Are you suffering from a deficit of meaning? Do you pine for some morsel of horseshit to ease your feverish id? You’ll find little here to aid you but go ahead and add your angst anyway. The editor might see fit to satisfy your craving for vapidity with further inanities of her own. Either way it’s more time wasted and wasting time’s the industry of our age.
I have actually stroked Michael Hutchience. He was very soft and yet also rough, like a well-plumped duvet with a starchy cover.
This complaint has been censored by the moderator for being so smutty it has its own chatline.
Don’t do it. Spend the money on strong drink.
That sounds like quite a nice face to me.
I once got asked along to a studio in LA to hang out with Ringo Starr and was so starstruck at the thought that I immediately boarded a plane to West Virginia.
I like the off-shoulder fur one piece but I couldn’t take the draughts in winter.
True, true.
Rid yourself of these toxic ideas and find a purpose in life! But I feel humbled, humbled.
It was Jesus fellating a monkey.
No, but I found a new way to make pasta using plain flour, water and a little morphine.
They are only pointy in that photograph I’ve been using. Usually they are fairly blunt. Only the other day they told a nice cab driver he was a fat fuck.
Call the commission! I’ll do one thrice a year! In dungarees and yellow trainers.
The only thing amusing about this complaint is the word “warbled”.
I’ll think about it, then.
When someone pulls their finger out. Soon, ELisa, soon.
You tell it, Andrew.
It was we who described ourselves thus.
I wasn’t even breast fed when I was a teenager.
Tell her to buy another ticket and use its serial number to do the lottery that weekend. She should have a broken arm by Tuesday.
It would be called My Drink And Drugs Hell and star Maxine Peake and Michelle McManus.
Blame the producer. Or blame me.
Your letterbox needs widening. Use an axe.
You win £4:78
I couldn’t stop him. Nobody can. He’s spawning, I’ve heard. Or regenerating.
Not a lot.
I once got wonderfully drunk with him in Glasgow. Lovely man and great company. There, that’s my name drop of the week.
He is too ill to interfere with anybody but having been interfered with by him before I must say that I’ll miss a repeat interference.
XXXXXXXXXXXXX!!!!!
I’m still a virgin!
You hum it, I’ll play it.
No. And yes. History is all the evidence humankind needs to understand our essential venality. It’s also an endless collection of “clips ‘n’ cunts” shows on BBC3.
I do, of course but I don’t recall asking her out. I don’t recall ever asking anyone out. But I was single between 1991 and 1994 so it’s a vague possibility.
One hates to quote anybody, to paraphrase Dee Dee.
Withered Hand is God.
They also sing of the time he sank thirty pints of heavy with a grapefruit balanced on his cock. But that doesn’t rhyme.
It pleases me anytime I see our name in print. We’ve been airbrushed from pop history in most other cases so even a snide aside is to be welcomed. Believe me.
I’m No Mac Fan. Apart from Rumours, naturally.
From The Bank of Rock? No problem…
If he’s a strangler then the answer is obvious. But I don’t think there’s anything intrinsically evil about being an ex-Strangler. Well, other than the strippers on stage and the kidnapping of a female journalist. It’s not Black and White.
I don’t believe I have ever heard their music. They seem nice enough blokes. But then, so did The Smurfs at first.
No.
I’d do it in a second but no promoters can afford all that cocaine and caviar.
KPMG? Delloite? Ernst & Young?
I have throttled my sisters many a time. And as for my mother – Jesus.
No, although Limmy is a great animator that was from Modern Toss. They had two series on Channel 4, I think.
Will this do?
I miss wherever you’re at if you miss this godforsaken place so much.
It’s about time I wrote about girls’ legs, isn’t it?
I thought you said widow lickers.
Similar to making Terry Hall sick…
I know, I know – it wasn’t me, honest.
Fixed it!
I couldn’t make it fit somehow…
Red for me.
I know, I know but that’s the lot of the opening act. I’ll come back soon, I hope. I love Germany.
