Festivals - 900 acres/3.6km² of cunts

By UNCUNT staff

Stepping out of the UNCUNT offices into a beautiful summer's evening we spot some cunts milling around outside the train station - fouling up the place.

Observing their beards, vacant stares and shifty body language we naturally assume them to be rapists, gathering to attend a sex offenders rehabilitation session.

On closer inspection we note the tents, sleeping bags, acoustic guitars and crates of Stella. With a weary sigh, I realise it's that time of year again when every cunt in England (including you and everyone you know) gets their pills and weed supplies sorted and heads off to a festival (where you'll have a shit time, get robbed, sunburnt and trenchfooted then come home and pretend it was really, really good).

Festivals are bad places and we've got our fair share of horror stories. Only a few of which are printable.....
The first time I went to a festival (Reading '96) we put up our tent on what was effectively a river. It rained consistently all weekend until the river effectively became a lake. The only other abiding memory (apart from the overt sexuality of Kim Gordon's bass playing during Sonic Youth's feedback-heavy set) was not doing a poo for four days. Humans are not meant to go four days without doing a poo.

The second time I went to a festival (Reading '97) we accidentally put up our tent next to some Nu-Metal cunts who played obscure German goth-thrash-punk until 5am every night. We tried to fight back with our tape cassette of OK Computer, it didn't work. Our weed was stolen on the second day. Even though we'd hidden it under the tent.

The third time I went to a festival (Reading '98) I ended up with cocaine psychosis so bad that I didn't leave the tent for 36 hours. It was only a two man tent and it was a hot weekend. From around 3am on the Saturday night (following an immense headline show from the Fat Of The Land era Prodigy) until 3pm on the Monday afternoon (when many people had left and the farmers were coming back to reclaim their land) we were too freaked out to face the outside world. All we had was the interior of the tent, some coke, a bag of skunk, Irvine Welsh's hateful novel Filth and the sounds of Garbage and New Order in the distance playing the main stage. We've never really been the same again.
Every year at least one person dies of a drug overdose at a festival. It's normally at T in the Park (obviously), but if you're planning on overdosing somewhere this summer, there's an array of festivals to choose from. Here's a quick run-down of the options:

Bestival - Never been, never will.
Lovebox - Never been, keep saying I will, never will.
ATP - If I ever go to All Tomorrow's Parties, I'll know my life has gone off course. It's held at fucking Butlin's for christ's sake.
Wireless - Been several times. It's a fake festival. You can't have a proper festival in London. The local Kensington & Chelsea council ensure the decibel levels are really low, making for a shit sound. I did once see an M.I.A set in the dance tent with bass so loud you could feel your internal organs vibrating in your chest. That was good. But the general rule of thumb is don't go to any kind of event in Hyde Park. It will be shit and full of cunts.
Latitude - Looks good on paper. Is probably shit. Want to go one year. Never will.
Isle of Wight - Fuck off.
V Festival - Been about three times. Truly appalling festival. If you ever feel the need to surround yourself by Essex cunts of the very worst kind in a space too small for so many cunts, policed by cuntish Essex police at a site in the middle of cunting Essex, then go to V.
T in the Park - The best place to OD on smack. But be warned: if you're English you'll be savagely headbutted and robbed of your possessions "yer wee fookin' radge English cunt".
Download - For the past 10-15 minutes I've been sitting here trying to think of a place that fits my idea of hell more than the Download festival (formerly Monsters of Rock) at Castle Donnington. I can't think of one. If you can, please write in and let us know. But, if you like people with tattoo'd faces, if you like the guy in front of you's hair in your mouth, if you like sweaty men pissing in cups and chucking it in your face, if you like body piercings, if you like bands with singers that go "ROOOAAAAARARRGGGGHHHHH". Basically if you like the bands Machinehead, Slayer, Pantera or Sepultura. Then, this is the festival for you.
1-2-3-4 Records - In Shoreditch Park. If you have a shit haircut, a pair of skinny jeans, a stupid cap, silly NHS specs and a severe mental handicap you'll fit right in. This is the only festival UNCUNT regularly attends. Do the math(s).
Benicassim - Inebriated British cunts messing up a small part of Spain. As if it's not bad enough at home, we have to export our cuntishness abroad. Apologies to the people of Spain.
Hop Farm - Never been, never will.
Big Chill - Looks quite good. If a field full of pilled-up IT programmers on holiday is your cup of tea.
WOMAD - you can't really slag off WOMAD. That would be racist. On the upside: the line-up is usually brilliant. On the downside: the food stalls only serve chick peas.
Secret Garden Party - Never been, never will.
Glastonbury - Been to Glasto once. I was two years old. So that would have been 1982. My mother, a hippy at the time, tells me it was during the years when men would walk around naked - their hairy cocks and balls swinging in the wind. We went with the hippy-ish 'right on' Kentish Town nursery my mum took us too. Our nursery minibus had animals painted on the side. When we got to the festival approach road the van was nearly breaking down so, instead of queuing in the stationary traffic, my mother drove down the wrong side of the road right up to the entrance to the site. Taking one look at the animal-painted minibus and the assortment of kids, feminists, hippies and lesbians inside, the security guards manning the gate assumed we were some kind of festival act and ushered us all in without paying. Cash back. Those were the innocent days of Glasto. Those days carried on right up to about 1997-ish. Before they erected fences, thousands of people would just pile in for free. Now it's a festival charging £180 a ticket, requiring photo ID and pre-registration six months in advance. It is a huge money spinner exclusively aimed and marketed at affluent, middle class cunts who like Elbow, Flaming Lips and Muse. Oh, and there's mud. Lots of fucking mud.
Reading Festival - The last time I went to Reading I ended up scaling two 30 foot fences to escape the sound of Razorlight on the main stage. I'm never going back. Ever.




