In which our heroes discover that ‘Private’ does not just refer to a well groomed soldier.

A recent news article by The Sunday Times has unveiled Facebook as the lying, perfidious creature we always imagined: a social networking site(!) The article reveals that all along, instead of merely asking us what was on our mind and giving us the ability to share this, for free, with everyone we know, FB was demanding to know our details, hungry as a picketer for a right wing scheme.

Yes, this week Facebook (a chair big enough for him and his ego being finally sourced) admitted to reading the messages of smartphone users who downloaded the app. Shock horror when most of the messages intercepted regarded ‘lols’ (a presumed sub-atomic grouping which may be developed into nuclear arsenal), and ‘TTYLs”, which is some kind of venereal disease plaguing children.

I love that nearly 5 and a half thousand people have shared this on FB. Surely IT already knows that you’ve been going behind its back, and wants blood, HAL-style. This article makes beloved FB out to be some sanguine and malicious construct. Everyone may know how addictive it can be, not just the guy who told me at a Buried in Verona gig that he was going home to do lines of Facebook (?), but since we already share everything in a machine gun status’ updates, what is there for the entity to learn about us? Maybe what we don’t want to share is even more banal than what we do?

And FB’s crimes seem insignificant, like a fashion faux pas at a Midnight Oil concert, when compared to other internet juggernauts (flickr, Yahoo, Youtube). The height of irony, even a “security app” My Remote Lock accesses your personal data. In fact, apparently (so not at all in fact), Youtube can remotely control your device to film and take videos- presumably of the inside of your pocket. Goverment agencies recently sunk 15 billion dollars into battling this illicit control, with the best and most viable defence being to place a little foil hat over your phone’s aerial and to sit in your parent’s unlit basement listening to Journey.

In fact, am I the only one who saw in this the opportunity to deflect one’s girlfriend’s phone melees? -Sorry hon, not tonight, FB may be listening, and you know how angry he gets when we don’t talk about trifling nonsense.

Not only this, but fb will have to employ a cadre of encryption detectives if they want to know what my friend Andrew is saying. This offers a symbiotic and redeeming aspect to the case. I can forward them my messages and they can send me back the essence of his nonsense. For example, they could run unsorted dialect like “du y hav. a weab cam x” and tell me what to reply. In this instance the prudent answer was, “keep your clothes on and stay away from cameras”.

I’ll expect my nice residual to come promptly in the mail, Mark.

Watched 15 minutes of the revamped Young Talent Time; spent the next 30 being all self-righteous.

Watching Young Talent Time is like watching a corpse of completely vapid and over-sculpted teens perform sterile hits for a demographic that still thinks that their cancerous childhood pets ran away to live together in a cottage in Hampshire.

Honestly, it’s hosted by Rob “I-Still-Can’t-Tie-My-Shoelaces” Mills and his Chesire cat grin that would still try to sell condoms to the Michelin man. At least i think it’s him. It might be a gingerbread man cut from Quicksilver swatches and sugar-free icing, otherwise – I should look into this shady chimaira; maybe he comes from the same place Dave Mustaine’s credibility went to die at.

How many photos of the dude are there on the average 16 year old girl’s Tumblr (TRADEMARK) anyway? If you put a needle into your eye for every snap of Mills wearing a pair of Black Milk leggings with a caption like “Dream Aloft”, you’d still end with twenty-twenty vision and a pervadin sense of generational despair.

Yeah, these kids are really boring man, and there’s nothing the producers can do with their billions to rectify this, lest they sink fifty grand into speedballs for Tommy, or pay for little Ella to see the inside of a rogue’s harem. I mean, if i wanted to see quaintly attractive kids singin trite pop-songs in an exhaustively risk-less manner, i’d watch Glee. At least they have a disabled character and a pregnant teen (how topical and innovative!)

This Mickey Mouse shit just ain’t gonna rate in a post-Grunge age where kids grow up on a diet of Marlboro and anomie. And being idiosyncratic and anti-mainstream is the flavour of the week, yet i have not seen one of the show’s characters versify their cats or orpine their love of Georgian architecture.

Like, where’s the miracle in inches comedic relief who asks the kids the ‘711’ on their puberty to intelligent derision?

Diagnosis: Gelded

Nicki Minaj- Stupid Hoe

References to Angelina and Jennifer as well as Polanski and a hot pink ideology? Despite being “At the superbowl” in 2012, there’s something very 2003 about this video. How old is Nicki Minaj? Is that why she poses in a cage? Is she a cougar? And who puts an endorcement for a subsequent performance in their music video? That’s like Burger King putting an advertisement for a chunky vomit on their sweaty packaging, with a spangly, red, “2 hours hence” graphic.

