(For reference: These people want yr fists in their fucking faces)

Let's fucking do this.

I am, suddenly, defending the Mercury. Why? Because despite a certain quota-like approach by the judges, the universe needs this sort of award. No, it isn't fucking judged on achievement. That's the point, dillface. If we wanted another award judged purely on the number of sugar-high 12 year olds who parted with drool-stained pennies for discies, we'd hold the Smash Hits Poll Winners Party every second Friday of the month.

We don't need another one. We have the fucking charts to tell us who's selling the most, but they don't tell us who's best (has Justin had straight number ones? No. Are kids stupid? Yes.). Most of the people whining their white asses off to the tune of The Times rustling gently in the wind would fucking scream if Westlife, or even Busted, who aren't a real band now are they?*, got near this thing. But they outsell The Darkness by a fucking mile.

So is constant play on Radio 1 and giving the NME staff stiffiepants the true criterion for "success"? No, it's not. Why not? Becuase these seem to hinge mostly on how many adverts the record company takes out in the NME/how hard they hate themselves that week. I have no idea how the Radio 1 playlist is drawn up, but do the people who do it even like music? Cos they never used to.

As much as I love pop, the charts and the 12 year olds and the people who leave their TV habitually set to ITV are not the be-all and end-all of music consumption. Like filling the capital with Lloyd-Webber musicals, who the fuck cares if they're popular to most, what about the people who don't feel? What about the people who want Delta Goodrem harmed, and want her harmed yesterday and harmed hard? Ladies and gentlemen, Murdoch is a shit and Timberlake gets straight men wet- it's the inevitable return, baby, of the great politcally correct minority programming agenda.

(No, I know, the judges are tosspots). This is like when Turner-haterz cum in the sensible pants and then, from cumming so hard, eventually cum in their nice comfortable beige trousers with waistband just below the navel and nice big creases down the legs so they know how to hang them at night with the lights off because they can't bear to face the cold ahrd reality of their joyless little lives from all the excitement of hating the prize so damn much because they don't like the art. So the fuck what? Don't fucking look at the art then, dillweedface. IT'S NOT FOR YOU! It's for people who have spent years immersed in the culture of the art, of it's languages and symbols. What, you think that's elitest, snobbish, up-it's-self? Yeh?? You think everyone should get everything that gets praise?? Fucking fuck yr stupidass soap awards! Not everyone likes them, you think we should fucking ban them? Ban soaps themselves? Fuck no! Each to their own, arse-fearer.

Basically, we need an award for the art of music. The judges music on a hella load of levels. It's impossibly, of course, and they should probably just compile a better short list and leave it as that, with on album in each category, and really just stop pretending that Jazz is ever going to win. Why? Because why the hell should fans of music that doesn't chart get fucking pushed to one side? Yeh, The Mercury is staffed by wankpots but God, don't go for it's Platonian ideal.

Also, we need an award that remembers the 80's, because the little pricks jumping up and down over there going The Darkness are so fresh! want some fucking educating. With sticks.

*Note to naysayers: REM don't have a drummer. And Busted actually do have a drummer. Have you ever necked four Slush Puppies in six minutes in the basement of Hamlies and then gone running around playing with the flying shit? So how could you possibly know??

_chris! // 17:29



Look! The Situationists it's OK for Nike to like!

French... City-as-playground... Hott... London skylines... Mmm... My biggest gripe is that the London footage kept getting marred by stupid, staged conversations between the runners, and the other problem was that it didn't really open up the way for The Sun to start trying to actually ban the children who play Jet Set Future from public places, claiming that they've "GONE XXXTREME!!!!!"

_chris! // 22:45


So yeh, got a ot of weird-ass looks at work today. It started when I sold, becase I am stupid, vodka to a 16 year old. Yeh, dumb, I know. But atleast in real terms the responsibility lies with me (as I didn't get managers/security to check his age), although I don't know who legally gets the blame.

Oddly, I care about this. I have absolutly no idea why Simon (that's his real name, by the way) felt the need to tell me, after the guy was served, that he was 16 (sure, one of his friends had just decided to fall over in our doorway but really, what was I going to do?). Yeh yeh, blah blah.

What's stupid (about other poeple) is the looks I was getting for about an hour and a half like I hadn't sold them vodka (really, I don't think I was the first... ), but had rounded up their younger brothers and sisters and fed them to a room of
Daniel Kitson lookalikes, and made them tape the outcome- yeh, there's like a tinytiny chance that something may happen to the liscence maybe I think maybe, but really... I sold the uranium to Saddam??

Obviously, I should be skinning Simon alive for being a prick, for his smug little smile and irrtating demeanour (which I didn't really mind before because who the hell can be bothered to dislike most people at work? It's not worth it, they all deserve my wrath), but why the fuck would he come up to me tonite and tell me he doesn't like me? n what paralell universe is that worth the fucking calories? That kid's serisouly weird.

_chris! // 22:38


I don't like traveling. I have no wish to travel. My back hurts, carrying things suck, I hate sweating, I couldn't cope with the stress of checking every room I sleep in and freaking out that I'd lost something. Packing and unpacking blows, foreign cities are obviously infinately more dangerous then British ones. I don't cope well doing anything at all ever.

Why the hell am I overcome with an urge to go the really very obvious tour-of-places-with-hipsters-in-North-America thing?? (I know why. It's because I'm being emailed by a friend going Look! I'm in NYC! Fucking friends... )

_chris! // 11:30



We're just not talking about the proposed duet with Timberlake.

_chris! // 22:25


I should stress that I like Kit-Cat very much, and I in no way intended to indirectly compare her to Gwynth Paltrow, or more directly to someone who would like to make chiken soup for Chris Martin and then be very nice to him. She is, ofcourse, a lovely person, and any connection with Chris Martin would only be in his own mind, or be the result of a particularly warped character defect that isn't in anyway representative of her as a whole.


_chris! // 22:24


Of Coldplay's Theme From BBC Digital.

This song exists purely so that Chris Martin can sit down for a nice chat with the man from The Sunday Times and talk about how he was sat, in Autumn, in a big coffee shop with those enermous windows, soaking in the ambiance, and the piano part "just came to me, as if in a dream".

This is, it has only just occured to me, a song entirely about sitting in a cafe in London watching Kit-Cat Club from Barbelith walk past, and thinking about taking her back to yrs and having a nice conversation about Wordsworth and eating some chicken soup. This is for people who like boring autumns brought to you by the colour beige.

I like autumn, becuase it has nice red leaves in it and allows me to wear large coats witout sweating too much, and I can pretend they are cute coats. In my head, scarfs also look kinda hott on me too. However, there are also warm bits allowing me to wear tees, should the mood take me. Mmm... autumn.

Which is why I ust ask Coldplay to fuck the fucking fuck right the fuck off, because I like autumn and you are boring and ruining it all.

Also, the other day there was a man peeing on my fence and staring into my back garden and then, later, and completely unrelated, my mother and father sat around a lot in awe of the crushing existentialist despair brought on by the reality that they will have to kep doing this, for three years, to get me thru uni. I walked past the peeing man singing a song aboutbouncing all day long from the Basement Jaxx album, and the peeing man didn't seem impressed. He may have wanted to knife me.

My apple cumble, so all mine I fucking picked the apples myself, fucking rocks lke a bastard.

_chris! // 21:53


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