Eric Clap-cunt

By UNCUNT staff

Eric Clapton murdered his own son just so he could write a song about it. Fact.

Ok, maybe not fact.

But it’s something that at least warrants further investigation. Because if anybody is capable of murdering his own son for money, it’s Clapton.

In fact, when Clapton found out Lory Del Santo was pregnant with Conor, their four year old son who died tragically in New York in 1991, he asked her to terminate the pregnancy. Via his manager. When she refused Clapton tried to hang himself from a tree. But failed. After the death of Conor, Del Santo said “I never saw Eric cry, but people grieve in different ways.” Clapton probably grieved with a fat line of cocaine and a bottle of whisky.

In 2004, he ceased playing Tears in Heaven at his live shows. When asked why he said “I didn’t feel the loss anymore. The feelings are gone and I really don’t want them to come back. My life is different now.” Cunt.

A lot of people have died after coming into contact with Clapton – his guitarist Duane Allman, bass player Carl Radle, Stevie Ray Vaughan (and two of his road crew whilst on tour with Clapton) not to mention Jimi Hendrix and Brian Jones. He probably murdered them all.

Born in Surrey (home to many a cunt), Clapton is undeniably one of the mid 20th century’s important musical figures. A peerless guitarist in the 60s his career elevated from John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers through The Yardbirds peaking with the supergroup Cream whose psychedelic rock blues style was revered by a generation and influential on many young musicians.

Throughout the 60s, Clapton repeatedly attempted to seduce and steal Pattie Boyd, the wife of his best friend George Harrison. After she knocked him back in the 60s he dated her sister for a couple of years just because she looked like Pattie. When she knocked him back again in the early 70s Clapton became a smackhead. On top of his cocaine habit and rampant alcoholism, you would imagine the smack would make him even more of a cunt. But in actuality it probably took the edge off him.

Finally, two decades on, after Boyd and Harrison’s marriage was over, Clapton moved in predatorily and married her. Later he wrote the song ‘Wonderful Tonight’ for her. It remains to this day, one of the cuntiest love songs of all time. Harrison wrote ‘Something’ for Boyd – one of the greatest love songs of all time. George wins, you lose Eric, you unbelievable cunt flap.

Midway through his marriage to Boyd in 1986, he had a child from an extra marital affair with Yvonne Kelly. He kept the child a secret from everybody including his wife for six years. If you haven’t recognised the pattern yet – Eric’s basically a cunt.

Musically Clapton’s career has produced some considerable turds. The self indulgence, the 12 minute guitar solos and the onstage posturing have all gotten out of hand. He’s worked with some massive cunts (Phil Collins, and Roger Waters for example) and recorded soul-destroyingly boring albums of cover versions. Yet his earlier career produced some gems. How? Well, mainly because Clapton stole the music of black America’s greatest blues artists; Robert Johnson, B.B King, Muddy Waters et al.

Taking this into account, as well as the massive worldwide hit he got from murdering another black artist’s song ‘I Shot the Sheriff’ by Bob Marley, you would have thought Clapton would owe a gratitude of debt to the black community? Apparently not. In 1976, at the very peak of his career Clapton took to the stage at the Birmingham Odeon and launched into an unbelievably racist tirade which can only really be fully appreciated by publishing it in its sickening entirety:

"I think we should vote for Enoch Powell. I think we should send them all back. Get the coons out. Keep Britain white. I used to be into dope, now I’m into racism. It’s much heavier, man. Fucking wogs, man. Fucking Saudis taking over London. Bastard wogs. Britain is becoming overcrowded and Enoch will stop it and send them all back. The black wogs and coons and Arabs and fucking Jamaicans and fucking (indecipherable) don’t belong here, we don’t want them here. This is England, this is a white country, we don’t want any black wogs and coons living here. We need to make clear to them they are not welcome. England is for white people, man. We are a white country. I don’t want fucking wogs living next to me with their standards. This is Great Britain, a white country, what is happening to us, for fuck's sake? We need to vote for Enoch Powell, he’s a great man, speaking truth. Vote for Enoch, he’s our man, he’s on our side, he’ll look after us. I want all of you here to vote for Enoch, support him, he’s on our side. Enoch for Prime Minister! Throw the wogs out! Keep Britain white!"

I’ve just turned on the Sky Arts channel and seen a documentary about Clapton (they can’t get enough of him on this channel). Clapton’s sitting in his vast country estate telling us about the influence of black artists on his career, about how he likes shooting and hunting animals with the Countryside Alliance and how turning to Christianity cured his addictions.

Oh Eric, you sad, confused, hypocritical cunt, why don’t you just fuck off and die?

There is no heaven, you child murderer.

Mumford & Cunts

By UNCUNT staff

On the song 'Little Lion Man', Marcus Mumford says the word "fuck" twice. He's trying to be hard. But he comes across as a cock-less piece of shit.

When Johnny Rotten sang "fuck" on record it sent a shiver down your spine, but in this case it's so affected, crass and pointless it just makes you want to call Ofcom or file a written complaint with the Broadcasting Standards Commission*.

Music industry imbeciles have sung the praises of Mumford & Sons. These soppy cunts have carved out a niche for themselves as 'the tepid indie-folk spunk rags it's ok to like'. Apparently they produce "heart-wrenching songcraft" and "achingly beautiful" music. They don't. In fact, the only thing aching after listening to their music was my balls.



Cockney wank-piece Dave Berry (whose 'five o'clock shadow' look has surely been taken to and beyond the limits of human decency) made their puerile single his 'Xfm record of the week'. Later he interviewed the band, telling them it was actually his favourite track of the year. Put your cock away Dave, you've already ejaculated. Stop wiping it on their faces.

