Shimura Curves

Tuesday, January 17, 2006

When Boris Rubbishes Something, It Stays Rubbished

God, I love this man...
It was like being drowned in molasses. It was like being hosed in treacle. I was lying in a state of after-lunch torpor while the eight-year-old was playing and replaying her favourite track, and through the door it stole, and up the bed and into my ear until it filled the fjords of my brain with such glutinous aspartame-flavoured schmaltz that at last I could take it no more and cried: "Enough!" James Blunt, I thought, it's time to get a grip! Come on, man: stop being so indescribably wet. If she's so beautiful, stop standing there in your T-shirt and floppy fringe, and hush your hopeless falsetto crooning.

Go out and get her, is my advice, and if James Blunt seems drippy next to the rock stars of the good old days, he is positively macho by comparison with the Kaiser Chiefs. These are the weeds from Leeds whose hit single was I predict a riot, a tale about the bourgeois apprehension of a chap who tries to get a taxi on a Saturday night in the centre of town.

"Watching the people get lairy/It's not very pretty I tell thee./ Walking through town is quite scary/And not very sensible either," sing these epic softies. Then the chap meets another chap in a tracksuit, who looks as though he might offer violence, but doesn't, and that's about it. It's pathetic!

When I was a nipper it was standard practice for a rock star to start the evening by biting the head off a pigeon and throwing the television out of the window before electrocuting his girlfriend in the bath and almost drowning in a cocktail of whisky, heroin and his own vomit. The self-respecting British punk rockers didn't get up on stage and start whimpering about how they predicted a riot. They incited riots. "White riot, I want a riot, white riot, a riot of my own," they sang, if my memory serves me correctly.

Let's face it, the rock star role models of yesterday were far more thuggish, brutal and in-yer-face than the rock stars of today, most of whom are almost embarrassing in their niceness; and if one thinks back to the 1970s and 1980s, it is clear that the riots were nastier, too. I make this elementary observation, because we are once again being invited to have hysterics about the yoof of today, and yob culture, and once again Tony Blair presents himself to us as the father of the nation, pater patriae, the man who is figuratively going to put the offending yobbos over his knee and give them a damn good hiding on behalf of us all.
- Boris Johnson


At 3:31 PM GMT, Blogger Catty said...

Doris Johnson needs to stop slagging off my boyfriend Ricky Keebler Chef or I'll travel back in time and plop him into the centre of the Islington Bus Seige Ruth and I were lucky to have survived on Friday night!

His comments on James Blunt are spot-on, however. You go, Doris.

At 3:35 PM GMT, Blogger Catty said...

WAIT WAIT WAIT -- Boris has a *blog*?? He's got like, paid columns out the wazoo, what's he need a blog fer?

At 3:51 PM GMT, Blogger Masonic Boom said...

For collecting the best bits of his published writing, for his rants, and for his wife and fans to talk about how clever and funny he is.

And you KNOW he's right about the Caesar Salad Chefs. Ptttthhht!

At 5:26 PM GMT, Blogger Dr Wommm said...

Damn that's cool. I want Boris to slag off my stuff...

At 12:29 PM GMT, Blogger Masonic Boom said...

I want Boris to turn me over his knee and spank me!


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