Hey, Tim – don’t blame me. I actually hired a producer – you should be proud of me. Besides I TOLD him, “TURN THAT FUCKING HI-HAT DOWN, MOTHERFUCKER!”
And you know what? The bastard turned it UP!
x
No.
More of an ailing donkey.
Exactly. Hang on – fluffers ONLY give head. I’m a fluffer who gives beard.
When I committed to this show it was being headlined by Leonard Cohen. But I’ve met the old goat (Elts, I mean) and he’s very charming and funny so I wasn’t going to pull out was I?
As long as you buy it, why should I care? Can you buy two, then?
Yes, I’m afraid my Abdul is one womb short of a breeder so no joy there. When encountering other cats she does one of two things. Attempts to destroy them in a holocaust of fur or just sits there sneering.
It’s a carnival of colourful pop like a Barr’s lorry crashed through the window of a doughnut shop.
Hiding drugs?
At least he’s original. Some parents call their kids Derek.
Oooh, that was unfair…
Both!
I feel a bit sick now. Serves me right for being rude about your name…
Watch this space. Shameless promotion soon to commence. J
Martin was abandoned due to his habit of watching porn while smoking crack.
You get half a star. I just don’t trust patriots so thought a parody of self-loathing might flush them out.
What Is Cunt For? Now there’s a hit.
Are there still as many thrones, though?
Is that a form of extreme self-harming?
I was violently sick into a plastic bag.
The only excuse for a tattoo is to celebrate ten years at the sea.
I consider myself a bluffer.
Sometimes?
Have it!
Oh, my gawd, how embarrassing!
Many thanks for pointing that out.
I am red-faced and profusely ashamed.
People just aren’t trying hard enough, are they?
I imagine it’s an affliction of those with open eyes. Blinding oneself with scissors might be a cure…
I once pissed myself and the stain was Cilla-shaped.
I can’t think of anything more delightful.
Serves you right for being cool.
Just stop watching YouTube, it’s repeat after repeat.
Those seats were shit. I hate seats. There should be a slope with a rope to catch any sliders.
Mr. Fussy. He’s fussy.
They do and no, I do not.
On the other hand, Swansea aren’t bad.
There is not enough use of the word cunt in this complaint. You cunt.
Thanks, Andy.
If I was savvy I’d link to it, wouldn’t I?
Cheers,
JC
Either that or he just loves Anne Widdecombe.
I do but my agent never seems to get any offers. I work for a small fee and lots of bananas.
I don’t think so, no. Poor Gilbert was completely innocent of such double entendres – he just really liked babysitting that wee lassie so his manager could go out with his wife and spend all Gilbert’s royalties.
I still believe this, yes and I’m still drunk.
I saw him performing at Café Largo on Fairfax in LA in the mid-nineties. He had a Scottish accent then, I think he always did. But – no matter – either way he is a cunt.
Not since the nineties, sadly.
Look At The Moon – genius.
And for a monologue it has to be Gruts For Tea.
Don’t Bother Coming Back, more like.
He’s the post-punk Dave Spart!
Lovely. And his mum’s got a lovely vagina, too. When she hears him on the radio it howls like a dog.
Have my life, I don’t need it anymore.
Tender Comrade, New England – fantastic songs. But I refer you to his spat with the Manics at Glasto in the nineties where he showed his hand, moaning about them having their own toilet backstage to his audience. I also appeared on Never Mind The Buzzcocks with him and found him frighteningly competitive. He ate up the BBC Not-Funny-Department jokes that were fed to him during the writing rehearsal which I thought was sad. I hate the fact he is regarded as some sort of spokesman by the wooly middle-class media. And I wasn’t impressed when I met him on a plane in Europe where he was in first class while his band, The Blokes featuring Ian McLagan, travelled in economy. As I passed him he looked embarrassed and said it was because he was phobic about flying. It was the apology that made me suspicious. I think he’s a fraud. A nice guy, but a fraud.
