absolute prick." Thanks for that, Suzanne, I'll nick that. I won't publish your surname in case you get fired from your job.

 

To clarify, the above 'reviews' were not written solely by grumpy old Gen Xers like me. There were grumpy millennials in there too. Which begs the question: who is Charli XCUNTX making this drivel for? She's a millennial herself but is this mind-numbing trash aimed at Gen Z and younger?

It wasn't just the Grauniad. The Evening Standard review said: "good camera work, neggy crowd work that everyone loved, twerking in artificial rain." Neggy crowd work? Really? 

"Slower moments of the set were less saggy and more cathartic, like a breath of fresh air during a come up," the bukkake-style piece went on. Saggy? Neggy? Can you fit in any other words including the letters "ggy"? Eggy? Foggy? Doggy? Boggy? Joggy onny?

Of course, if one googles the meaning of the adjective "saggy", one finds it defined as "tending to sink or bulge downwards under weight or pressure," e.g. "the saggy mattress groaned under my weight."

Although I'd rather cut off my own cock and balls with a Stanley knife than endorse the Daily Telegraph, I found myself nodding to the bit in its review, no doubt written by a neo-Nazi, which described the show in the style of a middle-aged dad trying not to wank over pictures of his mid-20's kids' mates on Instagram. "Charli, whose real name is Charlotte Emma Aitchison, gyrated and crawled around on all fours in a black bikini and shades, wiggling her bum at the camera and, at one point, snogging her own arm."

Look at me nodding along to the Telegraph. Maybe I've become more right wing as I've got older. I haven't by the way, that was a joke. I despise right-wing people and would have some of them shot. I did however find myself wondering about the health and safety regulations when the stage appeared to set on fire at one point.

On the Pyramid stage, Neil Young, a few weeks shy of 80 years' old, wasn't twerking in the rain or using shit visuals. He was playing music. On the Simod Cup stage, meanwhile, Doechii did twerk a bit but, similarly, also performed music.    

UNCUNT started out as an attack on music journalism and the music industry. Yes, we slagged of musicians too – we're doing that right now as you've probably noticed – but that's just because they got in the way of us calling the music journos cunts. I hate when people say "journo". I'm doing it ironically here but if you say "journo" in real lfe, you're a cunt.

Charli XCX wasn't always shit. She basically sold out. And I do mean basically. When she started off, making demo tapes in her bedroom for hipsters on MySpace as a sort of one-woman teenage electro art project, she probably didn't even want to get signed to a major label. At some point, someone in the research and customer insight department must have suggested she start taking her clothes off and going for the pop market. Even then, when she first began to crossover, she released a fantastic dance-pop song. 

 

 

If she had stayed doing this sort of thing one could get behind it. But instead she is now making 'rise of the idiots' anti-music and getting universal plaudits, awards and headline slots. 

She wasn't always a cunt, Charli XCX, and she probably isn't really a cunt in real life. But she is a cunt. There, I said it. That's what you came here for isn't it? Sue me. Cancel me. Bend me over and peg me if you will. She's a cunt. 

How's that for a hostile fucking takeover?

 

Shittest Songs of the Summer: An UNCUNT Guide

By UNCUNT staff

To mark the 2013 UK heatwave, Shortlist magazine asked its readers to vote for their song of the summer: Daft Punk's 'Get Lucky' or Robin Thicke's 'Blurred Lines'. Those were the only two options. It was like a two party, first past the post balloting system.

For those among us who'd rather slice off their own foreskins and squeeze lemon juice into their urethras than ever listen to those two songs again, Shortlist gave its rundown of 20 other "songs of the summer" from the years 1993-2013. Some of them were unforgivably shit.

2012, for example, we were told was the "summer of Psy." The chubby Korean's jarring, clumsy, piss take of a song 'Gangnam Style' was "a cultural phenomenon," according to Shortlist. Let me just mark that down in my world history encyclopedia... under B for bullshit.

2011 was a Calvin Harris "bonafide summer anthem" called 'Feel So Close'. Anyone remember that? Or were you too busy squeezing lemon into the sliced open slit in your penis? Yeah, thought so.

