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Love watching the guards beating the english sumbags. The ones geting hit are the trouble makers. We have never played em since
Music. Culture. Bollocks.
This site has moved to http://lukesgospel.com/. Please click on the link to view the gospel!
Posted by Unknown at 14:05 0 comments
The Bluth Family are back. The dysfunctional clan, who it's not glib to say (OK it is, but I'm going to) are somewhat like a 21st Century Simpsons with a fortune, have been resurrected by their creator Mitchell Hurwitz with the backing of the online streaming giant Netflix after they were dropped by Fox (the comparison with The Simpsons ends there really, with one dropped way too early by Murdoch's media behemoth and the other left running way too long).
Anyway, I was a tad apprehensive as to whether bringing back Arrested Development was going to prove to have been the right thing to do, but, having now watched the whole series (due to Netflix releasing all 15 episodes in one go on Sunday), I can honestly say that my fears have been completely assuaged and, in fact, I now wonder why I was worried.
Posted by Unknown at 16:58 0 comments
Labels: Arrested Development, Bluth, Jason Bateman, Michael Cera, Mitchell Hurwitz, Netflix, Portia de Rossi, Will Arnett
Of all the accolades that Sir Alex Ferguson has received throughout his storied and glittering managerial career, surely number 1 on his list must be having a Black Eyed Pea name herself after him. Indeed it was that Prince William was thrilled at this same triumph and Steve Jobs was gushing when his company had the accolade bestowed upon it too. But Ferguson had the one who wees herself onstage in outbursts of punk irreverence and sings about her humps and her lovely lady lumps, as well as cleverly outwitting London's tourist board by confusing tourists into the city into thinking one bridge was actually the other (surely Fergie Snr. must have loved this, being a Glaswegian-cum-converted Mancunian).
Posted by Unknown at 15:04 0 comments
Labels: Alex Ferguson, Black Eyed Peas, Fergie, Football, Manchester United, Premier League
Football's a funny old game innit? All of those highly paid men driving around in sports cars through kicking a spherical leather object around a pitch, often berated by the national press for their idiocy and lack of articulacy. Yes, footballers are constantly harangued for their lack of understanding of the wider world and their Twitter faux pas, generally providing zealous journalists with quality canon fodder. I mean, they're just a bunch of morons who've never ventured anywhere near Das Kapital or The Wealth of Nations, right? They seem to just be a rabble of doughnuts who wouldn't know an Autumn Statement or a Conservative Party Conference if it was rubbed into their stud wounds with TCP, don't they?
Posted by Unknown at 13:38 0 comments
Labels: David Miliband, Fascism, Football, Paolo di Canio, Sunderland
Ah, St. Patrick's Day. Green shirts everywhere and the overriding stench of Guinness, sweat and the craic. It's pretty much the Hibernian version of "rum, sodomy and the lash" I suppose - maybe the wittiest quotation attributed to Winston Churchill, of which there are many . Anyway, it's a day for fervent flag waving, ritual singing and abuse of the liver reaching caustic levels. So, then, as I strolled through Clapham Junction on Sunday, it was to be that I was confronted by all manner of proud Irish men and women bumping into me and shouting at one another though clearly stood next to each other.
St. Patrick's Day is one of those celebrations with a certain charm about it, or so everybody tells me anyway, and not just a party for a nation, but for every Western nation, probably due to Ireland's main export seemingly being its own people. So it's a carnival, a delirious festival of green, white and gold for all to enjoy, then? Well, not really. It's basically a pious national day of pride which has become a hedonistic display of its people living up to every debauched stereotype about them - feckless, pissed nuisances and that sort of thing - in some kind of whim of identity politics.
Posted by Unknown at 13:42 0 comments
Labels: Ireland, St. Patrick's Day
Like a feral, rabid, uncontrollable species hellbent on permeating the human race, a craze of uber-catchy pop nasties are finding their way into our charts, bringing with them dance crazes and, shudder, that most mundane and decidedly tortuous of processes: 'office banter' (I cringe nearly as much at this term as I do when I see Micah Paris speaking about one of her new records on some sugar coated cunt fest such as The One Show on BBC1).
With all of the gimmicky, unfunny, everyone-can-laugh-at-this-as-it-appeals-to-the-lowest-common-denominator hogwash of Mr Blobby and ITV's Benidorm, these soon to be forgotten creations are inserting themselves into the orifices of the pop charts (never exactly a medium averse to infection by drivel) with unsurprising, yet nonetheless dismaying, ease.
Posted by Unknown at 00:37 0 comments
Labels: Fads, Gangnam Style, Harlem Shake, Viral
Yeah Yeah Yeahs - 'Sacrilege'
Yeah Yeah Yeahs' wonderful new single, pre-released on the internet today, deserves attention. 'Sacrilege' sees the New York band back after four years away and is a fine return for them. Karen O is at her typical part breathy, part screechy best while Nick Zinner's axe mastery seemingly knows no bounds.
This single appears to see the band somewhere nearer their sound on 2006's Show Your Bones, in that Zinner's guitar is more fore-fronted, yet a full return to the garage rock sound of 2003's Fever to Tell is not quite apparent. The straight synth disco of 2009's It's Blitz! hasn't been completely wiped away, but is less noticeable on this track.
Posted by Unknown at 23:21 0 comments
Labels: David Bowie, Karen O, Nick Zinner, Sacrilege, The Next Day, The Stars are Out Tonight, Yeah Yeah Yeahs