This morning as I ate toast, scratched myself and tried to think positively amidst the ongoing gloom of our credit crunched world, I took heart in the an old quote by country bumpkin football guru Ian Holloway, “every dog has its day, and today is woof day! Today I just want to bark!”
Ten minutes later I received an email from some tool who calls himself, Spoilface and my briefly optimistic feelings sank quicker than a broken flapjack in a mug of steaming hot Kenco.
The melty faced twazzock has been googling himself silly and even has misspelt and rhymed versions of his name google alerted to himself every day. That’s how he came across our site – and he’s not impressed.
“What is this piffle?” he enquired upon my good self, “it reminds me of those hackneyed guff peddlars, The Eagles, but without the expertise and bonhomie”. The wordy prick goes on to waffle about how, “the juxtaposition of terraced housing communities and cliched heartbreak smacks of ruinous naivety”, he even compares the vocals on ‘Sad House’ to the, “after sex bravado of an ageing and paunch-inflicted Jimmy Sommerville”.
So, then, who is this Spoilface quent? Well, look at him for starters. He’s like the love child of Charlotte Bronte and Joleon Lescott. He was probably the last one to wank on a cracker at college too – he’s got that look about him – the kind that as a child sucked on his mum’s tits till he had a full set of teeth.
And what does he do? Well he’s got no recent music, no great tunes to download or funny blogs filled with joyous gubbins. No, he lectures biochemistry and theatre studies in Birmingham and writes essays about dust-mites and Brecht. He’s a knob cheese.
