(How do you feel about the “double that” in the sentence above? I think it looks awful, but I’ve written it now and I couldn’t be arsed changing it. Besides, it’s a tool for launching my newest word at you folks – flummoxment. Do you like it? Good. Let’s move on.)

There are people for whom the fact that Ireland is a very small place would cause utter flummoxment, you see. People like Hollywood researchers, for example, who are unaware that it takes just three hours to drive from West to East Ireland. But for the majority of us, Ireland is accepted as being fairly compact, a depressing state of affairs, but one not even the mighty Bill Cullen could remedy. We’re a fucking island. Outside of placing decking on the Atlantic Shelf, there really isn’t a whole lot we can do about being a droplet in the Ocean of The Scheme Of Things. Sometimes we forget just how insignificant we are – I cringe to remember all the howling we did this year about not having as much clout in Europe as Germany – but even that, in a roundabout way, is a symptom of our size; Ireland’s so small, we can’t even envisage Scope and Relativity and Might and David Attenborough’s Life On Earth.

And the best place to get a true grasp on this unfortunate aspect of Paddyosity is RTE.

RTE, Ireland’s National Broadcaster, seems to have the philosophy that it doesn’t take 3 hours to drive between Galway and Dublin, because it’s almost unthinkable that Ireland stretches out past the M50. If there ever was an institution that housed more dinosaurs than RTE, I’d imagine it got swept away by an ice-age glacier.

Ah now. Here I have to admonish myself. RTE isn’t all that bad. It’s not as if you can’t get a job there if you haven’t already had a job there, despite what first impressions tell you. I’m sure there’s a lot of talented bodies in RTE who’ve come up through the ranks with only their tenacity keeping them company. But we do, especially in terms of pop culture, have an Irish habit of giving all high-profile entertainment positions to people who have already had high-profile entertainment positions, or people whose mammy lunches with Ann Doyle, or people whose political connections somehow entitle them to spread over the Irish airwaves like a pox-ridden blanket over a sick ass.

In an Irish interview, Who are you? is a much more prudent question than What can you do? In a small country with a history of yokels bending under a scant privileged class, I suppose it’s no real surprise. What I most object to is that scant privileged class double-jobbing in the creative arts to such an extent that there are fuck all new opportunities for the genuinely talented – in Ireland, we won’t just saturate The Arts with proven luvvies, we’ll divvy up all the available roles between them. No room for specialities with these meeja dahlings. You’ll make less money from a culchie nobody concentrating on what he’s born to do than you will from a maleable socialite who’ll do five things – badly – at once. I want a publishing contract, Daddy! I want one to go with my chronically unfunny spot on The Panel! I want one NOW!

Besides, what with us being all recessionified all over the gaff, with the scant privileged class in the Dail readying up to bounce a punishing budget over our heads very shortly now, I thin double-jobbing is so completely socially irresponsible these days. What I’d give for an Irish ’sleb to giggle, “My chosen charity is the Irish Commeners, so this year, I’m only going to start a girl band, instead of my original plan, which was to start a girl band, usurp Ryan Tubridy, write a racy holiday read, and become the face of Kleeneze”.

I feel I’m rambling. Let me think of an example.

In Ireland, it would not be unusual to see a bland, blonde model awarded a leading role in a dramatic production, despite having even less experience than she does charisma. It wouldnt feel off to see a local actress suddenly publishing a novel, even though the writing paints her the stupidest shade of Inoffensive Ivory. It would shock no one to see a rugby star become a newspaper columnist. And on top of that, you then get them wheeling in talentless brothers, cousins, hawt sisters, and serial fiancés, all of whom are then hired into exciting, creative positions that they have no flair for, by virtue of name and name-dropping, not by deeds chalked onto CV.

And once you get them in there, like embarrassing stains on the arse of your boyfriend’s boxers, you just can’t get them out again. Ireland’s celebrities do the rounds endlessly; like all horrific bogeymen, decapitation is the only halt to their gallop. From a small pool of game gombeens, we draw all inspiration, all creative representation. From photoshoot to supermarket opening to red carpet to poetry workshop to lecture in the performing arts at Carlow IT to discovering a cure for cancer; Irish faces can do no wrong – the problem is that they can do nothing particularly right, either.

It’s not only a problem in Ireland, although we can’t quite deny all involvement in the creation of careers for those hideous Geldof husks. And, taking into account that the public gets what the public wants possibly more than the public wants what the public gets, I have to wonder if we only have ourselves to blame for the lack of new faces in the creative arts, and the widening of the Middle Ground. Are you less likely to watch a new chatshow if you’ve never heard of the talented, charismatic host? Yes. Will you find it difficult to give your attention to an opinion piece written by someone who may as well have called themselves Ann Onymuss? Yes, yes.