Going further back in time to a year when music reached its lowest ebb in the course of human history, 1999, the song of that summer was Ricky Martin's 'Livin' La Vida Loca'. Now, I don't know what you were doing in '99, but 'Livin La Vida Loca' will always remind me of a long, tedious summer working at a telecommunications equipment depot in Harlow in Essex. The shittest town in Britain. It was the same year there was a total eclipse of the sun. This once-in-a-lifetime astronomical phenomenon was not visible in Harlow because it was cloudy that day. At lunchtime I'd get in my colleague's VW Golf and we'd drive down the dual carriageway, through the series of 15-20 roundabouts that comprise Harlow to a drive-thru McDonalds (the best restaurant in Harlow). Every time we turned the car radio on Ricky Martin was blaring out at us. One day, enraged, I grabbed the steering wheel and yanked it hard, sending the car careering through the central reservation and into the oncoming traffic on the other side. It was not a vintage summer for me.

In 1997 I worked at the UCI Cinema (now an Odeon) at Lea Valley, Edmonton. 12 hour shifts. Men In Black was the blockbuster film that summer. I must have heard the title track 250 times. In the foyer, in the auditoriums, in the toilets, in the ticket booth, in the car park, in the kiddies creche even out the back by the fucking garbage compactors. It was inescapable. I tried walking around with earphones to drown it out but my manager told me to take them out. The cunt. Even now, 16 years later, hearing that song makes me want to stab someone in the face. 

I say "someone", what I mean is Will Smith.

It shouldn't be hard to write a decent summer song. Gershwin's Summertime from Porgy and Bess, Eddie Cochran's Summertime Blues, jesus even Will Smith aka the Fresh Prince and Jazzy Jeff's Summertime for fuck's sake! Yet time and again some cunt takes it upon themselves to produce a real piece of shit.

Here's UNCUNT's selection of songs that have ruined summers in years gone by:

Mungo Jerry - In The Summertime

1970 - 7 weeks at Number 1

This mindless excreta is one of the most succesful records of all time, having sold over 30 million copies. Its lyrics are an incitement to commit rape as well as drink driving. Just four lines into the song and already we're into a depraved image of a sloshed hippy cruising the streets in search of disenfranchised female victims: "when the weather's right you got women you got women on your mind. Have a drink have a drive, go out and see what you can find. If her daddy's rich take her out for a meal, if her daddy's poor just do what you feel..." Charming. Really encapsulates the summers of the 1970s. A time before government advertising campaigns told us that rape and drink driving were not ok

Shit summer rating 4/5

Bombalurina - Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini
August 1990 - 3 weeks at Number 1
 

The first novelty hit of the 90s? Certainly the shittest. Everyone knows the chorus, sung by two vacuous blondes, whilst Timmy Mallett takes care of the verses and the occasional "Oh yeah!" Younger readers might think Mallett's presence in this song was an urban myth, but no, he's involved alright, arsing about in a hammock for most of the video. The lyrics seem to be about a pervert (probably Mallett) watching a woman on a beach who is literally too afraid to come out of the water. She would rather drown than have Mallett's leering eyes all over her, and I for one can't blame her.
Shit summer rating 5/5

Puff Daddy ft Faith Evans - I'll Be Missing You
May 1997 - 3 weeks at Number 1

The best thing about this video is Sean 'Puffy' Combs stacking it off his motorbike 12 seconds in. The cunt wasn't even wearing a helmet. RIP Biggie, you didn't deserve this.

Five + Queen - We Will Rock You
July 2000 - 1 week at Number 1
 

Hardly one of Queen's best songs, but when you take Freddie and John Deacon out of the mix and replace it with four (four?) cunts from Five it's never going to end well. Overly angsty delivery of the lyrics coupled with a bit of a rap takes things down hill very quickly. Yet the lowest point comes about two thirds of the way through when May rips into a trademark solo whilst the Five boys chant "Go! Go! Go!" Like some boozed-up Malia lads at a wet t-shirt competition.
Shit summer rating 4/5

Modjo - Lady (Hear Me Tonight)
September 2000 - 2 weeks at Number 1

If you've ever abused a Spanish shuttle bus driver taking you home from a nightclub in Tenerife where girls puked into pint glasses filled with Smirnoff Ice and lads wearing Ben Sherman shirts smashed each other's faces in while dry ice engulfed the dance floor, the chances are this was probably the soundtrack to that particularly bad summer. You'll never get that summer back.



