Tim, that is.

He is such a terrible fake and so dreadfully lame and genuinely doesn't seem to appreciate that he is about as cool as Fonzie.

No - correct that - Fonzie is much cooler. Westwood's about as cool as the Chuckle Brothers.

In a recent issue of Q Magazine he surpassed himself in new levels of pretentious white middle aged, middle class tool trying to sound "gangsta". He was asked about his current favourite tune which he said was a remix of Soul Survivor by Akon...............

"As a club DJ - I rock bangers that create crazy excitement in the party. The original was a hood classic so they made me a 'special' - a revoiced version dedicated to me. Shit is straight banging! Trap music meets J.A. shottas. It's an ugly situation."

That made me so angry I had to set fire to an old lady. And her dog.

Now look what you've made me do Timothy!




What a c**t.

My word! Terence Trent D'Arby slams back like a greased fist - with an album that provokes us into a vertical position and never lets up until it’s done.

Once again he’s proving that you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but you can teach someone else’s two-year-old child to say “Vulva” at breakfast.

The pieces of music that form this round platter snuggle up against one another so tightly it’s as if they’re second cousins who are worryingly close in a ‘not-illegal-but-may-produce-web-toed-children’ kind of way.

The ear is treated to a lilting brace of melodies that remind you of the sounds heard the first time you ventured secretly into the abattoir to see where Uncle Maurice worked only to find him with his arm entirely inside a dead lamb, as if it were a glove puppet, wanking himself off with its lifeless jaws.

And this means only one thing - Mr. D'Arby has yet again set the standard for modern soul music just like James Brown and Sir Edward Heath before him.

If you only buy one album this year, then buy this one. But if you buy two, then get The Kooks and The Feeling. And just borrow this off a mate or get a tape of it or something.

I have now got to the point where this year - any card I get with glitter on goes straight in the bin, regardless of who sent it. It's mainly work colleagues and of those it's usually girls, but family ones will be binned too. Can't even recycle them ladies! Tut tut. If you're a bloke sending cards with glitter on you need a slap anyway.

So - for those people who send me cards with glitter on - f**king stop it you dozy gits. It gets everywhere! It's a huge pain in the arse and it should be banned.

The second I get a card and feel that rustly glittery feel I begin to get annoyed - even before I've opened it. It's usually got bits of glitter on the outside of the envelope anyway as the idiot who sent it will have glitter all over their hands.

It ends up on my hands and on my suit and it won't wash off - sticks like a batstard. Before you know it you've rubbed your eye or scratched your nose and it's on your face.

Thank you very cocking much! I look great at work speaking to my boss with glitter on my face and suit. What am I supposed to say?

"Sorry boss, I'm being festive"

And don't even get me started on the stupid amount of bows and ribbons and shit people put on presents.

Give it me in a f**king bag or some cheap wrapping paper and spend the extra £5 you wasted on ribbons and bows on getting me a decent f**king present next time you twat.

Merry Christmas btw.

Never know what to get her.

This year I thought I'd try something different and original: Vouchers for a boob job!

Nothing wrong with the size - they’re perfect.

There should just be more of them.

I mean, 3 would be cool, but 4 would be ACE!!! An extra one in the middle and then a spare round the back between her shoulder blades.

Jean Michel-Jarre returns like a stealthy goat with a whole hour of mindhurting electronic wob-wobba. The album dares you to like it and then demands that you ignore its inconsistencies. Yet it never touches you in a bad way or rifles through your pockets.

The music cannot be described simply as music because it goes beyond, and in many ways, underneath that. It’s a fruit-bowl of musical notes and………well……more musical notes.

The overall effect of the album is as if you were violated wrongly in the bum after eleven glasses of Absinthe laced with Rohypnol at a Christmas party then awakened with the acrid smell of smoke as your car burned furiously next to a disused sporting goods warehouse and children looked on wondering if you were Santa Claus or just some homeless with a collection of Commonwealth flags in a shopping trolley.

The whole thing just beggars belief - but you know it’ll gatecrash your party and never go home again. Ah - sweet poetry.

What the hell is that all about then????

Hair cleaner - yes. That's fine.

It's called shampoo - it makes perfect sense - and when I have my monthly shower I use some to get the flies and birdshit out of my barnet.

However my missus tricked me by putting a very similar bottle in the shower - right next to the shampoo. So I splash a load on my head and..........it won't lather and it's really oily and takes twenty minutes to rinse it out. And it makes my skin feel greasy too so I have to wash myself again.

And what are its benefits? It gives my hair "body and shine" apparently.

Well thank you very f**king much L'Oreal for that body and shine I have been apparently missing for the last 30 years. My hair is now so full of body I can't get my helmet on and was about to go for a ride on my motorbike.


So, my hair which normally looks something like this...........


(that's not actually me btw)

Now looks like THIS



Arses!!!