I’d still be happier if the vapid could be contractually restrained from meddling in more than one speciality, though. Just think, we might have saved ourselves the hassle of Amanda Brunker, and all the flummoxment therein…

Me: Gentlemen. Thanks for sitting down with Coddlepot.
John: No problem.
Edward: Thanks for having us.
Simon: Coddle-who?

Me: John, plug that iron in, there’s a good lad.
John: Is there a socket?
Me: There’s an extension lead under your chair.
John: Ah, see it.

Simon: Sorry, what’s the iron for?
Me: I’m just going to give the lads’ fringes a once-over.
Edward: Cool.
John: Goody.
Simon: Are you deranged? You can’t run a hot iron over someone’s scalp.
Me: Isn’t that a matter for the courts?
Simon: No fringe ironing.

Me: Fine. Edward, be a good lad and plug in that strimmer.
Simon: Edward, do not touch that strimmer.
Edward: Stop shouting at me. I want Uncle Louis.
Me: What’s your problem Cowell?
Simon: My problem is that you’re liable to kill these lucrative little shits.
Me: Those neck-high trousers must be cutting off the circulation to your brain. I only want to give them a trim.
Simon: Is this a wind-up? This interview is over.
Me: Why you arrogant, square-headed prick.

Edward: Please guys, don’t fight.
Simon: Boys, get your coats.
John: I can’t find my mittens.
Edward: You silly-billy, they’re attached to your coat by string.
John: Don’t you condescend to me Eddie, you fat cunt.
Edward: Fat? We’re identical.
John: Bollox we’re identical. I’m hung like a horse.
Edward: You really know how to hurt me John.

Simon: See what you’ve started?
Me: Relax for Jaysus’ sake. It’s only an oul’ brotherly tiff.
John: You’re weak Eddie.
Me: Oh yes, here we go!
Edward: Stop it John.
John: That’s why mom never breastfed you. She could see you were the weak one.
Me: You going to take that Edward?
Edward: Stop it John, please.
Me: Loaf him John. He’s wide open.
John: You’re so weak Eddie. Sometimes I think you must be adopted, and that it’s a coincidence we look similar.

Me: Hit him John. Hit him. Hit him. HIT HIM, HIT HIM, HIT HIM, HIT HIM…
Simon: NO JOHN, DON’T!
John: ‘Ave it!
Me: Oooh. Edward? You all right mate? Jaysus, he’s out cold.
Simon: Christ John. He’s your brother.
John: You want some too Cowell?
Simon: No John, please.
John: How about you?
Me: No sir.

John: Help me roll him up in this carpet.
Me: Why? He’s unconscious, not dead.
Simon: Just do as he says. We can’t help Edward now,  but we can still help ourselves.
Me: I’m scared Simon.
Simon: So am I. So am I…

The cameras, it was explained, were so well hidden that you “wouldn’t know they were there.” In fact, the lone camera was in the diary room (downstairs toilet). I’d already cut a hole in the ceiling above that room for disturbing reasons, and I used the fissure to communicate with the diarists as a ‘Big Brother’ style character.

 
Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 1 (11:04 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Johnny.
Johnny Logan: Jesus, who the f*ck is that?
Big Foreman: This is Big Foreman.
Johnny Logan: What the f*ck…I’m having a sh*t?

Big Foreman: Is there anything you’d like to talk about?
Johnny Logan: No, f*ck off you pervert.
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.
Johnny Logan: I’ll diary room you, you sick f*ck.

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 1 (14:26 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Rosanna.
Rosanna Davidson: Hello Big Foreman.
Big Foreman: Please feel free to avail of all the diary room’s facilities.
Rosanna Davidson: I’m not going toilet in here. Sure I can see you up there, peeping through that hole.
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.

Rosanna Davidson: But I need to talk about Johnny. He’s starting to scare us. He has this knife and…
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 2 (13:57 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Terrence.
Terrence Trent Derby: Hey, Big Foreman. What’s happening, dog?
Big Foreman: Please do not speak jive in the diary room.
Terrence Trent Derby: Say what?
Big Foreman: You deaf?
Terrence Trent Derby: This is how I roll, you dig?
Big Foreman: Last warning.

Terrence Trent Derby: Whatever man. I want to talk about the Eurovision guy.
Big Foreman: Johnny?
Terrence Trent Derby: I ain’t never seen a temper like that. He put a knife to Rosanna’s throat last night, saying she stole his caviar.
Big Foreman: Did she? 
Terrence Trent Derby: Man, you know we ain’t got no food. Shit, we haven’t eaten in 24 hours.

