Stretch in the name of God

Yesterday I was in Ray Bradbury (my car) and stuck in the traffic in big town. A guy pulled up alongside me in a MG little car. He wore shades even though it was dark (common in Irlanda), looked cool and was smoking a cigarette. An item was dangling from his rear view mirror. It said in a hippie font, “Jesus Rocks.” As I fell out of the car in hysterical giggles, he launched a spit at me. I realised, as I wiped it from my brow, that I found God and God is wet.

In the age of singer songwriters with weak wrists, stupid headgear, Hansard fixations and fuck-nuts (should this be hyphenated? I don’t know) for fans, along came the Apes and made the pop bearable again. Kudos. The album is excellent, if madly over produced. The Eps are where you find the better rawer versions of the albumy songs. They look like fun and they don’t wear tweed and if Damien Rice came within a mile of them, he would evaporate into pointlessness. Whose cock did he suck anyway? But these are not important enough issues for me to get involved in as I am only a degraded whistler who can’t spell the word official. It’s late and it’s time to put the Vicks plastic bag over my head and go to sleep. Goodnight world!