Berry is the kind of man who rates the Nokia ring tone or the McDonald's 'I'm loving it' jingle as records of the year. But he's certainly not a judge of good music. Maybe his relationship with the scouse one out of Sugababes has coated his inner ear with lipstick and faeces. Or maybe he's just a cunt. Either way, the very fact that he likes Mumford & Sons makes them cunts. It's a simple equation 'Dave Berry' + 'likes band' = band are cunts.

The next media toss piece to cream over Mumfords is the man officially voted New Zealand's biggest cunt: Zane Lowe. Barely suppressing his two inch boner, Lowe pronounced this scratchy acoustic mess "the hottest single in the world". The world Zane? The world?? Fuck you Zane. Go fuck yourself in your hairy arsehole.

Maybe if the population of the entire world gleaned all of it's literary musical information from Q magazine , listened exclusively to bands from 'T4 on The Beach', and took musical advice from Jo Whiley then maybe, just maybe, this statement would be accurate but they don't Zane. You do. You silly fucking cunt.

What really gets us about Mumford & Sons, here at UNCUNT, is that many people we know. People we respect. People with decent taste in music, actually declare a fondness for this shower of twats. It's baffling. And rather than softening us to them it ratchets up their 'cunt levels' a notch or two.

For those fortunate enough not to have heard their music it's a bit like what the Pogues would sound like following a bout of clinical depression and a drying out session at the Priory. They're so middle of the road they may as well be a yellow fucking stripe. The vocals sound like a hybrid of Damien Rice and a Cornish farmer straining for a shit. Exactly the kind of polite, crashingly dull folk you would expect four bland, uncharismatic middle class young men with embarrassing bum fluff beards to make.Mumford and Sons are often referred to by the British music press as Fleet Foxes' UK equivalent. Fuck off British music press. Seriously, we'd love to get behind British bands and all that but Fleet Foxes are several leagues above this collection of flaccid penises.

You can't switch on the radio without hearing these twats right now. And their videos are on rotate on MTV. Every four minute torment is like an ad for Magners Pear Cider. No wait, Caffrey's Irish Ale. Pitch forks and straw in their hair. This truly is cuntishness not seen since Travis circa 1999, the singer's accent shifts and changes until he starts to sound like a fucking Wurzel.

Finally, and don't think it's escaped our notice, the singer has named the band after himself and called the rest of the band his sons. They're not your sons mate. Unless you've fucked each and every one of their mums. Which you probably have. You granny-fucking, incestuous cunt.

*If you hear this song on the radio unedited please ring Ofcom or write to the Broadcasting Standards Commission. Their record label could receive a hefty fine, which might in turn be passed on to the band. Who knows they might even get dropped.

New Cunts On The Block

By UNCUNT staff

A couple of Friday's ago I made the regrettable decision to watch the Jonathan Ross Show. I only caught the last 15 minutes but what I saw was still enough to make me angry.

Jonathan Ross himself is not a cunt. He's a nice man who has to work with cunts on a weekly basis. Ross also has decent taste in music. So it's a shame that his production team force him to schedule cunts like The Drums on his show.

Don't get me wrong, The Drums do have a right to exist. In a fantasy world where artifical life has taken over the earth. In this sci-fi imagining, the heart, soul and minds of human beings have been surgically removed and replaced with bits of lego and stuff. Humans have been enslaved and the world is run by homoerotic robots with neat haircuts and bleached teeth. These robots listen to The Drums on their iPods and give them recording contracts. They have no critical taste and are devoid of any genuine emotions. If anybody dissents and is heard to mutter "fuck off, these are shite" under their breath, the secret robot police come and take you off to the robot leader where you are charged with treason and tortured.

But this is the real world, not Orwell's '1984'. So how have these cunts (Jonathan Pierce, Jacob Graham, Adam Kessler and Connor Hanwick from Brooklyn, NYC) infiltrated our music scene?*

Well, they did it using one song. Not the song above, but one probably written for them by a producer who's spent too much time listening to Television and then thought "hey, this would sound good if like Marc Almond sang on it and it was a bit more Blink 182-ish" - the result, 'Let's Go Surfing'.

It's a catchy tune. Annoyingly catchy. The video is meaningless. All four of the twats jogging aimlessly on the beach at night under cover of darkness; perhaps hinting at their previous careers as rent boys? If there was ever a good time for a Tsunami to pound ashore dragging all life out to sea it was surely during the filming of that video.

The words Pierce sings lack anything approaching real sentiment or meaning. Presumably a deliberate attempt to be clever and edgy. Fail. Fuck off and try again.

"Wake up, there's a new kid in the town. Honey, he's moving into the big house." whines the lead cunt, pandering horrifically to the kind of 'rich kid chic' The Strokes really didn't want to engender in modern indie music but sadly did - just by being rich.

Back to the Jonathan Ross show and I can't quite believe what I'm seeing. As his seemingly 14 year old backing band keep their heads down, presumably embarrassed or fearing the sack if they miss a note, the singer (I can't be bothered to write his name again) affects some kind of stilted, spasticated mime act while 'singing' a verse about his best friend who died at the age of 23 (you don't sound that bothered, you cunt.) Then, to cap it all, a chorus with shrieking, constipated vowel noises rather than actual words.

My first impulse is to chuck the TV out of the window. But such an act would be self defeating as it would just mess up my garden.

Later, Chris texts me saying "I felt like taking a crowbar to the singer's face".

If anybody else out there feels like taking a crowbar to the singer's face - please, feel free. Maybe if we get enough people together we can attack him as an angry, baying mob. If we all wear balaclavas, pick an ambush spot out of sight of CCTV and disperse in waiting getaway cars, the chances of being charged with murder would be significantly reduced.


*There is no music scene anymore - just an endless stream of unconnected marketed/PR'd bullshit.