Big Foreman: Food is apportioned on a grouting and tiling basis Terrence.
Terrence Trent Derby: Whatever man, nobody’s down for this no more. Everybody’s scared.
Big Foreman: Big Foreman sympathises. 
Terrence Trent Derby: Fuck sympathy. Unlock the doors and windows. Let us the fuck out.

Big Foreman: I’m afraid I can’t do that Terrence.
Terrence Trent Derby: Say what?
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.
Terrence Trent Derby: Man, this is crazy.
Big Foreman: You are free to leave the diary room.

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 3 (08:04 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Al.
Al Pacino: WHO-HA! Big Foreman. How. Are you doin. My friend?
Big Foreman: Big Foreman is a bit stuffed. He pigged out on steak and chips.
Al Pacino: Really? Because we? My friend? Have not EATEN IN THREE DAYS. WHO-HA! WHO…HA!

Big Foreman: Al, food is awarded on a tiling and grouting basis.
Al Pacino: Then riddle me this, Big Foreman. How. Are we. Supposed to. WHO-HA. Get anything done, when this Johnny? This Johnny Logan? Is FREAKING OUT, my man. He’s freaking out, threatening to cut everybody.
Big Foreman: As you know Al, Big Foreman cannot interfere in the day-to-day tiling and grouting.
Al Pacino: Then what use. Are you. To me. My friend? WHO-HA!

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 4 (10:42 am)

Big Foreman: Hello Rosanna.
Rosanna Davidson: So…weak now. Four days…no food.
Big Foreman: Big Foreman sympathises, but the tiling and grouting has been disappointing.
Rosanna Davidson: You must…help us…Pacino hurt…Terrence dead….Johnny….out of control.

Big Foreman: AH JAYSUS.
Rosanna Davidson: What?
Big Foreman: Ah Jaysus, I’m after catching me foot on a rusty nail.
Rosanna Davidson: Please…let us…go.
Big Foreman: Ah, it’s bleeding and everything. Look, will you feck off? I have me own problems up here.

Celebrity Tiling and Grouting: Day 5 (15:01 pm)

Big Foreman: Hello Johnny.
Johnny Logan: Hello Big Foreman.
Big Foreman: Big Foreman thinks you sound healthier than the others.
Johnny Logan: Well, they’re too uppity to eat rats, so they’re pretty much starving to death.
Big Foreman: Big Foreman commends your survival nous.

Johnny Logan: What do you mean by that?
Big Foreman: Nothing. It’s a compliment.
Johnny Logan: You think I need compliments? Are you saying I’m weak?
Big Foreman: No. Not at all.
Johnny Logan: I’m going to end you, Big Foreman. I’m going to end you.
Big Foreman: No Johnny, wait.

(Sound of rapid footsteps through hall, footsteps up a stairs, breaking down of door)

Big Foreman: Please Mr Logan, no.
Johnny Logan: You and Al Pacino. You’re both the same, thinking I’m nothing.
Big Foreman: I don’t, I don’t. I love your music. I have all your records.
Johnny Logan: Really? What was my last Eurovision winner called?
Big Foreman: Eh…’All Kinds of Everything’?
Johnny Logan: That was Dana.
Big Foreman: Oh.

Johnny Logan: Prepare to meet thy doom.
Big Foreman: Ah Jaysus Johnny, not the face, not the face!

I tolerated the likeness in the beginning, but when The Rats released ‘Don’t Like Mondays’ two weeks after The Hamsters far less successful ‘Mondays are Shite’, I felt compelled to confront the cad in a London pub.

Bob was initially gracious. He contended imitation to be the most sincere form of flattery and apologised for any offense caused. Furthermore, he offered me a generous co-writer credit on ‘Don’t Like Mondays’. I accepted his apology, shook his hand, waited for him to turn away, took hold of a bar stool and smashed it over his back.

Unfortunately, I failed to capitalise on my underhandedness. Bob quickly gained the upper hand, gifting me a beating so severe that I permanently lost the ability to exhale. Rendered unconscious for the last forty minutes of the assault, there’s not much else I recall about it. That said, credible eyewitnesses inform me that Sir Bob….

1. threw me down a flight of stairs, paid a flock of hobos to retrieve me, and repeated the process several times
2. stripped me naked and took a Brillo pad to over 80% of my body
3. grasped my hair in one hand, penis in the other, and spun me around in a helicopter fashion. When sufficient momentum was built, he released his grip and sent me careering through the plate-glass front of a local Burger King

Things were slightly awkward between us afterwards. Still, some years later I naively shared with him my brainwave for a one-off charity single, sung by a super-group of contemporary musicians. Bob was a human (unhygienic) rolodex with contacts galore, and I asked for his help in assembling the choral troupe. Little did I know he was already colluding with an obscure cunt named Midge Ure to repackage my idea as ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas’, by ‘Band Aid’.

