Neil trying to find a word that rhymes with ‘torch’
He’s off again, the Mirage Midget, spouting his hackneyed wares in the name of ‘controversy’ and ‘self-promotion’, whaddyaknow, he’s got another set of stodge-rock anthems and a tour to promote.
‘There’ll be no magic. There’ll never be another Bowie, or people driving round in gold Rolls-Royces, because cunts like Sleaford Mods’ll fucking sneer at them. And rockstardom will die. And what were we all brought up on? Looking at Bowie and going, ‘I want to fucking be that guy!’
No, no, no, people sneer at the likes of ‘you’ because you’re a fraud, a phoney, a blow-hard who confuses the trappings of musical history (chocolate coloured Rolls Royce) with actual talent, originality and worthwhile opinion. Your bemoaning only highlights your delusion, of course you’re in the same company as those artists, those innovators, challengers of mediocrity, you only have to listen to the last 20 years, your creations inspire with their outstanding authenticity, their history-shredding and genre-defining …. erm.
In reality he’s part of the problem, always was: the Britpop Gary Barlow, non-challenging, toadying and obsequious.
Sleaford Mods show you up, reveal you and your output to be (once again) meaningless, bereft of value, intelligence, typically laden with references, sounds and tropes of yesteryear. You’re a fossil, a remnant of a bygone era, an era that contributed to so much of today’s ills, culturally empty, politically impotent, you and your system-serving schtick as tedious today as it was 22 years ago.
Like a wounded, cornered animal, he’s in fear, it’s attack anyone or anything that threatens his place or perish once and for all like the rotten to the core apple that art so resembles, so he attacks the only band making any noises about the state of things, questioning the very system that elevated him to his status as mealy-mouthed ambassador of mediocrity, he’s now so smitten with his position he’s the establishment’s Cerberus at the gates of Hades, Parkie off Viz employed to keep heretics out.
Noel earning his crust, defending his paymasters and their rules
His boneheaded brother’s learnt how to text (predictive, obviously, he’s gotta crawl before he can walk) and agrees:
‘Effectively, what he said was: ‘Destroy Sleaford Mods, ’cos they’re just glue-sniffers.’ Summat like that.”
Of course he did. Well that’s cleared that up then, the Brothers Dim have decreed it. Wait a minute, this means that the unthinkable might happen, the lads are going to get back together, revive those heady days, now that’s moving forwards, that’s challenging the status quo. Wonder what it would sound like?
Curly, Larry and Moe try to summon up the wherewithal to function
Once more these are the witterings of intellectually redundant, creatively spent (not that there was ever much in the vault) moron who’s continual craven attempts to shoe-horn his plagiarised oeuvre into the annals of lore only
Take his ‘new’ excrement ‘Riverman’. Someone’s decided to rip-off elements of Pink Floyd’s ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ with added Doves this time haven’t they.
What have you got to say about austerity, mass unemployment, increasing debts, corruption, the politics of the personal, the conditions that many of your ‘fans’ endure? Your soma songs induce passivity, abjection and stasis. Soundtracking the End Times is your role in life.