Waking up to a breakfast set upon a silver salver of grapes, low fat pineapple yoghurt, pumpernickel and a can of petrol siphoned from the tank of a jackknifed lorry in a fatal road accident, I finish my repast and arise from my bed to read that The Sex Pistols are currently writing their first material together in 30 years, having reformed to play a festival at the Isle Of Wight. Jesus H fing cockrot, what c in their right fing minds wouldn't rather eat fing melted down waxwork than watch these sun-dried, legacy squandering, mentally atrophied fers churn through the fing punk motions with zero fing sense of the tragedy of fing irony of what they're fing doing? Fact! Anyone who moves to fing LA automatically forfeits their fing right to presume they have anything of fing cultural worth to offer the fing world! And that counts fing double in the case of the fing Sex Pistols! Steve Jones? He's what happens when “classic rock” fs lard! Glen Matlock! A fing div from day one! Paul Cook? He's the fing drummer, who gives a f? And John fing Lydon? A cross between Kenneth fing Williams and Krusty the fing Klown! Twats!

French house duo Cassius are the latest group to release an album for the Nike+ running series. At 45 minutes, it's made up of a warm up, mid-section plus warm down. Commented Phillipe Zdar of Cassius, “We didn't know what to think at first . . . it seemed a brand we could relate to and after finding out more about the project they had conceived we started looking at the wider picture we thought why not try something that is a new challenge.” Yeah, fing right, you were so impressed by Nike's conceptual and spiritual immaculateness you'd have done the fing thing for free, wouldn't you? Bull-shit! The wider picture my flaking scrotum! For starters you're exposed as complete smegma wipes for using the fing word brand, which is only fing acceptable if preceded by the word "Russell" and followed by the words "is a loathsome little c!" Face it, that statement should have read as follows; We didn't know what to think at first . . . it seemed like a cheque we could relate to and after finding out more about the cheque they had conceived we started cheque cheque cheque cheque cheque cheque cheque cheque will suck for cheque. French house! What the f does that mean, no fing bathroom? Cs!

Finally, Coldplay have released their latest album, Viva La Vida, to some laudatory reviews. Is it time, perhaps, that we get past his celebrity marriage and fruit-based policy of child naming and recognise the towering genius of our age that is Chris Martin? Yeah, well, it's been some fing decade! Let's go back. The Fifties brought us rock'n'roll. The Sixties brought us The Beatles, flower power, the countercultural revolution. The Seventies brought us punk, the Eighties post-punk, Acid and Techno, the Nineties grunge, jungle, triphop. And what has this fing decade given us? Kids with their trousers half way down their fing arses and fing Coldplay, in that order of fing merit! A handwringing guppyfaced, snivelling streak of fing cock all like Martin would have been laughed out any other fing decade! Coldplay are fing homeopathic music a gnat's kneecap-sized particle of fing substance diluted to the fing power of 10 zillion gazillion! Fretting vaguely about the fing environment over a fing piano tinkling like water dripping from a piece of fing ten year old wet lettuce, then blasting your own China-sized hole in the fing ozone player with your private jet? Arsehole! And those fing lyrics! "Those who are dead, are not dead, they’re just living in my head." What, that's where we fing go after we peg it? I tell you this, I'd rather be griddled by Satan's most malicious minions for all fing eternity than spend it in the vaporous fing drivel generator that is fing Chris Martin's head! Truly, the c to end all c*s!