Oh, and here’s a cat is some shoes, just for good measure…
Today’s the day, voting is over. A new, younger and distinctly less jowly phoenix shall rise from the ashes of our last shit-pile government, to lead Labour’s fight back against Clegg and Cameron’s “Coalition of the Peeled Sausage People.”
So, let’s have a look at who is in with a shout at the job, a lot has already been said about their political leanings, associations, education and such. So for that reason – and because I know precisely bollock all about that side of things – it will mainly be a list of what their faces look like. Which is important, obviously.
First up, the outsider, probably not going to win, possibly because of his Blairite tendencies, but more likely due to the fact he looks like someone tried to sculpt a younger, sexier Michael Gove out of a bag of mashed dog cocks.
Burnham’s face is remarkable, he can go from looking reasonably normal to resembling a creepy Victorian sex doll that’s been dragged from a fire within the same sentence, here are a few other hastily thought out, badly worded ‘observations’:
– When he smiles, he looks a bit like a ‘Where are they now?’ photo-fit of Lord Snooty.
– His hair looks like it was chosen by a focus group.
– Burnham’s eyes make him look like an ageing, and particularly effete Cure fan, who has had to stop dressing like a distressed crow, quit his band and “Get a proper job”
So, we potentially could have a Labour Leader named Balls… Tee Hee Hee! Balls, there. Done, it is funny, and I like the idea that all the political parties have to elect people with surnames that describe what their face looks like, Cameron would have to change his name to David Upside-Down-Flayed-Fucking-Penguin-With-A-Childs-Drawing-Of-A-Face-On-It. Which wouldn’t fit so well on a ballot paper.
Ed is a genuine contender, despite looking like Gordon Brown getting sucked off in a wind tunnel.
He’s seen as the tough talking, footy loving, sleeves rolled up candidate who will POWER-FUCK the opposition with his thick, veiny policy shaft and leave them a weepy husk in the morning.
He puts the MAN into manifesto, etc. etc. But what of his face?
– He looks perpetually confused, as though his farts end with a question mark.
– His head is the same size as an entire boiled ham, as such he struggles to make his hair look like it belongs on a human being. It sort of looks like it’s been badly photoshopped on as an after thought, by an ADHD afflicted Sixth Form student.
– When he smiles, it’s as if he is wistfully reminiscing about the time he did a moony off the back of the school coach.
The second Ed, and first of the two Miliband brothers in the race and according to the bookies, the hot favourite to win.
Fuck knows why, he’s blander than water soup and frankly just the idea of researching why he’s so popular makes my whole body yawn. So, lets just concentrate on his frankly astonishing fizzog shall we?
– He looks like a varnished jacket potato.
– His neck appears to join his face at the nose, with his chin effectively being an Adam’s apple.
– His head looks so squishy and malleable, it reminds me of those faces made from tights filled with sand you grew water-cress out of in Junior School.
– I imagine he spent most of his childhood happily pushing tonka toys up his rectum and gurgling proudly about it to his mum.
– He would be ideal for a live action Earthworm Jim film, wherein Jim has let himself go a bit, given up on life and got a job in the accounts department of a local granite worksurface company.
The second Milibland brother, and possibly the most normal looking out of all the contenders. Which considering the gallery of wonky faced fuckboobs involved, is faint praise indeed.
Of the four, he’s the most polished and has perfected his Tony Blair affectations to such a level that if this goes tits up he could make a decent living as a look-a-likey strip-o-gram for joyless, middle class hen parties.
– In the right light, if you tilt your head and squint a bit he looks a bit like a white Barack Obama. Unfortunately that’s where the similarities end.
– He sports what – I imagine – he considers to be a “winning smile” but, I’m sorry. The only contest that facial expression will win him, would involve standing in a field in Norfolk with a horse-collar round his neck, waiting for Bob Carolgees to pin a sad little rosette to his puffed out chest.
– His hair looks like a beret made from fuzzy felt.
That’s it, I could spend the whole day doing this, but I have stuff to do. Good luck to eveyone involved and may the best man-shaped boggle eyed fuck win.
It’s that time of year again, when the dimmest lights of the British music industry battle it out to see who will get to have those irritating little stickers that never fully come off even with boiling water, stuck onto their album covers, which in time will look as sad as that local restaurant that once got nominated for ‘Local Eatery of the Year 2002’ and still polishes the little framed certificate every day, as if it still fucking means something 8 years on when they’re facing bankruptcy due to the sudden rise in popularity of Uzbekistani cuisine, which they refuse to even acknowledge, in favour of just guffing out the same fetid Prawn Frittatas in a Mango and Poppy-seed Jus, that was once their trademark dish.