*There are no UNCUNT offices, we made this up. If someone wants to provide us with an office we promise we won't cunt it up.

Which of The Strokes Are Cunts?

By UNCUNT staff

A little disclaimer before we begin: we actually love the Strokes here at UNCUNT. Really, we do.

Not to go into too much arse-kissing detail but this band saved indie music from a fate worse than death in 2001 (aka Travis, Stereophonics, Coldplay et al). For anybody of our age the dirth of anything decent between 1994 era Oasis and The Strokes in 2001 was difficult to take. A time when shit eaters like the Chemical Brothers and Fatboy Slim 'caned' it up and trance-filled Ibiza dance floors were seen as the place to be. Fail. You spandexed Manumission cunts. Massive fucking fail.

Julian and the boys came along, straight out of their Swiss boarding schools into their daddy-bought apartments in the East Village and made the best debut album for a decade or more. In doing so they made guitars, leather jackets, converse and ripped jeans cool again and basically ushered in the new era of youth culture which bands like The Libertines and The (short lived) Vines thrived in. Even our brightest young things a decade on (the MGMTs and Crystal Castles) still owe a debt of gratitude to them for breaking the ground.

And yet, as all things must pass, the Strokes' star burnt out quick. The music press cunted them off after their second album and by their (brilliant) third they were consigned to the dustbin. It hasn't stopped them being the best live act around or dampened the enthusiasm of their legions of fans. But what has become apparent over the years is that they really do act like a bunch of pricks at times.

It's not as much what they do as what they don't do. During the Bush era for example not once, EVER did they speak out against his bullshit war mongering. Their interviews border on clinical depression um'ing and ah'ing their way through prosaic half sentences about next to nothing. Generally, disappointing on the rock star front.

More recently the band have begun falling out with each other to the point where it's quite clear they hate each other (or at least, they all hate Julian). All of the Strokes have been involved with solo or side projects and it's half a decade since they were in a studio together.

So, in the light of their first live shows in four years and an imminent fourth studio album in the pipeline, we thought it a timely moment for a much needed critical appraisal of each Stroke, rating them on their inherent levels of cuntishness.

Julian Casablancas
Our glorious leader. A man so musically talented and yet so immersed inside his own anal passage it's becoming difficult to wipe away the faeces and identify his actual face.

Arrogance: 32% - scores fairly well on the humility stakes, not one to blow his own trumpet. His own cock maybe...Social ineptness: 85% - "fuck going to that party" sums Julian up these days since he went tee total. Certainly NOT a party animal
Twatishness: N/A - he gives so little of his true character away it's impossible to say
Throw your toys out of the pram rating: 25% - He doesn't need to throw his toys out of the pram. He doesn't have any toys. Except sex toys. And he likes to keep them in his pram for later use.
Haircut: 55% - Meh...
Amount he contributes to the band: 100% - Basically writes everything
Most likely to say: "errrrrrrrrr.........i don't know, you know."
Overall Cunt rating: 60% - Teacher's report: Julian is only saved from an almighty cunt rating because of his undoubted natural songwriting prowess and musical ability. Still, you wouldn't want to go for a pint in the pub with him. You'd end up glassing him. out of sheer boredom.

Fab Moretti
All drummers are spasticated in some way, and Mr Moretti is no exception. But is he a cunt?
Arrogance: 12% - Unless you count his obvious, some might say arrogant, disregard for the law prohibiting the smoking of marijuana - something he clearly does every minute of every fucking day - Fabrizio is one of the least arrogant Strokes. He'd have to be, he's only the fucking drummer.
Social ineptness: 5% - Easily the most affable member of the band, he even managed to snag a celebrity date before the others (usually a common turning point for musicians on the verge of becoming a complete cunt)
Twatishness: 89% - Being a posh-boy stoner it comes with the territory.
Throw your toys out of the pram rating: 10% - He could get arsey about having to play 'Hard to Explain' over and over again, he could piss on Julian's face as he tries to programme a drum machine. But he doesn't. He knows his place. He's only the fucking drummer.
Haircut: 75% (Long and curly) 5% (Cropped)
Amount he contributes to the band: 26% - he receives extra points here for fucking Drew Barrymore and raising the band's profile. Take away the Drew Barrymore factor and he gets about 3%. (Remember, he's only the drummer.)
Most likely to say: "errrrrrrrrr.........uuuhmmm...."
Overall Cunt rating: 32% - Teacher's report: A low cunt rating for Fab. He is probably the closest the Strokes have to an 'everyman'. Well, as close as you can get for a privately educated New York scenester who spends a lot of time snorting lines of coke off of A-List actresses' breasts.

