Even if one is lucky enough to find a working pen in the smouldering ruins of what used to be called America, future historians will struggle to write anything more about this era beyond the simple words, “What the fuck happened there?!”
I am undefeated king of political dance floor; no matter what record I spin, everyone boogies to my tune, and when light hit mirror ball it throw off rays of Novichok in every direction. Turn up music, let hair down! Welcome Club Vlad!
I used to have a blog once, better than this, I can tell you. Full of words, so many words, just the best. Millions of visitors, people commenting, free to say whatever, and they all said it was great. This blog and song are failing, believe me!
While he may have long been given the boot, Steve Bannon’s ominous presence can still be felt among the corridors of the White House. It’s a bit like the shadow cast over Hogwarts by Lord Voldemort … if Voldemort was an alcoholic Nazi, obviously.
In the long history of cinema movies have managed to show us every facet of the human experience, and we’ve only really learned two things; first, life is short and, second, Hollywood is determined to waste as much of it as possible.
Being right all the time isn’t nearly as fun as you think. There we were, four years ago, telling you how ghastly social media is, and giving you plenty of reasons to hate it, and we’ve only just discovered there was one we didn’t think of!
This was meant to be our song for Valentine’s Day this year, but it somehow just didn’t feel right putting it out on a day that is meant to be all about love. So, we decided instead to put it out after because, well, this song is about “after”.
The nights draw in. The chill starts to bite. It can only mean one thing … that for the next month we’re going to be repeatedly sprayed in the face with the omni-directional vomit cannon of Christmas advertising.
It’s that spooky time of year again, but there’s no need to fear the zombies, ghosts, werewolves, or witches because there’s actually something even more terrifying … potentially near-fatal encounters with masonry.
There’s a profound yet simple truth about the British: it’s okay if we don’t get what we want, so long as we can have a bloody good laugh instead. The snap election of 2017 more than delivered the goods.
Ahh, the general election; a time for debates, campaign speeches, empty promises, and self-important, D-list celebrities threatening to emigrate if the rest of us don’t elect the person they want to see in office.
It’s Easter half-term, so everyone’s on holiday – even us! We’re taking a break from our usual brand of intelligent, subtle, and witty musical satire to instead bring you a few minutes of entirely deserved gratuitous verbal abuse.
They are often referred to as the “thin blue line”, although many have implied over the years that the line might in fact be somewhat thicker. Not us, of course … we’d never stoop to making such a crass insinuation.
Forget gruff men in raincoats exchanging briefcases at a midnight bridge rendezvous, or teenage loners living in a Ukraine basement sneaking in through an unsecured port, we’ve got the confidential files you want; our brand new E.P, featuring four privacy-busting songs
He is suave, sophisticated, and cool. He is also nihilistic, sexist, and amoral but, surprisingly, these are not his worst qualities. That honour must surely belong to the fact that everyone knows who the bloody hell he is.
We don’t usually do lyric parodies, preferring instead to inflict our own original creations upon you … but, with all that’s happened recently this just seemed to be the perfect vehicle for saying simply: fuck this year.
It is often said that Christmas is a time for peace on Earth, and goodwill to all, but it seems that neither the year itself (or a substantial number of people living in it) have actually gotten that message.
We wanted to write a song about the beauty and poetry of the English language, and how words often undergo subtle shifts in meaning from place to place. Sadly we couldn’t be arsed and wrote this song instead.
Isn’t it just typical the way reality heartlessly insists on marching away from events you’ve written about, thus rendering your take on them progressively less relevant over time? Or, to put it another way, welcome to our E.P of topical stuff that dates annoyingly swiftly.
Musically nailing your colours to the mast of a given subject can be tricky – especially when all you really want to do is nail Nigel Farage’s genitals to a passing Eurostar – but, the fact is, we’re still angry. Really quite a bit.
Ah, love … it brings out the poet in us all. Or, in our case, it brings out the sarcastic, piss-taking sods. Welcome to our new E.P, a collection of songs guaranteed to induce looks of deep concern when you use them as the soundtrack to your next candlelit dinner.
It has often been said that French is the language of love … not being experts we couldn’t possibly comment, but there is one thing we do know for certain; the language of love songs is clearly psychopathy.
It’s February 14th again, and you know what that means? That’s right! All over the world people are consumed with love … and ideologically-driven murderous bigotry masquerading as love. Happy Valentine’s Day!
They say the best way to preserve an artist’s creative integrity and drive is to keep them hungry, but there’s actually a far more important reason why we shouldn’t ever be allowed to come into any money.
As satirists we’re used to going for extended periods without discovering a rich vein of suitable material to mine. When you do eventually strike comedic gold, however, it’s better than christmas.
When people talk of Radiohead the words “miserable” and “as fuck” get thrown around a lot, which is entirely unfair when you discover that one of their earliest demos was positively brimming with unbridled cheer.
Ahh, the general election; a time for debates, campaign speeches, empty promises, and self-important, D-list celebrities threatening to emigrate if the rest of us don’t elect the person they want to see in office.
Well, this wasn’t exactly what we had planned for this week, but on seeing the petition demanding a certain scouring pad-haired media blight be reinstated had hit 900,000 signatures we agreed it was time to act.
As the cavalcade of fundraising rolls round, and we swear at the TV for the lack of comedy or relief, one question remains: when is that pompous tax-dodging millionaire demanding we give generously going to bugger off?
We are ubiquitous. We are IED. We usually forgive. We regularly forget. Expect us. At tea time. Especially if there are biscuits. This is our brand new E.P, a collection of songs about people and things which are seemingly bloody everywhere.