Blazin' Squad - Crossroads
August 2002 - 1 week at Number 1
 

Strider, Melo D, Reepa, and MC Spike E, are just some of the cunts responsible for this one. Nobody actually knows how many people were in Blazin' Squad at any one time. Some of them didn't even know they were in it themselves, they just thought they were on a really good school trip. The video for this song isn't on YouTube, that's how shit it is. But the CD:UK live performance looks like a dancing Sports Direct catalogue at the worst school disco ever.
Shit summer rating 5/5

Crazy Frog - Axel F
June 2004 - 4 weeks at Number 1
 

At some point in time a cunt in the marketing department of a record label thought that this was a good idea. Get a cartoon frog to cover the theme from the Beverly Hills Cop franchise and sell it as a ringtone. This piece of shit was the 65th biggest selling single of the decade, the YouTube video has had 48 million views. It's the shittest song on this list and one of the shittest songs ever produced.
Shit summer rating 6/5

Rihanna feat. a rapper - Umbrella
May - August 2007 - 10 weeks at Number1
 

The shittest popular song in recent times. Maybe it took off because an umbrella is an essential summer item in the UK. It starts badly with the opening dirge by Beyonce’s husband, telling us he's in "anticipation of precipitation", like some sort of hip hop Michael Fish. The chorus is one of the most unimaginative refrains ever committed to record, with Rhi endlessly chanting "umbrella ella ella ella ella ella ella ella ella eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh eh." I'm not sure if it really does go on that long, but thats how long it feels.
Shit summer rating 5/5
  

Queen and Paul Rodgers (another one bites the dust...)

By UNCUNT staff

The other night I was flicking through the SkyGo channels on my iPad, like some sort of cunt. I use my brother's login you see. Which is, like, the cheaper way of having Sky. I watch two minutes of Game of Thrones, in which somebody gets raped and another person gets murdered. "Great", I think "heart warming how everything popular these days features either rape or murder."

I flick to Sky Arts, which is actually a great channel (thanks Murdoch, you limp pricked soon to be divorced mega rich elderly Australian cunt). Queen and Paul Rodgers Live. Ohhhhhhhhh dear, I think. Oh oh oh oh dear. What a shame. 

I watch one song, which happens to be Another One Bites The Dust. A shit song at the best of times. It quickly becomes apparent that this Paul Rodgers cunt is, well, not quite as good a singer as Freddie Mercury is he? Mercury had a powerful operatic voice that retained its power in any range high or low. Rodgers, well... he's just making a cunt of himself. "This is shit" I think, and I flick back to Game of Thrones. Well, a bit of rape and murder never hurt anybody did it?

The next day I tell Kevin about the concert (we are both big fans of Queen. Yes, that's right. That's what I said homie. Got a fucking problem? Queen are good. End of story. Chris if you're reading this, fuck you.) Kevin, laughing, asks me if they played 'Alright Now' by Free. "No, that would have confused the crowd" I said. "Yeah I suppose so" Kevin replies, "they might think are we watching Free featuring Brian May and Roger Taylor?". "And John Deacon" I say. "No, John Deacon wants no part in it any more." "Ah yes, I remember thinking that doesn't look like John Deacon. Fair play to him. He was always my favourite member of Queen, and again he's justified my faith in him by refusing to take part in this absolute joke. Why would they do that? Why?? Why didn't they just get a hologram of Freddie like they did with Tupac? Of all the singers in the world to try to emulate, don't try to emulate Freddie. It's like having Nirvana featuring Serge from Kasabian."

We both laughed. Because it's funny. What I said was funny. Nirvana...Serge from Kasabian....hahahaha. It's funny.

Then we decide it would be funny to carry it on. And we came up with a list. A list of bands, with dead members replaced by unlikely artists. Which is also funny. You'll like it. It's funny.

