You know what it’s like. It’s Christmas, you’re a bit drunk, you’ve had buggered organs for nine months, and you start getting sentimental about one of the best friendships you’ve ever had and wondering how much time you have left …
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!
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!
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
You know what it’s like. It’s Christmas, you’re a bit drunk, you’ve had buggered organs for nine months, and you start getting sentimental about one of the best friendships you’ve ever had and wondering how much time you have left …
So, it seems we’re pretty fucked, right? Well, at least we’ll always have Christmas to enjoy, yeah? I guess it depends if your definition of enjoyment includes scrabbling in a ditch for road kill and rotting berries to make your dinner with.
Look, we know that we’ve been away for a few months, but we’ve got a REALLY good excuse and, while we are loathe to play the organ failure card, we do have to say: ORGAN FAILURE. Unexpected, moderately inconvenient, dropped-out-of-the-sky organ failure.
After a whole year of being wound up, stressed out, and pissed off by colleagues who thwart your sanity (especially that git who nicks your stapler), how better to relieve the tension than by getting chaotically drunk with the bastards?