I present now the lyrics of my own super-group charity single, which not only holds superiority over Geldof’s cheap knock-off, but is regarded by many as the greatest song ever written. Enjoy!

FEED THE NEEDY

by

Flann O’Coonassa

First Verse

(Jimmy Nail) Rejoice starving Africans, celebrities have heard your call,

(Rolf Harris) ‘Norms’ had their chance to help, and managed to do fuck all,

(Tommy Cannon) And though you could argue, we already do more than enough,

(Bobby Ball) There’s no argument about it, we definitely already do

.

Chorus

(Everybody) It’s time to feed the Needy, they haven’t a pot to piss,

(Lou Ferrigno) In………………………………………………………………….,

(Everybody) Yes it’s time to feed the Needy, though obviously not right now,

(Willis from Different Strokes) But definitely in the short to medium term, it’ll be time to act right then

.

Second Verse

(Bono’s second cousin, Dermot Hewson) I saw a starving African, near my fixed abode,

(Max from Hart to Hart) Fearing what I didn’t know, I chased him down the road,

(Mel) He fled into the blades of a combined harvester, and now he’s in the ground,

(Kim) We have to start helping these people, but obviously not right now

.

Chorus

(Everybody) Because it’s time to feed the Needy, they haven’t a pot to piss,

(Lou Ferrigno) In………………………………………………………………….,

(Everybody) Yes it’s time to feed the Needy, though obviously not right now,

(Willis from Different Strokes) But definitely in the short to medium term, it’ll be time to act right then

]]> http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/10/28/bob-geldof-rob-ripof-more-like/feed/ 18 http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/10/26/jazzuz-almighty/ http://www.coddlepot.com/2009/10/26/jazzuz-almighty/#comments Sun, 25 Oct 2009 23:01:50 +0000 Sweary http://www.coddlepot.com/?p=1582 While the rest of the country enjoys a bank holiday spent on the couch, absent-mindedly picking the sweat-residue from around the buttons on the Sky remote, down in Cork we’re celebrating our annual jazz festival.

It’s a great yoke, The Jazz, involving lots of outdoor trumpeting, artisan stalls selling vegetarian bangles, and queues, queues, and more fucking queues. Still, we’re rewarded for our patience with more drunkenness than you could shake a vibrating oesophagus at, and that’s the main thing.

Like all festivals in Ireland, The Jazz is well lubricated, and its subject best celebrated by imported devotees from more sincere societies; we just want to get langers, boy. Whether in front of a Louisiana saxophonist or a befuddled DJ wondering if a quick spin of Green Onions is a heavy enough headbutt towards the spirit of the thing, we want drowning, we do. Any stray note that seeps in is something above and beyond the call of duty, and we’re grateful and all, but let’s face it – to the average Corkonian, to the average Irishman, the jazz behind The Jazz is but a delightful excuse. In the same way that there’s fuck all funny about Kilkenny, and there’s hardly any daycent hookers in Galway, despite what the ads tell you.

You might love to think of Cork as cultured enough to care about jazz music, but outside of the bank holiday weekend in October, you’re no more likely to hear jazz in Cork as you are to hear the Frog Chorus pumping out of Derek Mooney’s arse. Not that there’s anything terribly wrong with that; who wants to hear bebop fusion soundtracking every traipse down The Banks? Culture is all well and mighty, but let’s not forget it applies to curdling yogurt, too.

Nah, The Jazz is only a quirky backdrop to alcohol poisioning, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. It is nice to see Corkonians come alive from time to time; they don’t prance out as often as Galwegians (thank God), nor do they have the energy of the Dubs. Corkonians do a lot of sitting at home, smoking dope, and The Jazz weekend gets them a bit of fresh air and cleans the chipmunked-trance out of their ears in time for the Christmas house revival. It’s very cleansing, for a weekend that’ll saute your liver. Oh yes.

Which is what I’m off to do now. A pint, a loud pub, and an improvised swing. It’s a good time to be in Cork, and a very bad time for blogging. Life is short – in some cases, much shorter than a jazz solo.

For you lot not getting delightfully baloobas in Ireland’s biggest county this weekend, I share this with you.

Ah, yes. Jazz; musical wanking, but no one in Cork gives a toss.

Go away. Just … go away.