As for the kilt, I’ve done my days in the Scottish skirt, tartan flares too. It’s getting too close to the referendum to be flirting with national symbols, ironically or otherwise.
You owe me forty quid.
Oh, my good cunting lord, I must hear that. The original was PURE muzak anyway.
What is? That I keep taking acid?
Only if they hit me first.
No arsehole, then? Or is the whole thing an arsehole?
You’re a suicidal fool. Learn some up music.
Oh, that. That was just a shite pun, sorry.
I didn’t say things were going wrong!
For a fee, yes.
So that one day I can come and violate your privacy.
And no, but everyone I know was.
Hmmm…Second option.
I’m listening…
Next time try Imagine.
Stupid arse. What does he care about badgers? He’s rich enough to build a massive marble set for the whole rotten consumption-ridden lot of them. He could buy Shropshire and put them all in a fucking five star badger spa.
A charlatan of epic proportions.
How many holes do you need?
Terribly sorry about that. If you like I can have them drowned in a tub of abattoir run-off. I might save the drummer though, if that’s alright, he owes me forty quid.
He’s obviously a cunt but to be completely fair the tape is really a post-modern deconstructionist cry for help. Get a fucking parka like Feargal Sharkey. That’s proper stadium rock gear.
Yes. Grease up with some beef rennet and snap your jaw with a monkey wrench. Here comes my parched Torah.
Possibly the merciless floggings.
I’ll be coming soon.
It was very pleasurable for me, also. I don’t think the birds were frightened. They took to the air on a whim – nothing to do with us. Though the rut we left in the soil was.
According to the principle of the selfish gene, yes. We are machines built by genes for their completely pointless continuance.
I hear you, brother. I’m hurting for your fleshy fistings.
I won’t hear a bad word said about Coldplay. Apart from their abysmal clothes and those self-consciously vandalised instruments. The tunes are far too good to dismiss them so easily. I just can’t work up the enthusiasm to hate them when there are acts like Ed Sheeran to actively despise. So it’s Phil for me. A song so odious and hypocritical that it actually creates a toxic slick of human misery every time it is played.
She emigrated to Portugal and became a chilled-out lesbian.
I see no irony just a seamless flow of the modern headache.
You?
I’d rather write with Marc D’Goat.
I get to stand so why should I mind? You can stand if you want. And then you can sit down again when some gormless steward decides you’re a menace to the entire fabric of society.
It was about a lilo actually, which I named “Indignity”.
Clegg will go to Europe and Cameron will end up at a bank. Like Kinnock and Blair before them. Boris will be the UK PM by 2015 and I’ll be buying a machine gun by 2020.
Christ, he embarrasses me and I’m white. I’d transfer Frank Lampard to another galaxy.
Quite possibly but I’m not sure. I’d hang fire if I were you, if fire can in any way be hung.
No.
Mr. Cunt.
Best time for burning anything, I’d say.
Could you place some B strings at “squirrel” height too?
That’s the finest offer I’ve had all year.
Pass me twenty five thousand dollars in unmarked bills under the table.
Lazy-arse.
He’s a führer in waiting.
Why are human beings such utter cunts?
I was wondering when you were going to notice that. Bugger.
Because success makes clowns of everyone and failure crushes the spirit.
Hmmm. Were there drums that sounded like a calamity in a cutlery factory and guitars that resembled the sound of a hyena giving birth? With a retching singer wailing about his own hideousness as if mid-castration? Probably Snow Patrol.
The fuckers are so fast it’s all a blur to me.
I’m tied to a stone piano.
Does your piece measure up to the standards you originally set for it?
Try replacing every profane utterance with the expression, “I shit kittens”.
Can we blank the milkman if he’s a bit mean with his cream?
Mine have gone grey. I’m just going to paint them on with shoe polish from now on. And then get Botox injected into my scrotum. Here I come, Charts, ready or not.
Cancer. Donk.
OK?
