‘The organisers are putting everything into it. If they get it right, it will be epic.’ ‘Everything ‘ … ‘if’ …. *shudders*
[while being burned alive in a Wicker Man] Oh, God… I humbly entreat you for the soul of this, thy servant, David Bowie… who will today depart from this world. Do not deliver me into the enemy’s hands… or… put me out of mind forever. Let me not undergo the real pains of Hell, dear God, because I die unshriven … and establish me… in that bliss… which knows no ending… through Christ… our Lord
The ghouls are out in force. The Thin White Duke’s ashes have yet to settle and the usual suspects are thrusting their fame-hungry, ego-massaging fizzogs into the fray for the shitfest that is the Brit Awards. Off-shore tax haven owning hypocrite and Emerald-mole Bozo, mockneyed Ian Hunter mimic and ‘please call me a polymath’ Damon Blurman and the perennial spectre at the feast, Mirage-honcho and intellectual dead-end, Jimmy Krankie.
Jimmy once again gegging in with his ‘passion for Dave’, an influence conspicuously absent in his 23 years of dispensing aural sewage on the masses. Like his involvement in the 1995 desecration of The Beatles’ ‘Come Together’ ‘for the war kids, man’ this is a case for The Hague (not the obsequious Tory dwarf). ‘Iman, I implore you to intervene, didn’t Dave suffer enough?’
All twelve digits are retreating already at the thought of this horrorshow, the butchery afoot, the pissification of memory at the behest of the Sons of Belial.
Jimmy, Bono-head and Damien ‘666’ Thorn greet Babs Windsor backstage in advance of their impending triage of terror.