Yours, Sweary

I know that the “Just Go Away” is supposed to come at the end of one of these jokey “Letter To An Annoying Star” thingies, that I’m supposed to be lyrical and amusing before winding into the succinct “oh, just go fuck yourself”; a pre-emptetive paying of my way, perhaps, to make the reading worth your time. But I really cannot be fucking arsed. I have had a really hard day at work, I’m bloody shattered, and I’m facing into another one tomorrow. So there you go. It’s all out in the open now, about as eloquent as a mudslide.

I am bloody sick of this Lily Allen mumbo-vagumbo. I was sick of Lily Allen and her bratty, hyperbolic, chronically-inflamed ego years ago. And I’m not suggesting that she’s doing it to spite me, but she’s still trundling on, despite all of my prayers to higher powers, and my voodoo, and … Oh, for Jesus’ sake. The woman has drained me to such an extent that I can barely bother my … hole … to finish neither sentence nor alliteration. She wearies me, and she has no idea she’s doing it. She’s a blind fucking juggernaut of mockney fucktardery; she runs over me daily and I can’t even say she’s doing it maliciously. Oh, I am so tired of her. So, so tired.

I’m not going to dive into her latest stunt, for fear I’d choke on the potent level of Thick involved, but lookit, you should know what she’s been up to by now, being an internet-savvy individual with enough sparkle in your eye to land on Coddlepot consciously. She’s been ranting about illegal downloads with the pomp and wisdom of an inbred aristocrat, not that I’m suggesting that Lily is an inbred aristocrat, but she’s certainly nearer to it than I am.

That wearies me too – the “Nah, I were dragged up in a council estate, innit?” act, despite the celebrity heritage, fame-stained family friends, and public school education. The “I woz in da shit wit coke when I were only fifteen, innit?” crap, when the true working classes could never have afforded such a glorious defect; how I dreamed of having a coke problem when I was fifteen, but alas, I had to get my kicks licking the concrete outside the local nightclub.

Anyway, it’s nice that Ms. Allen has some convictions outside of the one she wishes she had for glamorous drug-dealing or something equally Dahn Wiv Mah Publick, but let’s face it, her latest whinny over how illegal downloading’s ruining music has made her look like a prize prannet. Oh, just look it up; I’m not going to regurgitate the sorry affair here because I’m just too shagged by the whole stupid saga – complete lack of understanding of anything she was harping on about was order of the day, though, but you’re hardly surprised, are you? Bleating about things you don’t quite get is order of the day and vegetable of the season with Lily Allen. Illegal downloading, drug dealing (and why is drug dealing ok if file-sharing isn’t? I guess file-sharing is too accessible to be edgy), tit-flashing, how to interpret Pulp’s “Common People” … things Lily has an opinion on (good) but no real understanding of (bad).

It’s a bit like me and born-again Christians; they make me uncomfortable, but it’s because of my own prejudice and lack of understanding and it’s through no real fault of the Christians. I’m not about to go roaring at the top of my lungs about them, in other words, because I’d come across as an awful plonker; my comfy prejudices would deflate like a Penney’s gel bra, and I’d actually have to go substantiating things. I’d rather sit here and frown about The Rapture in the privacy of my own addled little head …

As Ms. Lily should have done. But didn’t. She barked without having any back-up bite, and when she was ridiculed, she sulked and said she was quitting music because she’s not being paid enough to sing her over-produced, beige rubbish anymore. She was only paid €50,000 for her first album, you know. On top of all the freebies and the massively subsidised social life and the teeth-whitening and the coke n’ beer money, like. Poor fucking lamb.

I have an opinion myself on file-sharing, and it’s a cautious one. I can see how it would annoy artists who have back-up dancers to pay, but on the other hand, if I stuck to hearing only what I’m fed by MTV, or NME, or 2fm, I’d have missed out on a huge amount of excellent bands, especially local bands. But that’s a whole other post, and one I’ve posted not so long ago, so I’ll shut up now.

And I hope Lily Allen does the same, because I’m so fed up of her. I don’t expect her to have mercy on a blogger whose existence she is blissfully unaware of, mind you, but it would rock just to … well, ram her underneath one. I can’t stand celebrities whinging about how hard their lives are, especially when we see non-stop pictures of them utterly langers, flashing out of their fucking Prada dresses. It just gets my goat, shaves its horns off, and holds its kids hostage. But I’m probably worse to write about it, really, feeding the perpetual motion machine, laying more steaming tarmac for the juggernaut to crush…

I’d think about it with proper care and attention if I wasn’t so tired.

And I’d really pick up if Lily Allen just fucking WENT AWAY.

Even the Devil Wear Prada!