It’s christmas … a time for helping the less fortunate, and where every other tune is about Jesus or Santa. This year we shall use a single stone to kill two robins, with a song for the one thing that hasn’t got one: the universe.
The best laid plans of mice and men, eh? So, there we were working on our new E.P, holding back songs until everything was ready to go … then, out of the blue, former Radio 1 DJ Mike Read does something collossally stupid!
What’s this? You’ve been patiently awaiting new stuff and we give you a poxy bloody remix?! Well, in fairness, it’s actually quite a good remix, a taster of the song live, and it’s something to keep you occupied while we hone and perfect the new stuff!
Hey, kids! Stop snogging, and pay attention to me! ‘Cause if you’re a wild-eyed loner standing at the gates of oblivion, then hitch a ride with us … this really IS the last freedom moped out of Nowhere City. Don’t tell your parents!
Nothing sums up the IED ethos better than that old saying “sharing is caring”, and what better way for us to show how much we care than by sharing our brand new E.P with you? I suppose we could offer biscuits … do you want a biscuit? We’ve got nice ones!
Ah, glam rock! The glitter! The big boots! The heavy use of androgyny and sexual ambiguity to challenge traditional gender roles! Sounds like the perfect genre for us to make fun of angry twats using micro-blogging sites to abuse women.
We’d like to take the opportunity whilst announcing our brand new song to reassure our friends and relatives that this song is not, in ANY way, about you … unless, of course, you don’t share it, in which case it is TOTALLY about you.
Do you ever wonder what happened to the E.P? Well, if you’re under 35 and not dull, probably not, but we think it’s time to rescue what downloads consigned to history’s bin … and the movement starts right here with our very own christmas E.P!
It’s time again to decorate your Pagan tree, exchange Norse gifts, enjoy a Roman feast, and celebrate the birth of a Persian god as you await the arrival of a jolly Scandinavian fat guy … and here’s the accompanying blasphemous festive soundtrack!
What better way to round out the year than with the release of our first album? Okay, a huge lottery win or cancer cure would be better but, since we don’t play and aren’t epidemiologists, a complete package of our songs will have to do!
Repent! The end of Gardener’s World is nigh! It looks like we finally made it to our thirteenth song, just in time to usher in the beginning of the end … for what started as one man’s relaxing hobby soon became hot firey doom for us all …
You should probably sit down. We need to talk about, erm … “things”. You must have noticed that “things” between us are not as exciting as they used to be? But, it’s okay, there IS a solution. Just, bear with me … hear me out …
Ahhh, I can’t tell you how many hours of my precious youth were spent locked away in my bedroom, furiously engaged in a desperate attempt to enjoy myself at the expense of my rapidly failing eyesight and painfully aching wrists.
We figured it was about time for us to declare our allegiances, and it’s only fair to warn you that this revelation may be more than a little shocking. We make no apologies … there is nothing to apologise for …
There’s nothing quite like a typical British summer, is there? Clutching a blanket full of picnic as you sprint from sunny beach to the drizzle-soaked misery of a long-deserted amusement arcade’s decrepit entrance porch.
There are many fantastic bed-time stories to tell your children of heroes on epic quests, fighting vicious foes at every turn, and doing great deeds with honour and bravery. This is not one of them. This might cost you a decade in therapy.
Read all about it! Learn the shocking true story behind one of the most despicable rogues ever to drag his muddy feet across the carpet of Fleet Street – and you won’t even have to collect tokens from the The Daily Hate (or The Hate On Sunday)!
They say a wedding day is the happiest of your life; the start of a new journey as the two of you head down life’s road, into the sunset, hand in hand … but this is country, so the road is long, the journey is pain, and your hand is reaching for the nearest gun.
What can we say about Nic? A lot, but as we’re not ones for the usual platitudes that do a man no justice we’ll instead refer to our friend as a Whovian, a lover of things Apple, and the kind of maverick who has persistently refused to register a pulse for the last two years.
Make it a special Father’s Day this year with our fourth song; a driving rock classic that’ll have your dad’s blood boiling the next time he gets behind the wheel and, hopefully, make him want to run over that twonk presenter while he’s at it.
We may stir up a hornet’s nest with this one, but what the hell! When the previously radical becomes its own establishment it becomes as much a legitimate target for having “bum” written on it as “da system” does. That said, where’s my felt-tip pen?
Welcome, one and all, to this our Sunday service at the Church of the Patently Not Sodding There At All. For those of you who overslept again, you might just be able to sneak in before the Rev. Godfrey Heathen introduces our second song …
Journey with us to a decade of flared trousers, energy crises, and cocaine abuse as we bring you our very first song; “Disco Bitch”, the tale of a dancer with a serious attitude problem and a callous disregard for nightclub etiquette.
Even if one is lucky enough to find a working pen in the smouldering ruins of what used to be called America, future historians will struggle to write anything more about this era beyond the simple words, “What the fuck happened there?!”
I am undefeated king of political dance floor; no matter what record I spin, everyone boogies to my tune, and when light hit mirror ball it throw off rays of Novichok in every direction. Turn up music, let hair down! Welcome Club Vlad!
I used to have a blog once, better than this, I can tell you. Full of words, so many words, just the best. Millions of visitors, people commenting, free to say whatever, and they all said it was great. This blog and song are failing, believe me!
While he may have long been given the boot, Steve Bannon’s ominous presence can still be felt among the corridors of the White House. It’s a bit like the shadow cast over Hogwarts by Lord Voldemort … if Voldemort was an alcoholic Nazi, obviously.
In the long history of cinema movies have managed to show us every facet of the human experience, and we’ve only really learned two things; first, life is short and, second, Hollywood is determined to waste as much of it as possible.