1. Nirvana featuring Serge from Kasabian
2. Bob Marley and the Wailers featuring Sean Paul
3. The Beatles featuring John Power from Cast
4. The Jackson Five featuring the main one out of JLS
5. The Rolling Stones with the bloke out of Reef
6. The Jimi Hendrix Experience featuring Lenny Kravitz
7. Otis Redding featuring Richard Blackwood
8. Ike & Tina Turner featuring Omar
9. The Doors with Pete Doherty
10. Pink Floyd featuring the keyboardist from Keane
11. Tupac and Biggie with Ant and Dec (blacked up)
12. The Bee Gees featuring the Mitchell Brothers Ross Kemp and Steve McFadden
13. The Bee Gees featuring Martin and Gary Kemp from Spandau Ballet
14. Boyzone featuring Julian Clary
15. Amy Winehouse featuring Katy Parry
16. T-Rex featuring Gary Glitter
17. TLC featuring Heather out of M People
18. Led Zeppelin with the drummer out of Def Leppard (if he's still alive)
19. The Who featuring the rhythm section from The Twang
20. Janis Joplin featuring Tulisa

Operation Yewtree Investigations

By UNCUNT staff

"Rolf Harris?!?" people screamed when the Australian didgeridooist was arrested for being a potential nonce. "Yes, Rolf Harris...why are you surprised?" was my stock reply. "Oh but I loved Rolf Harris!" they said. As if that somehow made him less of a paedophile. "You loved a paedophile" I told them. And they laughed, because it was true.

The Yewtree purges, it seems, could be made more efficient by simply rounding up everybody who was alive during the 1970s and making them prove they're NOT a paedophile, as opposed to the other way round.

In the wake of the investigations, office workers around the land have begun 'who's next?' sweepstakes. That's not a reference to which member of The Who will be next by the way...

(Roger Daltrey)

But while all of this is 'fun' for those of us who weren't raped by famous people, I feel we should offer some help and assistance to the brave police officers heroically investigating. 

So with the help of some friends and a facebook thread we've come up with a list of potential paedophiles which I intend to submit to the police for investigation. JUST IN CASE.

This list is by no means exhaustive. There were probably many more. And before we get sued, we're not suggesting these people actually are paedophiles, we're just saying THEY MIGHT BE.

It's better to be safe than sorry. The accompanying letter will read:

"Dear Operation Yewtree,

Wow. Paedos eh? Fucking everywhere aren't they, the BASTARDS. My nan used to say she'd cut off their cocks if she could get her hands on them. They do offer chemical castration as an option now don't they? Fair play. I've always wondered...does that corrode the cock? Like if you poured acid on a cock and it withered away. That would sting like a cunt.

'String 'em up by their balls' my nan says. Fair play to her. But you can't can you? Human Rights etc. Anyway, before I get all 'deep' and shit, I'll cut to the chase. I've written you a list of potential paeds. This hasn't been scientifically thought through and there isn't any actual evidence.... yet. But have you ever thought of bringing in these people for questioning? If you haven't, please do. I think we will all sleep more soundly in our beds.

I don't want to whip up a storm of vigilantism. That's just wrong. But I want to feel ok within myself that I did all I could. I want to look back in years to come when people say 'what did you do when Operation Yewtree was happening?' and answer, proudly, 'I notified Operation Yewtree about Dicky Davies.'

...for example.

So, in no particular order:

Dicky Davies (if he's still alive)

Andrew Lloyd-Weber

Michael Barrymore (no? maybe the man's suffered enough. ok, leave it)

Adam Ant

Terry Venables

Noddy Holder

Keith Harris

Ben Elton

Louis Walsh (will try to sue, approach carefully)

The 'Sun' from the Vitalite advert

Pat Sharpe from Fun House

Craig from Big Brother series one

Nasty Nick from Big Brother series one (archetypal paed)

Bryan Robson, Mark Hughes, Viv Anderson, Ron Atkinson (in fact, question the entire Manchester United squad from the mid 1980s)

Cliff Richard (BLATANTLY)