The law which have been brought about is preventing the sons of the Spanish aristocrocacy from claiming his father’s title if he is having an older sister. Quite rightly the aristocrocs are up in their armchairs about this iniquitous inequity and are insisting that the nation’s constitutional court strike down the law. What is worse, the law might even be allowing some ladies to claim titles retroactivistically from brothers and uncles who already have got them! This is a big disgrace!

One of the evil powerful women who is behind this law is the witchlike Ágatha Ruiz de la Prada, who is claiming the title Marquess of Castelldosrius from an uncle.  I am say she is witchlike because she have clearly beguiled the idiot Zapatero into passing this law. Let us not forget what means the name Zapatero: It mean “shoe repairer” or “shoe fixer,” and who is the most famous shoe maker in the world who is laying claim to the title of Marquess of Castelldosrius? Si! None other than Ruiz de la Prada! You would have to be an utter loaf not to smell the stench of conspiracy here. And as you can see from above, she have even roped in the False Pope, Bendedict, into her schemes. This is nothing less than a plot to emasculate the Spanish aristocrocacy in order to render the country weak and feeble and femninine so that we can be better dominated by the atheist statanic communists and their golf-hating minions. Prada, incidentally, is also the wife of Pedro J. Ramírez, editor of the liberal rag El Mundo and clearly one of those wet liberal husbands who let his wife out of the house and have a job and income of her own. It come as no surprise. She probly even tell him what to write in his paper, which demonstrate how the corruption in today’s Spain go right from the very top.

Fortunately, the fightback have already begun. Some of the best noblemen have set up the Spanish Nobles Association in order to counter the pernicious influence of women and liberals.   They have firsthand esperience of the chaos cause by this unnatural law.  Miguel Beltrán Temboury y Redondo, who is spokesman for the Nobles, is report that already his own brother and sister have been fighting one another, sometimes in court, mostly in the back garden with deckchairs.

“Is most unbecoming of the Count of Labajos and Las Infantas to have to fend off his sister with a Swingball,” says Temboury. “And last week she leap out at him screaming from nowhere during the dressage event in Vienna. It wake up not only him but the rest of the crowd too.”

Temboury also tell us that over 1,000 Spanish aristocrocatic families have been thrown into confusion and doubt because sons who thought they would inherit titles will now see them go to older sisters. A number of sons have already begun taking hormone supplelements to become ladies. “They are confuse into thinking if they become ladies they will be able to keep their titles,” Temboury is esplain. “Others are forging their birth certificates to make themselfs look older, and some of the men are growing the moustaches to look more mature. Some of their moustaches are almost as thick as their sisters’.”

The Spanish Nobles are doing their best also to implore the king to intervene. “This is a violation that is being penetrated upon us by liberal homosexuals and lesbian ladies,” they point out clear-sightedly. They also observe that if the law was applied to the monarchy, then the next king would be a queen, because Juan Carlos’s oldest child is a lady.   However, Juan Carlos is so far refusing to back the Rebel Nobles, which come as no surprise when you remember that he refuse also to back the military coup of Lieutenant General Jaime Milan del Bosch, back in 1981. Is sad to say that the King is a lily-chicken-liver-shit coward who is not knowing his place. He ought to be setting an esample to the people of Spain by ruling them directly with his iron-on fists. That way, everyone would know where they stand and who they should be deferential to.   As it is, the world is in utter chaos.

Still, there is no way that you would find me kneeling down neither in front of nor behind a lady in order to kiss her ring. Some things are beneath me.

Yet, rarely are they ladies.  I am not know why.

The music world was effectively ended last week with the news that Noel Gallagher has quit Oasis. Rioting predictably erupted in all 147 of the world’s countries, causing the earth’s rotation to unsettle two centimeters from its usual axis, thereby setting us on a collision course with the sun for early 2011. Selfish apocalyptic Mancunian bastards.

Of course, Nostradamus predicted the whole affair in one of his more accurate quatrains from 1542:

Two musical apes ripping off The Beatles

Friction between the apes grows dire

The lute playing elder walks away

Pair of wankers rain death upon the world

Impressive enough to have predicted The Beatles by name, but Nostradamus’ use of the word ‘wanker’ is regarded as the first on record. Coddlepot now takes a look back at the life of the Gallaghers.

1967: Mother Peggy gives birth to a fully-grown, unshaven Noel. Doctors confirm that she has in fact been carrying twins, and should continue pushing.

1972: Liam is born, bringing an end to a record-equalling five year labor. When asked how she feels, Peggy replies that she is “a little tired”, and says the fifth year of the delivery was “worse than the other 4 put together”.