Why are you videoing it on your mobile phone? You utter, utter, utter twats.

The sound will be rubbish - the picture is pointless as it is just a blur of flashing lights - and it's only 250 by 250 pixels. It is as pointless as you are you depressingly obsessive nob-ends. Standing throughout the gig with your arm aloft - looking at your phone's screen, not the stage, and blocking other people's view whilst missing out on the reason for being there - to jump around, mosh, sing, clap, dance and generally enjoy the moment and be part of it.

You are trying to capture it for posterity but don't actually enjoy the spectacle whilst you are there. What a lovely memento of the night you stood there like a lemon holding a phone in the air. Oooh, put it on facebook!

If you ever ended up in a situation where you got a naked girl in your bed (unlikely, I know) would you just video her on your phone rather than actually having sex? Result - you're still a virgin but at least you can look at a tiny image of her naked body any time you want and send it to your friends. Sorry - "friend".

You sad no-lifers really should stay at home and watch some grainy footage on Youtube because more and more of us real fans are getting sick and tired of you bumbling around trying to record everything and the next time you're in the pit it won't just be your Nokia that gets broken.

So I went into Halfords yesterday and asked if they could help me because my car battery wasn't working:

Halfords man: Can I help you sir?

Me: I very much doubt it

Halfords man: Pardon?

Me: Nothing. I need a battery cos mine is broken.

Halfords man: Broken?

Me: Yes - as in "not working"

Halfords man: In what way is it not working, sir?

Me: It's making my car not start

Halfords man: Really...

Me: Yes - which is a bit awkward as it means I now cannot drive my car. And I bought my car mainly for driving.

Halfords man: Are you sure it's the battery itself....

Me: Yes - it's got no electric left in it. Is it tired? Can I have a new one?

Halfords man: Certainly sir - this is our standard battery - it comes with a 3 year guarantee

Me: Is it full up with electricity?

Halfords man: Indeed it's filled right to the top with heaps of electricity sir. Now... what car do you have as I need to know which battery to get for you?

Me: I have a black one - tis that one there in your list. It's nice. Mine looks diferent to the one in your book though. I done the stickers myself.

Halfords man: Aah, right - then you need an 067 - here you go!

Me: Er....that looks too big

Halfords man: Are you sure? (said in a "I know about cars - I work in a car shop - and you clearly know f**k-all" tone of voice)

Me: Yes - it's too big

Halfords man: Well - the computer says it's the right one for your car

Me: Well, I think the computer may be wrong as it is MAAAHHHAAAASSIVELY too big for my car

Halfords man: (I kid you not) Well, I'm sure it's the right one sir - things sometimes look bigger out of the car than they do in the car

Me: Yes - and things often look bigger when they are actually bigger than the other thing they are being compared with. It is larger than the space in my car for where the battery goes.....

Halfords man: But I'm sure.....etc etc

In the end I bought the battery and carried it out carefully (because it was brimming over with electricity and I didn't want to spill any) and took it home to my poorly car. I lifted up the lid at the front of my car and guess what..........

IT WAS MASSIVELY TOO F**KING BIG.

Bastards.

I was in a sandwich shop today (christ, it's expensive to buy a sandwich these days - but that's another rant for another day) and so was forced to listen to the shite spewing out of their stereo for the enjoyment of their largely gormless clientele.

Radio 1 - ah, how lovely to see that even people with severe learning diffculties get gainful employment. Being able to string a sentence together with some vague stab at grammar is clearly not a prerequiste to be a DJ on this fine station. And the titbits of trivia and celebrity gossip that made up the "Headlines" in their news bulletin ("Take That are Number 1" came above "48 killed in Iraq") beggars belief.

Anyway - the first thing that struck me was that modern pop music has run out of ideas and so the retro thing is happening big time (it hit the rock and Indie world massively about 18 months ago so of course it will filter through to pop eventually). All well and good, but this means a throwback to the catchy singalong tunes, but also the mindlessly stupid lyrics of the 60's.

The worst culprit I found during my enforced half hour of lunch and auditory brain-melting was The Feeling and their charming little ditty "I Love It When You Call" (video clip in the "Sound And Vision" section here http://www.thefeeling.com/ ).

The lyrics are thus:

I love it when you call
I love it when you call
I love it when you call
But you never call, at all

Firstly - shit.

Secondly - lazy - it's easy to rhyme the first two lines when they are EXACTLY THE SAME. To then use it a third time and simply have a different one at the end that rhymes is very lazy indeed. More rhymes please. Fall, ball, hall, gall, tall, wall - there's lots of them.

Thirdly - what are you on about, you bell-ends? I love it when you call - but you never call (and in case you don't understand the concept of 'never' we will clarify further by adding) at all.

Really - how can one comment on the degree to which one enjoys something if one has never experienced the aforementioned something? If this unnamed person has never called you cannot tell me that you love it when they call.