I was only doing three songs. Not much to shout about. Even from a matchbox top.
Bloody scousers.
Ain’t no paradise here, lost OR found.
No. Ham is nicer than beetroot.
One has to keep an eye out for snipers.
I have had inelastic surgery.
Yes, and as rampant and ready to punish somebody as an insane headmaster.
Pretty cool if it was a twenty-pack of Special Brew.
This is a joke.
I’ve already turned it down. They wanted me to perform “Giddy Up Daddy” with somebody from Westlife.
So am IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!
Wasn’t the old tart marvellous on Question Time?
I wouldn’t mind either way so long as I didn’t get put in jail when I killed it.
To be honest I’d always go with the biggest town but I rather liked Runcorn, I don’t know why. It’s like a really pretty armpit – not the best part but a neat place to rest a while.
An impossible question to answer but if I was forced to get off my tits on crack in a Lithuanian brothel with one of them I’d go for Cameron every time. Gove would just moan and bitch and start scratching his privates whereas Cameron’s so unapologetically venal he’d get right into it. And you’d get more for the photos.
You poor dear, Celia. Tomorrow I shall come downstairs and give you the rodgering of your long, long life.
Isn’t it marvellous?
Ain’t it grand? I love it when the bain-marie morphs into a pus covered flesh trampoline or when the pass starts talking German really quickly and then his hair starts being sick, gushing effluvia into Rachel Stephen’s mouth.
That must be some vest.
I’m way too innocent to know what that means.
It’s all in the past, passed, passed, passed away.
He was a fucking good fuck, Billy, fucking good. Good fucking, Blobby, good fucking. Fuck. It was fucking good fucking Blobby, fuck. Fuck.
I think with careful study, Jim, you’ll find it over-represented.
Nothing good happens after 2am. And, no.
Could you give me some pointers so I can at least have a go?
If you don’t scoff it by Hogmanay you’re a fool. Now, someone get me my cane with the sword inside.
Clamp his head in a semi-collapsed ironing board. Spray away. Spuds’ll stay chilled like potato salad.
Vastly, but not in the area you might expect.
I think of it more as pastoral time-wasting.
It’s the smokestacks’ stunting.
He would have smitten me with a sword of succinctness.
It’s like being assaulted by one-armed tramp. One’s sense of shame is nothing to one’s pity.
Your friends’ foolish cajolery. It’s a crime that serves its own sentence.
In my day it was a union thing. Now it’s so their feelings don’t fall out.
A balloon in the troposphere, I am told.
And hail once more, Ade. Merci!
You speak the language of the Prophets, K. I, sorry to confess, had Horatio horse-whipped for my own gratification which I did all along his edge.
Four thousand grams of saturated fat plus a soupçon spittle. But I’m not legally obliged to state such information on the packaging. This is an after-sale service I am supplying gratis. Don’t blame me if you get cancer or drown in your own ear wax.
I am Fat Larry and I’m married to Fat Sally.
The first four lines, please! Sorry…I tried, but as ever, I failed.
Now go to bed.
So they don’t have to wear ribbons round their dicks.
I have a ticket for Tommy The Tanzillo at the Locarno, June the 4th.
Poor sod.
You and him.
A git! Yes! It’s called Old Git! And it’s entirely unavailable.
And I prefer the early cassette demos from 1979. Footfall, now there was a tune.
Just because you’re eight foot three don’t take it out on me.
Christ, it sounds like a gothic horror story.
Carefully comb it out with a toothbrush scraping any solid matter on the edge of the toilet bowl. Use a spoon to ferry the rest of the soup into your mouth, taking care to keep any stray locks away from your face with your other flipper.
I was a lot more than alright. I was ok!
No.
Leave him alone, he’s only small!
It’s an X1661 MkII with the upgraded menty bodger on the help stick.
Better out than in, I always say.
Are you suggesting that my immediate death can only improve the fortunes of the Scotland football team?
