I Hate Music

29
Sep 03

DEATH TO THE DARKNESS

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DEATH TO THE DARKNESS

Picture this, dear Reader. We have traveled back in time to ancient Rome. A civilization of spendour, pomp, pageantry and debauchery. Here in the imperial senate we see the rich and powerful lounging on comfortable sofas content in the knowledge that grapes will be peeled for them and that electric guitars will not be invented for two millennia. What happens when they see a god bother like Cliff Richards? Why the throw him to the lions like any proper society would.

But hold, what is this coming towards us, bunch of grapes in hand. He seems to want to talk to us but for a fully grown man his voice seems unnaturally high. Why certainly you can peel a grape for me. I won’t harm you, unless unless:

Yes dear readers. I have not traveled back in time. Instead I have imprisoned Justin from The Darkness to be my own personal eunuch. To pamper me, feed me and to never bloody sing again. It all came about quite naturally when I was in the pub the other day. Telling a rather loquacious story about exactly how Robert Palmer had just made my day, I slipped on a wet patch of lager. Flailing out who did I grab to steady myself but the manager, and girlfriend natch of the hirsute singer of the rubbish metal band. He stepped forward with the gravitas of Klinger from M*A*S*H and said in a voice which resembled Pinky or is it Perky.
“Get your hands off of my woman.”

I stared at him. I am not used to being talked to in this way.
“Motherfucker.” he squeaked to roars of derision. It was at this point I utilized my free hand to exert my droite de caveman, and bashed him over the head with a bottle of Glenfiddich and dragged him out of there. He now serves me as my own personal castrato. Peeling grapes, making cocktails and confusing the dogs in the park with his ultrasonic squeal. I explained to him why I was allowed to do this under the Geneva Convention against rubbish metal bands. If he thought I was going to sit idly by while comedy metal threatened to take over the charts he had another thing coming. I believe in a thing called silence, and by god was I going to exercise my right to it.

His hair comes in useful as a J-Cloth too.

15
Sep 03

KILLER MIKE – A.D.I.D.A.S.

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KILLER MIKE – A.D.I.D.A.S.

Being not a song about his stinky trainers, though I daresay this is the only aspect of him which is truly a killer, but rather his mental processes. Cleverly this footwear advert is an acronym for All Day I Dream About Sex. Which would certainly explain why this song is so poor, he was obviously distracted thinking about a threeway between Big Boi and Andre 2000 and himself.

If this is true, and since when have hip-hop lyrics ever been true, then he needs serious help. Michael is really doing your head in and you are liable to get a gin soaked swizzle stick in your eye.

‘Wouldn’t you like to get away,
Sometimes you want to go – where everybody knows your name…’

Of course I don’t want to go where everyone knows my name. I’ve never been to a pub where I’ve allowed more than five people to learn my name. Last thing I want is people asking me to buy them drinks for the mere reason of name knowledge. I shudder if I hear someone shout ‘Your round Tanya’ – not because I am not the soul of generosity but it is altogether too presumptious. By all means buy me a drink, but we are not entering into any social contract here.

Let us look at those words again. ‘Wouldn’t you like to get away?’ What are you getting away from. I fear this is made clear by the next line. You see there is only one place I can think of where everybody knows your name. And that my friend is PRISON. And certainly you would like to Getaway rather than go to prison. Or, in this case, a false fronted TV sanitised idea of a bar peopled by halfwits, quarterwits and that intellectual genius that is Woody Harrelson.

9
Sep 03

WHILE WE’RE AT IT – THE THEME FROM CHEERS

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WHILE WE’RE AT IT – THE THEME FROM CHEERS

Locals, I like locals. Indeed I like locals so much there are very few locales in which I don’t have local. Which is why I always hated Cheers, the popular television program supposedly set in an American bar. Local my arse. Let us examine the theme tune to the program to see why it is so hateful:
‘Making your way in the world today, takes everything you’ve got
Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot’

Already a complete misunderstanding of my perfect bar. I don’t want a place peopled with furrowed brows moaning about their shitty little office job. Come over to me and tell me how Brian in accounts is really doing your head in and you are liable to get a gin soaked swizzle stick in your eye.

‘Wouldn’t you like to get away,
Sometimes you want to go – where everybody knows your name…’

Of course I don’t want to go where everyone knows my name. I’ve never been to a pub where I’ve allowed more than five people to learn my name. Last thing I want is people asking me to buy them drinks for the mere reason of name knowledge. I shudder if I hear someone shout ‘Your round Tanya’ – not because I am not the soul of generosity but it is altogether too presumptious. By all means buy me a drink, but we are not entering into any social contract here.

Let us look at those words again. ‘Wouldn’t you like to get away?’ What are you getting away from. I fear this is made clear by the next line. You see there is only one place I can think of where everybody knows your name. And that my friend is PRISON. And certainly you would like to Getaway rather than go to prison. Or, in this case, a false fronted TV sanitised idea of a bar peopled by halfwits, quarterwits and that intellectual genius that is Woody Harrelson.

8
Sep 03

THE THEME FROM ONLY FOOLS AND HORSES

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There was some bloke who recently wrote a book about television programmes. Not my idea of fun, but a much more respectable job than writing about pop music in the positive. However as part of this tome he decided to subject himself to a comparative job of working out what the best theme song ever was.

To which I would always reply the TV show without a theme song. Unfortunately there have not been many of them. Still I would not have committed myself to the stupid task to start off with. This fella (like I say, I forget his name due to excessive consumption of my new favourite drink Tonic’n’Gin) managed to raise the hackles of the amassed tabloid press by picking some ridiculous show about a horse of some such nonsense in the sixties. Where, they all clamoured, was the theme tune to Only Fools And Horses?

Shall I tell you. It was in the bin where John Sullivan should have left it in the first place. Those of you who are not aware of this, the UK’s most beloved comedy program, it is the everyday tale of a nasty, pernicious villain and his idiot brother who week in week out try to swindle people of their money whilst dropping lovable cockney catchphrases. If you were being charitable you could call it Crimewatch UK with jokes – except Crimewatch UK generally has better jokes. And it has a theme tune in which a sullen cockney voice intones the key points about swindlous trading: “no income tax, no V.A.T, No money back, No guarantee”. The line missing from this song is obviously no bloody quality either.

People who did not turn off the moment the song came on were often lulled into the assumption that the piss poor vocals had to be done by Nicholas Lyndhurst, star of said TV programme belov’d for his gormless voice, expression and existence. In truth it was the writer of the song, who was also the writer of the show illustrating his vibrant personality. The idea that a colloquialism for the life of a conman and a French expression could rhyme could only spring from the well-font of an imagination that thinks someone falling behind a bar is the funniest thing ever. “C’est magnifique – Hooky Street!

Worse still was the fact that there were actually two theme tunes to the show (presumably Sullivan thought he could stretch this to an A-side and a B-side rather than the more apt up his own backside). Why do only fools and horse work? So they can afford to go to the pub and not sit at home watching and listening to claptrap like this.