Chesney Hawkes

Captain Haddock from Herge's Adventures of Tintin

Captain Bird's Eye (always had loads of kids on the boat)

Uncle Ben from Uncle Ben's Sweet and Sour Sauce (interesting how there hasn't been any black paedos yet)

Prince Phillip (BLATANTLY)

Nick Griffin

Piers Morgan

Robert Smith out of The Cure

Pete Townshend (again)

Bruce Foxton

Foxton's the estate agents

Fleet Foxes

'Dr Fox' (Neil Fox off Capital Radio - used to insist on being called 'doctor'. Prick)

Simon Mayo (god forbid)

Any member of any glam rock band

The guy that sits at the laptop in 'Pointless'

Roy Walker from Catchphrase

Mat Osman from Suede

The bass player in the Bluetones

Martin Rossiter from gene

Guigsy

Steve Craddock

The cellist from the Auteurs

Charlie Simpson from Busted and Fightstar

The lead guitarist from Soundgarden

Eddie Vedder

S Club Juniors tour manager

Neil Diamond

The Righteous Brothers

Glenn Hoddle

Marc Overmars

Sepp Blatter (cunt)

Jaap Stam

Emmanuel Petit

Roy Wegerle

Matthew le Tissier

Ruud Gullit

Ruud van Nistelrooy

Gazza 

Ian Rush

Prince Charles

Jesus (archetypal paed)

God (archetypal paed)

Father Christmas (archetypal paed)

Do let me know how the investigations are coming along. I appreciate it may be hard to reach God. Or indeed Father Christmas. But do try.

Yours

Josh and Chris from UNCUNT"

 

 

The Rain Room

By UNCUNT staff

For months London has been agog at a piece of conceptual art at the Barbican. A room in which you can look at rain and even get rained on.

Why??? etc...

Creator, Hannes Koch (yes, Koch) describes it as a "social experiment" while co-creator Florian Ortkrass (yes, krass) claims it is "very different to having an umbrella."

Let's consider this. It rains about 50% of the year in this country. Any given week, sometimes for weeks on end, it's shitting it down. Often we have to stay indoors in our houses, like tagged offenders, to avoid getting drenched. Why, pray, would one want to leave their house, travel to the concrete bunker of the Barbican, queue for half a day only to enter a room and get rained on. You could just stay home in your own room and not get rained on.

What next? An overcast gallery? A room of slate grey clouds. A windy room, where you can experience an artificially created bitterly cold gale?

With prosaic Englishness in mind, we set about thinking of other humdrum, run-of-the-mill, everyday, non-descript facts of modern urban life that we might turn into cuntish art exhibitions. Things that basically occur naturally that mugs might find excitingly artistic.

Here's our shortlist:

The Pavement Room
An exhibition of paving slabs with chewing gum on them. Visitors are invited to walk around the pavement looking at the different wadded and matted bits of discarded gum and think depressing thoughts.

The Crane Room
A room full of cranes towering over an urban construction site. When you go to one end of the room you see the cranes from a different angle.

The Roadworks Room
Just a room full of roadworks that you can't walk through and nothing's actually happening in.

The Pigeon Room
Flea infested pigeons pecking about a courtyard. You go near them and they startle and flutter about.

The Overflowing Bin Room
Visitors are given a small piece of paper to put into a bin thats almost full.

The Taxi Rank Room
Taxis lined up in a room pouring out petrol fumes polluting the entire room while cab drivers sit behind the wheel reading copies of The Sun and using the N word repeatedly. Visitors have to find the corner of the room least polluted and where the cabbies are least audible.

The Doctors Waiting Room Room
A room with only one free chair, surrounded by coughing old people and horrible old children's toys and sticky golfing magazines. You have to wait for your name to be called. But it never gets called.

The Dual Carriageway Room
Similar to the Taxi Rank Room but more visceral. Visitors stand in the central reservation of a four lane motorway while simulated cars zoom past. Occasionally cars break down and children are sick out of the window. Watch out for the sick, you might get sicked on!

