Back In My UK Garage With My Bullshit Detector.
Like a load of rats from a sinking ship, you slag us down to save your hip. Don't give me the benefit of your doubt, I'll bite it off & spit it out.
It's a funny old world, it's an Arthur Brown crazy old world - but above all - it's a small world. Of course, that doesn't automatically mean we want to paint it, or that anything is truly original, or that what goes around doesn't come around. Oh no, we've got your number, buddy, & it's the same as it's ever been. The song remains resolutely the same. There is no future in anyone's dreaming, yet alone Little England.
We know full well what a difficult job it is being a goose steppin', style snappin', finger poppin' cred NAZI. Praying at the Church Of Holier Than Thou requires more than one attendance a month - take plenty of change for the collection tray - the perpetuation of the build them up & knock them down fund is tantamount. Witty asides, comprehensive u-turns, complex contradictions & glaring errors all rolled into one fat chip wrapper - salt & vinegar, sir?
This week we are mostly been listening to ACID BANGRA - it's a multi-cultural race riot of a genre that we feel we must address immediately, & can only sincerely apologise for completely ignoring for the past decade or so. When the issue of integration really needed addressing, we were too busy publishing pictures of Morrisey draped in a Union Jack & right wing reactionary pathos. Ooh, what a difference compromised circulation can make - these knee jerks just aren't funny any more - genuflect to the sound of the little drum machine boy. Ecstasy boyfriends & girlfriends in comas, glorified hedonists with marketing diplomas, hundreds of flavas with interesting aromas, we've got no time for visionary loners.
Mic check - 1,2 - can I get a witness, & I don't mean REM impersonators from Barrow In Furness. Lazy is as lazy does, I'll leave you a sample - here's my card. You can write us or fax us or e-mail us now, but we'll print what we like anyway, anyhow. There are careers at stake here, don't you realise how fragile an ego can be? Shouts going out to my crew on crew turf war, we ain't down with no lightweight shite. Hip operations are all we undertake, for the hard of the thinking, the infirm, the conceptually challenged & the obviously fake.
Staring at the same rectum walls can be hard at times, in the bunker we hunker conspiring our crimes, constructing our path to a full time position with The Times - once we've grown out of this childishness & progressed to Mozart & fine wines. Roll up, roll up, but please don't rock - I cant talk because my mouth is full of corporate cock. Guess the weight of grannies cake, the tombola payola is a sure fire pocket filler. Constructive? We gave that up as a bad job eons ago - it got in the way of the company flow. Gtrs are out & old people smell, but we reckon that New Order's new album will sell. We sent our reporter, he's well avant garde - he knows that Hoookey's incredibly hard. We really want to slag them but daredn't risk it - it's safer to take the piss out of Half Man Half Biscuit. Our favourite target is one that cant fire back, preferably one that's addicted to crack - we could do an expose, a serious piece - we've got a social conscience, you know. It's not all Balearic beach trip tropical paradise scenarios & photoshoot liaison meetings, right?
It's a service - you are only as good as your last job, & if that involved sitting through 2.5 hrs of Robbie Williams in order to file a review then you may as well be putting together manuscripts for David Irving. You aren't even gonna hang around for the benefit of hindsight, having your own opinion can be dangerous - it could jeopardise that Sun gig in 2004. Integrity by-pass, ring road around my soul, gobshite fly-over, compromised futures market. Rip it all down & build Nicky Wire a new mansion on top of it.
Search out Lee Mavers, buy him gear & clean works - send him out with 100% pure & point him in the direction of the Ian Brown Will This Do? Benevolent Society for tossers who had the world in the palmtops of their hands & could do nothin but let us all down. Round up the false icons & general disappointments that have purportedly stood for anything more than the covering of their own arses - tar & feather them all. Boaby & his chemical revolution of the mind, not doing the washing up & puking in public - the dangerous passtimes of celebrated so called men. Lashing out violently with lashings of ultraviolence, hiding in cupboards under the stairs. Droogs, dregs & drugs - it's what you want, isn't it?