1978: Noel throws a chainsaw at Liam when a game of Buckaroo goes awry, accidentally beheading him. Thankfully, the world’s foremost decapitation specialist (Dr Manfred Finklestein) lives nearby, and reattaches Liam’s head without charge.

1980: Liam beheads Noel with a samurai sword in response to a taunt about his lack of table etiquette. Dr Finklestein again does a sterling job, though Noel never regains the ability to roll his tongue. He later chronicles the tongue issue in the song ‘Wonderwall’.

1988: Noel’s highly touted dance career flounders. He is firstly ejected from the prestigious Royal College of Ballet for his insistence upon non-standard tutus. The final straw comes during a performance of The Nutcracker in The Albert Hall. Flouting the palette of accepted techniques, Noel improvises a fusion of ballet and a style called ‘The Running Man’ from the burgeoning rave scene. Reviews are unkind.

1989: Liam drops out of medical school, citing “…the impenetrable bureaucracy of the NHS”. Nevertheless, his thesis on the Neurology of Schizophrenia remains required reading in medical schools worldwide.

1990: The brothers form a band called ‘Granny’s Crotch’, later renamed ‘Violating the Platypus’, soon rebranded ‘The Chartered Accountants’, and finally settling on ‘Oasis.’

1992: Noel’s early songwriting bears few portents of the lyrical firebrand he’d become:

The Snuggle Bears

by

Noel Gallagher

Can you see the Snuggle Bears,

Snuggling you and me,

Can you see the fluffy kittens,

Snuggling puppies for free

Gallagher himself admits that ‘The Snuggle Bears’ starts to grate after the eighteenth verse. Other songs such as ‘Stay off Drugs’, ‘Smoking Damages your Health’, and ‘Obey the Food Pyramid’ are equally toothless.

1996: The brothers begin gaining headlines for their outspokenness. Scattergun attacks often seem motiveless and cruel, such as Liam’s branding of Mother Theresa as a “…towel-headed, shriveled up oul’ cock dodger.” Noel is equally unkind to Somalian refugees, regarding them as “…freeloading hobos with their grubby paws out, always wanting something for nothing.”

1999: Blur frontman Damon Albarn is found decapitated in a London park. Though his head is successfully reattached, his short-term memory is compromised, leaving him with no recollection of his attacker(s). In his autobiography, Noel later recalls chopping the head off an unnamed Indie singer:

“….myself and our kid dragged the Indie twat into a small park near Fulham. ‘Park Life? I’ll show you Park Life, you cunt’. And with that, we fashioned a crude guillotine from a plate of glass we’d found in a dumpster and chopped his fucking head off. ‘You’ll be doing no more living in any houses in the country,’ says Liam, which made me chuckle…”

Police question Noel over the contentious passage, but determine there is insufficient evidence to charge him.

2003: An Oasis concert in Norway descends into chaos when Liam produces a shotgun from his trousers and begins taking pot-shots at his brother. Noel flees the stage, only to return minutes later in a Sherman tank. The entire arena is leveled by the ensuing battle, which leaves more than 400 Norwegians dead and twice that number injured. The Norwegian prime minister declares the Gallaghers “mass murderers”, and calls for international sanctions against them.

2009: A minor disagreement regarding ownership of a Dairylee Triangle sees Noel quit Oasis, hence ending the reign of man on earth.

And, obviously, there are differing schools of thought to the whole malarkey. There are those of us that call it a victimless crime. There are others who think it natural progression, and still others who call it Proper Order. There are poor souls who frown and furrow, and claim to appreciate both bubbling elements of the turgid stew of this particular debate – mostly pleasant, hand-wringing types who know that stealing is wrong, but also, deep within their bones, that free stuff is good. And obviously there are those of us who vehemently believe that illegal downloading and file-sharing is wrong – morally, ethically, and judicially – and these people tend to be members of that minuscule smidge who’ve made money out of the Music Business. Morally, ethically, judicially, and financially; piracy is A Crime.

Which is something I’d normally agree with. Taking things that don’t belong to you is Bold. Taking things that other people have created without rewarding them is Very Bold. But being forced into sourcing decent music from shady online places because you’re not all that into Girls Aloud and you’re sick of being expected to put up with their bland, soulless warbling because the alternatives don’t have careers in Heat Magazine is … well, surely not all that fucking remarkable, is it?

I hate radio playlists. I fucking hate them. Coldplay do nothing for me. Glen Hansard will always be Outspan Foster. Beyonce sounds like a burglar alarm. The Black Eyed Peas are monstrous, monstrous cunts. I get my music recommendations through friends, blogs and LastFM, and that’s a minefield enough, thank ye very kindly – constantly terrified of being aurally shat-upon by some fucking emo twat with more eyeliner than mortal fear of my particular brand of vengeance.