The Sunday Afternoon Room
An ambitious installation in which hundreds of yorkshire puddings and slabs of roast beef have been set out on plates with gravy jugs close to them. The Antiques Roadshow is streamed continuously on a giant screen and performance artists fall asleep in armchairs.

The Massively Long Queue for an Installation Room Room
You stand in a simulated queue for an installation while performers piss into bottles, complain to friends on their mobile phones, eat McDonald's, discard the rubbish and slowly get hypothermia around you. You keep thinking you're
getting to the front of the queue but you're not. Because the queue is the actual event. You have to queue for up to 3 hours to get into the "queue". It's like Alton Towers used to be. But there's no rollercoasters at the end of the
queue. Ironically, when you leave the exhibit you get actually rained on. By the actual rain.

A Season In Purgatory - The worst good book review ever

On my summer holiday staying at an old house in the remote countryside I'm perusing the bookshelves when my eyes fall upon A Season In Purgatory by an American writer called Dominick Dunne. On the cover a quote by Nicholas Coleridge writing for the Daily Mail offers a bold endorsement: "I doubt anyone this year will write a more satisfying or beautifully observed novel". I check inside and note the book was published in 1993. This book, according to Coleridge, is more beautifully observed than Birdsong by Sebastian Faulks. It shits all over Sebastian Faulks. According to Coleridge.

Does the cover illustration perhaps contradict his claim, I wonder? A broken baseball bat, smeared in blood, propped up on the stairs of a porch. "Satisfying."? Surely some mistake here? But no. On the inside cover are more unbelievable quotes. "There isn't a single tranche of dialogue in this book that doesn't sound authentic." Not a single tranche, you say? Fucking hell. Tatler magazine reckons "people in the know will be reading A Season In Purgatory this summer."  The Daily Express simply states "a compelling read". Fair play, Daily Express. I believe you. Really I do.

This is going to be quite a holiday read, I think excitedly. Quickly leafing through to get an idea of whether the prose is my cup of tea the first passage I turn to is this: "he dropped to his knees. There in front of him on the ground was Winifred Utley. She was wearing the same pink dress she had on at the dance at the club, but it was pushed up on her so part of the skirt covered her face. Her panties were pulled down to her knees.  I reached out to touch her but her face and head were covered in blood."

Beautifully observed. Really fucking beautiful. Touching.

I turn back to page one. A quote read aloud in a courtroom has the defendant allegedly asking the victim on the night of her murder, "do you mind dancing with a man with an erection?" 

What a totally fucking authentic tranche of dialogue. I challenge anybody, ANYBODY, to suggest that tranche of dialogue isn't authentic.

The golden nuggets of written English just keep on coming. On page two, PAGE FUCKING TWO, we are told that the narrator is at the urinal when Constant (that's the main deviant's name...I'll come back to this later) was "standing there next to me when, suddenly, without speaking a word, he turned and aimed the strong steady stream of his urine in my direction, soaking my blazer and trousers."

A piss attack. On the second fucking page of this masterpiece. You might be thinking page two is too early for a man to be pissing on another man's suit. Well, fuck you. It's not too early. It's the  perfect point in the novel for that to happen.

Let me fill you in on the main plot so you don't think this book is just a urine soaked rape fest (it is that, but it's also so much more than that...) The narrator, Harrison Burns, begins the tale in 1972. Aged 17, he is best friends with a rich spoilt brat, Constant. This rich brat waits in the woods after a dance and batters a 15 year old girl to death with a baseball bat after attempting to rape her but failing to establish or maintain an erection. We later find out that both he and his father have dick problems which fuels their loathing of women and causes them to repeatedly make attempts at rape. Burns is bribed by the rich kid's father to help cover up the murder which he does for years before finally buckling to guilt and testifying against his former friend at a huge high profile court case. At which Constant is acquitted. 

Whoops I just ruined the whole book. But it really doesn't matter. You're never going to read it. 