Perhaps it is more akin to my attitude to having a threesome with my wife and Angelina Jolie and the lyrics should be more along the lines of...

Although you never call at all I'm fairly certain in my own mind that it would be absolutely f**king awesome if you did. So awesome, in fact, that I'm just nipping to the bathroom to have a really good think about it right now.

Sting, out of The Police, staggers back with a slender and caring new disc packaged in the gaudiest of covers as if to say “Yes world, I have recorded more songs to remind us all of the ridiculousness of piety and the angst that makes our children use guns instead of words”.

We need to know what’s contained in these here songs, but are we just babies frightened to hear the truth because it hurts like toothache? Or buggery.

The sound is unmistakeable - and almost impossible to pigeon-hole. It’s reminiscent, perhaps, of the distinctive grunting, gurgling and clicking that emerges from a photocopier being heated in a furnace after being filled with the blood of the blue whale, the tears of Mother Earth and the wank-piss of a little otter that’s all cute and eats fishes whilst floating on his back.

Stop the war. Stop the rainforests. Don’t hurt me Daddy.

Went to see Dragonforce this evening with my better half as she's a fan. Although I was a little concerned at the cheesiness factor of their Europe-style choruses, (and the fact they aren't really heavy enough for my tastes) I was highly impressed by the sheer speed of the drummer and guitarists and some highly amusing between-song banter.

However - the thing that got my utmost respect was their intro tape.

Those famous drum beats start - yes - the song Raining Blood by Slayer (everyone headbanging and air-guitaring like crazy) - played in its entirety right up to the crashing thunder sound....which then segues perfectly into the intro music from the original Sonic The Hedgehog game on the Megadrive. Then they burst on in a flurry of speed, hair and billowing shirts.

Marvellous.

During an audience participation bit instigated by the singer - the audience (as is customary at rock gigs) is divided into two halves and each directed to sing a certain refrain as loudly as possible.

The side that were quietest were being berated by the guitarist whose side was doing best. The guitarist whose side was doing worst simply retorted "We don't care. Singing is gay anyway"

The singer looks back and says "Are you saying singing is gay?"

He retorts "Er - yes - and you're very gay"

The singer replies "Is that why you keep trying to bum me then, you c**t?"

The more grown up members of the audience looked quite taken aback. Which was nice.

I used to go to University and there was a mature student on my course by the name of [name removed for legal reasons].

She was in her mid-50's and thought she was very posh and very glam. Too much jewellery, too much make-up, too much hair etc. She would always hang around me and my friends and I never worked out whether it was because she thought we were young, hip, happening, sexy dudes or because we were the only people too nice to tell her to sod off and stop hanging around.

We used to call her Bob. She used to chuckle and say what "wacky guys" we were (is there any worse insult than calling someone "wacky"? You might as well say "Ohhhhh, you're such a c**t, you are"). Anyway - she clearly thought it was a random bloke's name we picked because we had a silly, surreal sense of humour.

Er, no. It's because she had big hair and applied so much lipstick so erratically around her mouth that she looked like Robert Smith of The Cure. Although we never had the heart to tell her that.

Anyway - with there being a spate of stomach bugs at work recently I was suddenly reminded of Bob. Why?

Well - she missed an entire week - exam week in fact - and needed a reason to be allowed to retake them a month later (just a little more time to revise????). She told us it was sickness and diarrhoea. But (despite her usually demure demeanour) went on to say "It was so bad we had to redecorate the entire bathroom!!!"

We looked aghast - and so she continued..."I'm not joking - it was EVERYWHERE. We had to replace the carpets - re-do the wallpaper, replace the curtains. Couldn't get the place clean - even with bleach!!!"

WHAT!?!? The carpets - ok - embarrassing accident (and not one you would tell people about, surely?!), but the WALLS AND CURTAINS???

What the f**k were you doing woman? Did you put a garden sprinkler attachment up your arse and stand on your head? And why tell us? It still makes me shudder every time I hear someone tell me they had an 'upset tummy'.

And blocking the bloody roads. Tosser.

It's only just crept into December and it's happening already. Some big parade shutting the main streets in town and stopping people getting home after a hard day's work so some fat nonce in a red suit can con parents into giving him money to lie to their children about the true meaning of Christmas. And give them a plastic toy made in China with sufficient number of small parts for them to choke quietly on in the back of the Renault Espace on the way home.

And anyway - I thought Santa had some special sledge pulled through the starlit snowy sky by flying reindeer or some shit like that. Not a wooden contraption on a trailer with two model elks being towed by a f**king Land Rover through Birmingham.

And what's with Santa anyway?

"Hello little boy - come and sit on my knee and whisper in my ear about what you would like and I'll give you a surprise".

Dirty, fat, beardy, kiddy-fiddling tosser.

I saw him again today. He was shouting at traffic and throwing biscuits at a nearby Give Way sign.

On reflection, I'm fairly certain he's the mad one.