So, who is in the running this year? Well. As we’ve come to expect there’s the usual heady blend of dirgey, irrelevant indie acts, a token ‘Urban’ group that have been carefully selected by a man so middle class and white, he would shit the Daz doorstep challenge a new bum-tube.
But let’s get a proper rundown of who’s in with a chance:
Mumford & Sons: Since 2007, this self styled band of rabble-rousing fuck-a-billy beard enthusiasts have been on a mission to piss a luke warm, marzipan scented aural stream of twangly bum vomit into as many ears as possible.
Reviews for ‘Sigh No More’
“It sounds like Chad Kroeger trying to shit out an entire skiffle group with his pants still on.” – Puzzler Magazine.
“Mumford & Sons are the aural equivalent of a tweed ghost’s disenchanted sigh” – JUGZ.
Kit Downes Trio: When asked to explain the surprise inclusion of the Jazz outfit to the line up, Mercury panellist Jeremiah Sansoreilles stated simply: “Who? Not a fucking clue mate, we just generally stick a nail through a copy of ‘Downbeat’ magazine and whoever it hits, gets a nom. Is that them then? I wondered what that smell was”
Blending a mixture of maudlin, self indulgent piano noodling and a complete disregard for the concept of Joy, we predict Kit Downes Trio will go on to bigger and better hotel lobbies in the not too distant future.
Reviews for Golden:
“What is this shit? It sounds like a clinically depressed child bashing a cat to death against an untuned piano” – Horse and Hound.
Biffy Clyro: Scottish favourites Biffy Clyro continue to pedal their inexplicably popular ‘Jimmy Eat World sodomising the lifeless corpse of Idlewild with an old horse cock’ noise to our nation’s troubled youths, and have earned themselves a nomination because, fuck it. I don’t know. They’re trying to tap into the Emo teen demographic for when the Mercury Compiler comes out? I’m honestly baffled.
Reviews for Only Revolutions:
“Jesus.” – Yorkshire Friend.
Dizzee Rascal: British Hip-Hop’s answer to Black Lace has now been nominated every year since 1974, winning the coveted sticker with ‘Boy in Da Corner’ and is back this year, mainly because organisers get all their Hip-Hop knowledge from that free magazine you get in Sainsbury.
Reviews for Whatever Dizzee Rascal’s New Album is Called, I Can’t be Arsed to Look It Up:
“Bonkers is to music, what Rohypnol is to the art of seduction” – Sudoku Challenge Monthly.
Paul Weller: After a surprise victory last year, Weller is back to defend his crown. At the age of 73, The Modfather continues to confound nay-sayers by simply choosing to ignore them and churn out more doddery old warty Dad-Rock regardless.
Reviews for Wake Up a Nation:
“What is wrong with his fucking hair? It looks like he’s wearing a fire damaged deer-stalker” – Grazia
The XX: This year’s ‘Band Who Probably Deserve to Win, But Won’t.’ Let’s move on, shall we.
Laura Marling: The warbling Alt-Folk Succubus gets the nod again for her second album, which a lot of clueless record company executives are referring to as being “a lot darker than her first” and it is, in the same way the Harry Potter films have gotten progressively more violent and ‘edgy.’
Reviews for I Speak Because I can:
“I’m glad she can, I just wish she wouldn’t” – Metalhammer.
There are others, but to be quite frank. I can’t bring myself to listen to them. Here are some lazy, ill informed and hastily thrown together comparisons:
Foals – Total Life Forever: Fleet Foxes, The National and MGMT weepily tugging each other off in a darkened room.
Wild Beasts – Two Dancers: Talking Heads, fronted by Kate Bush. Only somehow dull.
Villagers – Becoming a Jackal: Rambly, limp wristed indie-folk bumbling, which they probably think is wistful, but sounds for all the world like a mash-up of members of Turin Brakes and Kings of Convenience calling their ex at 4am after a bottle and a half of Gin.
I am Kloot – The Sky at Night: Shane MacGowan attempting Americana in the style of a heliumed up Lou Reed.
Corrine Bailey Rae? Christ. Do you really care?