I guess you're wondering what the hell is going on here at Mung HQ ... or probably not, I hope, since I assume you might have something not dissimilar to a life going on.
As it happens, over the past while, the Mungs have completed their newest album, "Schlungs", a rather surprising effigy of a pop album tossed on a pyre and swept up and added to a Mango Smoothie laced with overproof rum and some prescribed chemicals.
When it was played to me, I found myself wondering what the meaning of life was. Without drawing conclusions on that particular avenue of thought, I did conclude that I had heard something. A series of musical excursions. It's actually not as bad as I was expecting, to be honest. However, it did have an adverse effect upon my cat.
The poor beast has clawed its own ears off. And seems happier for it.
Having spent the past half-solar cycle in Sir Dhahii's weird "country", or should I say (with a degree of obviousness) "cuntry", subjected to a weird amalgam of Britishness and Americanism stewed in an emerald-green pot, and more country (cuntry) music than you can savagely brandish a kebab at, I can only conclude that this album will be better than anything that Simon Cowell will be responsible for in the coming 12 months. Which isn't saying a lot.
I have had many emails asking why I was failing to write on the 2010 X-Factor after my over-generous coverage of the previous year. Well, the answer is simple: I couldn't be arsed. I saw the last few "episodes", and found myself wondering just how gullible the British and Irish publics actually were. Matt Cardle??? A man with no neck and a voice like someone having a vasectomy done without anesthetic. Utter drivel, taking a song by Biffy Clyro, of all bands, to the Christmas number one spot. The man is no singer, yet the superlative were pouring out left, right and center about this dubious "hero". Which reminded me of the previous year and the wonder that was Joe McElderry (interestingly, the Parish priest (Catholic, surprisingly) of the little hellhole in Ireland where I was staying shared this name: Father Joe McElderry ... Not a pedophile, btw, but had a rather large collection of Jesse Franco DVDs ...). The difference between the 2010 X Factor and the 2009 edition was the fact that Matt Cardle was a favourite from the beginning, rather than invented by the judges. They didn't need to invent a sacrificial lamb this year, as the public had already taken that upon themselves (perhaps in some kind of atonement for placing Rage Against The Machine at number one for Christmas 09). McElderry's career has been exactly the expected non-event I thought it would be, while Olly Murs has had a great deal more success. Expect Rebecca Ferguson to emerge in the next 12 months as the real winner this time, alongside the truly manufactured boy band whose name I have already forgotten. One Dissection or something.
And I have also been criticized for not bashing Cheryl Cole in a while. But honestly - do I really have to? Isn't she sufficiently boring and devoid of both personality and intelligence to precipitate her own demise? How much longer can over-exposure to an anodyne self-lover like Cole last without imploding? Yesterday, some poor soul felt the need to comment on my nip-slip image of her: "Cheryl Cole has 1 fit body". Well, last time I checked (and it was immediately after this remark), if you enter "fit body" into almost any internet search engine, you will be presented with a huge array of persons with fit bodies, both in the British slang sense, and in the literal sense of physical fitness and conditioning (as opposed to the spontaneous occurrence of attractiveness in the socially accepted view of this ideal). So why do we have to suffer Cheryl's blandness at all? Why do we constantly have her on British TV and in their "newspapers" whining and whinging about something so inconsequential it would make a gerbil WANT to climb up some paraphiliac's arse? Why suffer her constant social fellating of Will I Am? And most of all, why listen to her turgid soundtracks to a thousand teenage chav pregnancies? All while manipulating her image in desperate attempts to win American and Japanese audiences (the Asianizing of her eyes was a particularly deranged piece of marketing and PR at one point). So, with all this in mind, I won't waste another second of my time thinking about her. And for those of you wanking furiously over images of her: you can probably do better, you know. Saying that, Britain has also produced the wonderment that is "The Saturdays", and already you can see the replacement options for Cheryl Cole being hammered into shape. The short-haired one just needs to take an ass-pounding from a footballer and all will be well in the world of British tabloids, and Cheryl will degenerate into a middle-aged wannabe milf exposing more flesh than anyone has any real interest in anymore.
Do I have anything good to say? Depends on your definition of good. My continued exploration of Charlie Brooker has yielded a number of books being sent to me, all of which I quite enjoyed, although Herr Brooker clearly suffers from occasional bouts of head-in-arse disease as much as the next human. "Dead Set" was a big disappointment, being a truly masturbatory piece of TV. "Zombies watching Zombies on TV" being the overarching metaphor there. Bah! Humbug! Very disappointing. And some of his opinions are so archly "British", it's quite disappointing too. That typical proto-colonial xenophobic Anglophilia infects him. A shame. Ask him if Britain is better than France, and he'll probably rise to the occasion like a wanker full of cheap carryout at an England international football match. But he's above average, though, all-in-all. On a scale of 1 to 10, he sits on the double-digit while others such as Piers Morgan and Danny Dyer languish somewhere far below 1.
Anyway. I guess I should apologize for my neglect of this "blog" ... but I won't. While the statistics Sir Dhahii has been hitting me with every week since I went on sabbatical indicate that many of you read what I put in here (a ridiculously large number of you, in fact), I feel neither the obligation to continue, nor any kind of reward for doing so. If the best I can hope for is the occasional sad bastard telling me about the perceived fitness of Cheryl Cole or the nob-headedness of Calvin Harris, I guess you, my dear reader, are just a selfish cunt. Why should I give you anything when you give so little in return? No attempts at debate, no goading, no attacks, no defense. In short, dear reader, you are an endless disappointment to me, and I hate you. Now get over it, polish whatever turd you're currently playing with and calling a lifestyle, and fuck off.
I don't like you ... get over it.
Today is: (just in case you're a moron, or recently thawed out after a cryosleep)