A working knowledge of the many celebrity scandals which keep the natives of Knifecrime Island too passive to do anything about the absolutely appalling conditions in which they live (if you can call it living) would certainly be helpful to your enjoyment (if you can call it enjoying) of this humorous "song" by "Chenille Steel," but it is not completely necessary because there's something oddly delightful about its sheer awfulness. (You can read some of the lyrics here, if you can call it reading, or those lyrics.) Internet, I just don't know about you sometimes.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
23
Nothing says "Glamour Girl" like "likes it up the bum".
This is all Madonna's fault.
Henry Look at her, a prisoner of the gutter. Condemned by every syllable she ever uttered. By law she should be taken out and hung for the cold-blooded murder of the English tongue.
Eliza Doolittle, version 2.0. I can't tell if this is a parody or not.
Better than Coldplay's
Fifty quid to Elton John if he covers it. A hundred to Paul McCartney.
"Knifecrime Island," the phrase, is an extra-dense comedy element. It just keeps on giving and giving.
I bet she often says things like "cos" and "wiv" and "innit."
And "he's a right git." Git is awesome - we should use it more over here.
You are way too obsessed with us Mr. Balk.
Still, always top marks for a pretty girl in a Chelsea shirt.
Seriously, why do you hate Britain so much. Is this a Denton thing?
Does "appalling conditions in which they live" include national healthcare, you know, not going bankrupt when you get sick? Because, we jumped that fucking hurdle 60 years ago.
I mostly was referring to the continuing presence of Ant and Dec.
Why do you think I left the country.
MUST she wear the Blues' kit?!
Oh my God, she worked Drogba into a song.
Switch on the power washer, Sidney.
Balk, old chap...like London Lee, I feel you spend way too much time in your Knifecrime Island of the mind. It constitutes a thoroughly flimsy foundation for the glittering humouristic career (or humoristic if you prefer) you've obviously set your heart on. It gives me a mildly sadistic thrill to contemplate the mind-numbing effect of the reams of British tabloid dreck you must wade through to such modest (and possibly masochistic) purpose, but really, you need to turn your gaze elsewhere for a while.
Unlike London Lee, however, I still live here, farting, grunting and scratching in the smog and the mud. Somebody has to keep the sheep happy.
I'm sitting here in Knifecrime Island, eating apple streusel and free antibiotics. Just got a free chest x-ray this morning. I do have to leave the house and gingerly pick through diseased pigeons fighting over fried chicken bones and then get on the bus where a teenager is longing to murder me for no good reason every morning, but this is all still better than the time I saw a man shitting and eating a sandwich at the same time in the subway (New York) once.
Or is this a charming ditty a la Shuttleworth, tarted up for the kids today?
Mainly, this left me a little sad and nostalgic; the fact that RB got nary a mention in a song that a year ago would have been all about him is proof if we needed it that he is headed down the wrong road.
WRONG ROAD, Matt, WRONG ROAD. I miss Matt more than RB, if that is possible.
Yes. And one could say, "I hope he's writing some terrific novel" or something, but what could be better? "Spring Break!"
http://arbroath.blogspot.com/2010/02/mother-charged-with-using-sword-to.html
That'll be Memphis, near London, England...