“That’s all well and good,” you might venture from behind a makeshift corrugated iron shield, “but can you not, when you find something pleasing to your lugs, legally and safely procure same from a licensed merchant such as HMV or Play.com, whose warehouses are spacious and whose stockpiles are varied?” And to you I say, codswallop! Some of my favourite artists are banjaxed by being big in obscure places like Canada, and are unavailable from Play, or iTunes, or my local record shop which only sells Sonny Knowles boxsets and T-shirts with Iron Maiden on. LastFM, from where I may have dragged these artists, is suffocated by record label rules and absurdities, and does not usually have full catalogues uploaded, and cannot play the same artist more than once every twelve fucking years. Or something. So, if you don’t care for the warblings of the last X-Factor winner, or Cascada’s torturous approximations of electronica, can you really go a whole, saintly lifetime without nibbling a little on this slightly-poisoned apple?

The choice of music that is easily available to us, that doesn’t require an open mind and a laid back attitude to sifting through shite, is fucking atrocious. The artists being promoted are those who don’t need promotion, who’ve been primed and pimped well before they lay a hand on a microphone. They tend towards lyrics delivered by mallet blow, catchiness pre-set by market research. No fucking thanks, mate. Promising bands are dropped by record labels because the front man hadn’t shagged anyone interesting enough for a press release. Useless cunts are favoured because they have hairless knees and glossy, fake teeth. Songs are fiercely guarded for fear anyone would listen to them without crossing the greasy palm with silver. The Music Industry (and how I loathe that term) needs obliteration like I need a strong cuppa and a tayto sandwich.

See, now we’ve got new genres popping up faster than Calum Best in a room full of roofied models. Anything left unattended for longer than Jordan’s attention span is re-imagined, remixed and re-packaged for anyone who’ll listen. In the information age, people no longer rely on Dave Fanning to tell them what their favourite Radiohead song is. The album is dead. The CD is dead. Michael Jackson is dead. What good can possibly come of moaning about how easily sound is stolen, how close to their knees the amalgamated record labels? The rest of us don’t give a fuck. Surely people would rather see bands out their playing and performing, than in L’Oreal ads barking about mineral foundation?

There is excitement in finding a new artist, and texting your mates about them. There is delight when noticing that a band has made their album free to download from their website. There is something close to a party-in-your-pants when you see your favourite oddball minstrels are booked to play in your local venue. There is genuine goodwill out there towards the musicians …

… and none, absolutely fucking none, for the people who keep dragging Britney “Decrepit” Spears back into the limelight.

Yeah, share the wealth. Tell your mates. Go to gigs! Burn playlists for your girlfriend. Copy your favourite alt-country album for yer mam to see if she can be swayed from the arms of Johnny McAvoy. Share, share, share … isn’t music for loving?

Libraries didn’t do literature any harm, did they (certainly less harm than J.K. Rowling did, anyway)?

So, er, yeah. Proper Order.

(So’s this, though.)

But I still find the whole thing ponderous. My Tweets on Twitter are not exactly what you would call wise or sage like. I hawk no product save for my own blogs both old and ahem cough cough new. I offer no advice except for quality breakfast combinations such as tea, toast and the early works of The Cure. I call this my goth-lite breakfast. And I break no news or political scandals. No my tweets on twitter are far more prosaic than any of that. Believe me I am not hiding my tweety light under a bushel. I use twitter mainly for moaning, the aforementioned breakfast/music combinations, slagging off opposing football fans (mainly that special sort of laser blue shirted idiot – the lesser spotted Manchester cittee fan), blog whoring and on occasion reporting of celebrity spotting. But being Belfast that doesn’t happen very often.

Heres some examples of my tweeting, maybe there’s more to them than I think.

Moaning tweets:

Food & Music Combo Tweets:

Random Tweets:

See, what I tell you? It’s all nonsense! How can any of that be described as influential? Believe me I am not picking selected “whacky” tweets to make myself look crazy or zany or any of that oul bollocks, this is what I do on Twitter everyday! But then again I never thought for one moment that this simple little tweet about a woman with a kangaroo (now believed to be a wallaby) would end up with me getting a mention in The Sunday Times, which was nice. Odd but nice. There was even a cartoon. Page 15 I believe.

With tweeting like that I really do feel bad for those who came behind me, eek. I am hoping, of course, that my hairy shoulders post gets me a regular spot in GQ magazine or something. Heh. But still as my good friend, the Other Manuel, put it being named the 17th most influential Irish person on Twitter really is the same as being named third-favourite child in a two-child family. Fail whale waiter for sure.

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