The churning out of much fine new uk music can often leave one feeling rather peckish, so I got quite excited this week when I treated myself to some new scoff technology whilst out on a lavish christmas shop in Poundstretcher.
‘Toastabags‘ (pluralised even though there’s only one in the tight-arsed pack) are basically wallets for toasting sandwiches in your toaster. You may have seen them featured on Dragon’s Den a while back.
Great idea, but sadly the manufacturer’s claims appear to be a complete croque-monsieur of shit. My perfectly decent cheese butty was quickly turned to charcoal on the outside, whilst the cheese inside was still colder than Michael Jackson. The supposedly “reusable toastabag” singed through on it’s first pathetic outing, so in truth didn’t even reach the dizzy heights of being “usable”.
Luckily, the fact that the tight fannies only give you one in the pack meant that I didn’t put my second butty in at the same time, so I avoided cremating them both – I did this one under the grill like I would have done anyway before my idiot purchase.
Toastabags Review: They’re fuc*ing dreadful (0/10)
Ah, that feels better.
Ever noticed that the ‘Best of British’ is often just a bag of wank? Sausages filled with eyelids and snouts, sports stars who regularly bottle it, pan-faced birds with their tits out in mags like Nuts and skinny, floss-brained, smacky-looking male models in union jack boxer shorts. The phrase immediately fills me with trepidation, cynicism and doubt.
Last weekend’s Sunday Mirror decided to spunk out this age old slogan (in their dire ‘Celeb’ mag) in order to shift a few extra copies (probably to retarded BNP voters in Yorkshire) and glory in the crop of new female singers we have warbling around our sacred shores.
To be fair the list was mildly impressive to a point – Florence Welch, VV Brown and at a push Little Boots too (although the hype has done her no favours – wasn’t she supposed to be quirky and fresh as opposed to derivitive and bland?). But Pixie Lott? Yeah, there are probably plenty of tabloid readers who would like to make the glossy magazine pages stick together given half a chance – but the marketing is so transparent I’m at a loss. Hot pants. Loads of them. That’s it. And it’s working. Shame on you Britain! I would say, ‘Not in my name’ – but that’d probably be taking things a bit too far.
Two names relegated to just a small end blurb in the feature were the beautifully melancholic Laura Marling (you should have all heard of her by now) and the lesser known Marina & The Diamonds (although as some of you may know, there are no Diamonds, just Marina). I’ve not heard a lot but what I have heard sounds both commercial and quite good (rare bedfellows) – a little bit Joni Mitchell here and a little bit Kate Bush there (although that’s a bit crass and obvious – sorry). Keep an ear out for her – she’s miles better than La Roux and doesn’t seem keen on pretending the mid-80′s were ace either (they weren’t, they were shit).
None of them are as good as the ladies Foilface got to sing on ‘Pussyfoot’ and ‘Truckers’ though. Those girls have got some serious pipes on ‘em. Check out the tunes if you don’t believe me.
Conclusion – fuck the all sloganeering and hype and dig a little deeper…
I was doing some random camping in a non-specific field during the disturbingly fine UK weather last week, when my Foilface free ringtone blasted out from my pocket, violently raping the tranquility of the whole picture.
I was distracted from my shame by the surprise of seeing this little Alpaca fella react by running a good distance across an adjoining field towards me with clear intent. At first, I thought he may have been offended and intend to take revenge on my nether regions, but no – he ran all the way over just to stop and listen to Foilface. There can be no arguement; Alpacas dig quality recent music.
A church-ridden tw@ in a tunic,
Was buzzing off new english music.
He listened to Truckers,
Whilst blessing some f***ers,
And sprayed out abuse in Tungusic.