Arctic Heat

No wonder the polar icecaps are melting faster than Joan Rivers' face in front of a log fire.

Well nothing is sacred it would appear. I buggered off to TX on the safe side of Christmas and in doing so attempted to buy the Arctic Monkeys' album on the way out of Gatwick, only to discover its UK launch was set for late January. Tree-fookin-mendous, I'd be back in Blighty in good time. Cool as anything, me. Lo and behold in my absence the whole bastard country cottoned on to the cheeky, pre-pubescent, council estate flouting rapscallions with their Sheffieldisms and occasionally clever but never dumb lyrics. They have outsold the rest of the Top 20 in the UK album charts PUT TOGETHER this past week.

Maybe I am getting old because time was that I could spot something cool and a few other people would latch onto it. Because that is the key; the less people that like something the cooler it is - within reason. There is absolutely nothing cool about German Industrial music even though it is adored by only eleven fat, saggy, bad coat wearing, twelve inch thick soled shoe tottering, quarter-wits (mainly from the three corners of Yorkshire). That constitutes a cult of cunts. When we are talking lack of weight of numbers we are talking The Smiths before and right up to the release of The Queen Is Dead; or Richard Pryor prior to Stir Crazy. Simple.

It seems that now when I spot something cool every other fucker latches onto it a few weeks later. The same thing happened in mid-'05 Stateside, with My Chemical Romance. There I am getting in touch with my eye make-up side when the bastards appear on MTV emmeshed in a pustulating throng of high schoolers. ARSE!!