Nikolai Fraiture
Is the awkward bodied, square jawed bass player with the blank stare of someone with special needs a cunt? It's hard to say. So let's get out the old cunt-scale for Nikolai and see how the big fella measures up.
Arrogance: 10% - At UNCUNT, we like to play a game called 'Which Stroke Has The Biggest Penis?' where we guess the size and quality of each Strokes' manhood. Nikolai has the biggest penis in the band. But he doesn't brag about it. Kudos.
Social ineptness: 94% Says nothing. Does nothing. If you made eye contact with him he'd probably dribble piss down his leg whilst nervously rocking backward and forward.
Twatishness: 50% Went though a brief period of wearing a tennis headband on stage.
Throw your toys out of the pram rating: N/A - That would involve doing something other than hovering in the background reading a novel.
Haircut: 21% - Long and lank. Sometimes cuts it into a girly bob that accentuates his oddly square shaped face.
Amount he contributes to the band: 15% - Came up with the bass riff to 'Juice Box' around which the song was written. Other than that all he has to do is turn up and be consistently punctual.
Most likely to say: N/A - Has never said anything to anyone ever. It is likely that he is a savant.
Overall Cunt rating: 15% - Not a cunt in our eyes even if his wanky side project, the cuntishly named Nickel Eye is pushing it a bit. Keep an eye on him though, the quiet ones are often the cuntiest...

Albert Hammond Jr.

The first Stroke to go solo, releasing two shit, radio-friendly albums with the help of cunty chums Sean Lennon and Ben Kweller. Supported super cunts Coldplay and Bloc Party on tour. Hammond Jr is the unfortunate offspring of 70's song writer Albert Hammond who wrote 'The Air That I Breathe', later covered by arguably the biggest cunts of all time Simply Red.
Arrogance: 54% - Thinks his solo material is superior to that of The Strokes. Stupid prick.Social ineptness: 13% - Friends with many of New York's scenester cunt elite. Including Ryan Adams, Har Mar Superstar and prodigious cunt Adam Green. Hammond had a 'high profile relationship' with vapid English model Agyness Deyn who later dumped him. Possibly for being a cunt.Twatishness: 67% - We've judged this purely on physical appearance. He was born with a twattish face.Throw your toys out of the pram rating: 49% - When Julian rightly refused to humour Albert with his initial piss poor songwriting efforts he went and used them on his piss poor solo project. Also complained that Casblancas was dominating the band. Duh.Haircut: 15% - Tight Afro. It was funny at first. Now it's just stupid. He recently shaved off his locks. Unfortunately he looked even more of a cunt.Amount he contributes to the band: 30% - Has rustled up a few non-shit guitar solos here and there, has also contributed some nifty 3-piece suits to band photos.Most likely to say: "Yours To Keep is what Is This It Could have been, man".Overall Cunt rating: 78% - A high cunt rating for the guitarist, he is definitely one of the band's biggest cunts.
Nick Valensi

Nicknamed 'baby cock Valensi' (for obvious reasons). The youngest Stroke; what Nick lacks in life experience he makes up for in cuntiness. Married to former presenter of The Word Amanda De Cadenet, he features candidly in her book of photography, Rare Birds, looking blissfully cuntish. Now married with a family that includes an inherited 17 year old step-daughter (fathered by one of the Brummie fuck-bags from Duran Duran), he is the only band member without a fully fledged solo project.

Arrogance: 84% - Exudes arrogance on a massive scale, probably writes hate poetry about the other band members whilst jerking off to pictures of his 17 year old step-daughter.
Social ineptness: 85% - Has a bitter, ungrateful attitude towards interviews and pretty much everything else that comes with being in a successful band.

Twatishness: 75% - Has a fondness for shit 80's hair metal bands. Stupid cunt.
Throw your toys out of the pram rating: 56% - If asked to play a guitar part more than once he'd pull out his baby-cock and piss on the mixing desk.
Haircut: - First album 65% Second Album 70% Third Album 2%.
Amount he contributes to the band: 30% - Often cited as the best musician in The Strokes by the other members of the band, Valensi contributes a lot to the guitar sounds and arrangements on record, aside from this he mainly contributes a surly attitude and a bambi-faced glare.
Most likely to say: "I fucking hate having to do stuff an' shit..."
Overall Cunt rating: 90% - Let's face it, Nick Valensi is a massive cunt. Even Nick himself knows he is. But there's still hope for him. If he keeps his head down, puts his baby cock back in his pants and starts enjoying being in the world's biggest indie band maybe his cunt levels will gradually decrease with time.

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.