Woah , woah, woah I hear you say. That's all a bit nonchalantly reeled off... There's some heavy shit in their, man. Well, yeah. The author is a master of nonchalance. Take the scene where the rich kid's dad is empathising with his son's dick problems…

 "'well, as we know, there's no anger like the anger of a soft dick', said Gerald. Gerald's enthusiasm for his favorite son never wavered". Soft dick? Anger? Just a second…. being abused as a child. Having a loved one killed in a war. Being born deaf and blind. Being autistic. Being born in the poverty of a Mumbai slum. Being black in the Deep South in the 1930s. THESE things are probably worthy of anger. A soft dick? Take some fucking Viagra. Surely?

"Pa, you're not taking this seriously enough"' the tranche of dialogue continues... "'I admire a man with a healthy appetite for pussy', Gerald said. 'I'm not sure how healthy his appetite is Pa, we might just have a sicko on our hands here.' Well, duh. The cunt's bludgeoned to death a 15year old girl with a fucking rounders bat. "'Constant's no sicko', said Gerald firmly, " let me talk to him." 

And, I don't know about you, but I find that passage both authentic AND beautifully observed. Just like Nicholas Coleridge of the Daily Mail.

Did I mention that the villain's name is Constant? Bit of a weird name right? A word usually used as an adverb or an adjective. Not a name. But it's just one of many, many stupid fucking names in this beautifully observed book. Here's a shortlist of the best ones...

Captain Quish ('chief Quish' for short)

Piggy French (the clue's in the name)

Bridey Nora (the clue's in the name)

Esme Bland (the clue's in the name)

Eloise Brazen (the clue's in the name)

Fruity Suarez (racist?) 

Puff Rooney (I shit you not)

Rupert Du Pithon (get the fuck outta here! No, honestly...)

Cleanie Cleanie (a household cleaning maid, go figure)

Fatty Malloy (is he fat? Yep, he's fucking fat alright)

Weegie Somerset (sounds like a ghost story set at a traffic lights in Yeovil)

Johnny Fuselli (a bit like the pasta)

I am not making these names up. The author made these names up. To be fair to him, there is currently a member of the Great Britain equestrian team called Piggy French. Coincidence or unbelievable artistic foresight? I think you'll find it's the latter. The man's a fucking visionary.

The book unfolds dramatically into a hornet's nest of debauchery and, basically, evil. But there's still time for a legitimate sex scene along the way. At one point a woman named Kitt drops to her knees in the living room of her elderly mother's house and takes Harrison's penis in her mouth. (Not my words). Her sister walks in and sees them. Disgusted she says "cover your breasts Kitt, how could you stoop so low?" 

Er...how else is she gonna suck his dick? Right? 

But now is not the time or place for semantics. It's an incredibly authentic tranche of dialogue. All the tranches of dialogue in this book are really fucking authentic. 

A beautifully observed scene in which Harrison, the hero, is pulled underwater by a man in a wetsuit is rounded off with our hero smashing his heel into the assailant's nose, breaking it and "clouding the water with blood". The action takes place at a location called Shinnecock Bay. Lovely stuff.

As well as making light of disabilities ("if you weren’t a cripple I'd kick the shit out of you Jerry") not to mention HIV and AIDS in a couple of beautifully observed bits of dialogue, the book also deals with other heavyweight issues: Rape, murder, high school expulsion, theft, lies, adultery, bribery, more rape, sexual assaults on minors, more rape. Lots and lots of rape. This book is like Jilly Cooper's 'Riders' but without the riding and with lots of raping. He should have called it 'Rapers'. The publishing house might have objected to that I suppose.

If this novel were satirising traditionally hostile literary depictions of the vulgar, amoral American super-rich it might have worked, if only as a mildly amusing trite comic novella. But it isn't. It's serious and allegedly based on a true life case involving one of the younger members of the Kennedy family. The problem is it's written by a man who just might have got an erection while writing it, for an audience of readers who just might get an erection while reading it.

The final line is beautifully observed. The police finally discover the baseball bat murder weapon hidden in a plastic bag in a lake in Conneticut where Johnny Fuselli assured Burns it would be. Fuselli, now dead, is emotionally eulogised by the narrator. "Salvation at last. Purgatory behind him, I know now that Johnny Fuselli has ascended into the Kingdom of Heaven." 

And if that's not beautifully observed then, Jesus Christ, I don't know what is.