What a shame I’m not a patriot, then, otherwise I’d be ramming a screwdriver through my left eye as we speak.
I’ve done the bastard twice already on this tour.
And Twiglets are made from the thigh bones of small owls and should be banned.
It’s Nice Here, They Give Me Petrol.
The complete lyric sheet reads: It’s nice here. They give me petrol.
I promise you this is true.
I have Saturday, the 2nd myself.
The rumours are true but the allegations are entirely false. And the suspicions are baseless. And conjecture is futile.
I have no idea about what you mention. But thank you for the request, whoever it was by.
I had to look that up. You have educated me. Congratulations on your balls.
I know some of them are and that’s fine by me. I’m a fan of filling my ears with burning tar and I don’t expect them to enjoy that.
Do YOU know who I am? Help me…
How much was your house worth unburnt?
Is this a hip-hop reference I don’t understand? But on balance, def high.
Poison their yoghurt.
Awful, ain’t it, Angry? And the internet? It’s just one BIG repeat.
BONNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGG!!
Horror.
I’m not sure. What is the state of their skin? If we’re talking encrusted with horrible pustules and pits there may not be a grade to suffice.
I fuckin’ did, Horace, you junkie liar. YOU never paid me for the blow job.
No. I have three copies.
What’s not normal?
Please don’t mention it. That I fucked your therapist, that is.
We have a problem with our holes.
I find that the entirely overrated Liebniz Chocos are merely Rich Teas smothered in some confectionary. For me it’s a fig roll every time.
I am in the business of spending as much light as humanly feasible before I die.
Because you were begging for it and at heart I’m a kindly gentleman caller.
They don’t work. They’re far too positive. We Are Not The People works. As does There’s Not Enough Black In The Union Jack. Drool Brittania? Soured of Scotland? I don’t know. I quite like Bridge Over Crystal Waters. Or, Don’t Let It Be. Even better, Never Imagine. OK, I know it’s a trick. But songwriters need tricks to get themselves going in the morning. I mean, what is I’m Not In Love if not a brilliant trick?
Because it always was and it always will be. Pop charts are like general elections. Nobody gets what they want but somebody somewhere is laughing all the way to the bank. And once upon a time it was me.
Nothing, not even the summer, would make me happier.
OK, John. Say you’re standing at the bottom of a steep slope and at the top of the slope there’s a tiger wearing a fez and a pair of black ladies’ underpants. The slope is a cobbled street hemmed on both sides by two storey granite terraces. There are a few shops selling nick-nacks strung here and there up along the hill. Say that you’re sitting on a massive tricycle, painted orange with a big basket on the front full of sausages. You’re facing the tiger and she’s eyeing you lasciviously. Her drool is slowly spooling from her jaws and winding its way down the slope towards your wheels. Those wheels need a little air, they’re flattening out under your weight. You have forgotten your big brass pump. You left it in the shed along with the homemade bomb and the magazines about model-making. Say that the sun, just then, dips behind a blimp. A broadcast blimp, training its camera on the cup final match that’s just kicking off over to the east. You hear a whistle and a distant roar. There are a hundred hooligans at your throat and the road is strewn with rattles and long woollen scarves – rattlesnakes! Rattlesnakes!
Is the tiger still there?
Yes. I would. I just have. And I’m gonna.
Who he? Anyway, if you buff your dark side it only gets brighter leaving the other looking the more shady in the long run.
Have you been hacking into my hard disc? I had a hard time hacking away at my arse locks, let me tell you.
Probably, yes. It’s all written. I just can’t afford to get Mutt Lange to produce it. Then again, neither could Bryan Adams.
Pitiful? It’s an inspired idea. I’m going to start now, B, you little minx.
Is Pete Doherty looking for a deal?
Not if your rich dad’s paying for all the prostitutes and beer.
Brit-ish, yes…
If this is a reference to Led Zeppelin, I don’t get it. I honestly don’t.
