In the last year, I have been making less than huge efforts to educate, inform and the other one.
Dedication is what you need and damn it if I don’t have that. It would require an amazing amount of willpower and intelligence to make this mlog work well. Alas, I have neither. My brain is the size of a walnut and my ass is pink and durthy. I have gigantic fleas living on my back and my CD player may be broken. Grim animals stalk my every move. My immediate family have deserted me and the taxman is after me.
I live in a world where Shakira funny cow voice is lauded and Coldplay still jump around in their oh-so-crazy costumes. U2 spend more money per day on their claw then the GDP of Achill. Ronan Keating’s hair still thinks it’s 1994 and Bob Dylan won’t shut up. Metallica are older than Gandalf and Dave Mustaine has finally made the album he always wanted to make…again! The Black Eyed Peas have pulled many sheep over people’s eyes and Lady Gaga is a poor man’s Madonna, who in turn is a poor man’s new wife.
So, I have failed. Low viewing figures and people’s obsessions with Bell’s Palsy and Glenda Gilson have made me slightly sick in my mouth and I wonder is it time to quit this lark and go back to smearing poo all over Irlanda. A compulsion to continue is stalled when I hear people say the Picnic instead of Electric Picnic, when I hear Glen Hansard and Damien Dempsey are still alive, when I hear Mundy, when I hear Mundy.
When I think of rock journalists, I think of Nick Cave,
“And maybe you think that it’s all just water under the bridge, Well my UNfriend, I’m the type that holds a grudge.I’m your creator. I think you fuckin traitor, chronic masturbator, Shitlicker, user, self-abuser, jigger jigger”
Jigger-jigger, that’s how I feel.
Anyway, till next poo
Stretch Macgibbon, here as long as I fucking well please!