I have a strict margarine policy. It’s that or I leave for Adelaide. They wouldn’t question my ideas there. They wouldn’t poo-poo such innovation like so much hot air. They wouldn’t disregard genius.
Don’t say that, Curriedoll. Don’t be so cruel. I still have your license plate hanging on my wall.
I shall be your broken interface forever.
Me too. I like his relaxed attitude to his reputation for being a little Tory twat. The one thing with Phil is, you see, he’s GRACIOUS.
I’ve never dissed Del Amitri in my life. I’m still IN Del Amitri and I’d slap anybody round the chops who had a pop at its record.
I remember you all fondly, my little German beauties! Perhaps one day we shall meet again over fine cold lager and some cheeky currywurst!
I shall endeavour to dig a few up. From the waste-ground round the back of our Kev’s.
I am no longer contracted to Rykodisc so it’d be a little unfair to expect them to promote an artist who might well be signed to one of their competitors. But thanks for caring, Les.
Hmmm. How does one answer such a fiendish question? Mike, I am not, I am not, for I fear that walking with others, especially outdoors, is entirely against the law.
Yes, Cecil. I am the sort of cunt who steals from strangers’ bags while smiling in their faces, who professes to be pure while being the perpetrator of countless disgraces. I am, in short, the same sort of cunt as any other who is blunt to the point of insult and affront. I am a cunt, I am a cunt, I am a cunt, I am a cunt.
I am studiously ignoring said television programme. As soon as I saw those ghastly chairs it put me in mind of some nightmarish hairdresser/interrogation room combo.
I’d love to, Ross but I never get any offers. I’ve always loved Belfast so it’s a crying shame.
A restraining order?
I am legally obliged to ignore any and all references to the group of whom you speak. I will have my day in court.
About as much fun as having your eyeballs removed with a Bic biro whilst suffering from Dengue fever. Actually, less fun than that. Unless, just as you entered him he was in the middle of an argument with Adele about who is more “black”. That would be fun. You could start humming “Dreadlock Holiday” until his head exploded, hopefully taking the fake diva out with the impact.
I think “numbered” is putting it a little kindly. “Gone down the drain with all your potency, passion and dark hair” would be more accurate. But thank you for your leniency.
I am working on one now for all the little poppets who have yet to understand the futility of existence. It’s called, “Your Mum’s Going To Die, Your Dad’s Probably Fucked Off Already And You’re Going To Die”. I was thinking of asking you to do the illustrations.
So, let’s get this straight. You’re going to decide to move to Abu Dhabi exactly two weeks before I play in Stockton? Why don’t you just decide now not to go until after I play? Job done.
Damo, I think you got cut off in mid-flow there, did you not? I fear my text box is a little tight. I might have to give it a sharp yank, I’m not sure. But to attempt an answer; yes, I am He – Jesus Christ, and I am bitterly stunting little laddies growth as we converse.
To be fair, if you can spell your own name correctly, Fred, you’re doing pretty well.
Do you, you?
A little less love and a little more conversation?
Possibly. On this website we’ll only say that we would rather you’d written it, “Hibs’s goalie”. Unless, that is, you are a supporter of the little-known Scottish league team, Hib?
Have you a terrible head-cold?
I’m really lost now. Where IS that damn reflection?
Grammar would be helpful.
Who is that? Love, Narc.
The only thing, as I’m sure you’re man enough to admit, that needs more accordion is the incinerator. But I’ll mull it over, Fake Andy. In the meantime sort out that hedge. It’s beyond a joke. I found the desiccated corpse of a child in there last week.
It is. Stay tuned for massive scrota filling porridge pots with bountiful ejaculate.
As soon as my attorney springs me from the can.
Because, as everyone knows, he’s a Tory.
Because she’s running away from her shotgun totin’ husband, James.
Always the best man, never the groom.
On the whole I’d say I’m a bit of a wanker but a TOTAL dick. If you disagree with that then I can get quite arsey.
When this bloodthirsty cur takes its paw off my neck.