Does Nicki Minaj have a lady gaga dildo or something (One that’s made of beaten bronze and has “Telephone” playing on infinite loop with flashing UV lights bleating on the inside)? It’s hard to explain her adoration for the gaudy quirkiness that Gaga trailblazed in any other way than a Sapphic crush. Though, where Gaga had boobs-in-your-face catchiness, ‘Stupid Hoe’ is emaciated of any musical weight. In fact, the crux of the song is a repetitive, monophonic electric sound that smacks of an amorphous Aphex Twin outtake. Actually, maybe Minaj has a series of anal beads that Gaga et al use – after all, how else could she be that behind the cadre.

I heard that this video was the most watched, within 24 hours of release, of all time. Thankfully, for my despairing soul, most viewers were suitably bemused and repulsed, the amount of views probably from young kids getting their friends to come over and do a shot every time there is an overstated edit in the clip (Feel the pain at 0:48 on). The red dislikes of the like bar a monolith two or three times that of the positive responses – almost as long as Miinaj’s eyelashes.

Wtf is with that whistle in the mix? Did some sessionist who thinks in monosyllables have a collapse midway through and leave just that horrible shrieking burst as his only legacy? I think it might actually be my ears howling into a rape whistle. Also, ain’t seen lashes like that since The Passion of the Christ.

And who uses “I am the female Weezy” as a way to sign off on a video? Like you need to disparage yourself when you’ve made this video. That’s like Bush being president all day then going home to play Grand Theft Auto.

I am the male Moaning Myrtle

The stretched ears of truth

So things were going well in our relationship. Well, about a well as they can go in a relationship where both partners are virgins and plan on staying that way well into marriage. We had gotten to know each other over six months of smouldering eye contact, glittering words of praise, and chaste cherries dipped into vestal chocolate.

I had taken up smoking. I needed something to do with my hands that wasn’t… thumbing through online beauty-logues. My shorts had become shorter. I had developed a fixation on the style of Whortense_16, a honey-limbed adolescent on Instagram. Even though it was cold Autumn i found myself adopting Labia-pink High-tops and those jeans that you can’t put your organic lipstick in because the pockets hang sub-short level. This was all an expression of my stalwart feminism of course. Johnny was so proud of me for consolidating my rebellion  against the adult norm of promiscuity that he took to giving me encouraging smacks on the buttocks and even followed in gaudy suit by purchasing a gym membership.

Things were going really well for so long. We compromised a lot of friendships with our sententious bragging about abstinence and our rejection of all drugs except certain rx brands of coffee. Night’s were spent watching re-juvenated Disney classics on a vibrant Panasonic TV, and changing the bed sheets (poor Johnny wan’t strong enough to stop having wet-dreams). During the day we’d go to church and, with slippery whispers and a hand on each other’s knee, mock the credulous Christians for needing a God-figure to tell them to be abstinent.

Things were really swell. I could see that Johnny looked at me with the fiery adoration of an equal. I started to watch a lot of Bruce LaBruce’s more underground cuts and, weirdly enough, evolved a small collection of items formerly belonging to him (Clash records, a pink bong, few lines of dialogue for a film about homosexual zombies found on the reverse of a Johnny Walker label). Meanwhile Johnny (no relation to Walker), found himself a way to salve his “Cognitive dissonance” by doing volunteer work with a local body building troupe. He’d go to exhibitions and oil up the talent. He said he mostly worked from behind, patting moisture into the shoulder blades and thighs of bald headed, muscle-bound friends.

Like i said, things were going really well. Me and Johnny aren’t together anymore. George’s lane, off Sharpes St, ruined our relationship. It’s a coarse, poorly made cobblestone fiasco that is signed at 50 kilometres an hour but should, for the safety of relationships, be at about 20. I was driving up there in November, feeling a delightful breath of air up my thighs as a i pushed the Vespa to 40, when an errant stone lodged my front tire and sent me pinwheeling through the air, legs akimbo. Of course, because i foolishly wasn’t wearing underwear, i landed pelvis first on the head of a dark-skinned European man named Jorge. I have the worst luck. Anyway, that wasn’t what ended my relationship with Johnny. It was probably the Council’s error more than anything. Despite writing to them, asking them to rectify the problem in George’s lane, they took no action. And my poor litle vesper stands no power against the potholes. And the only way to get to work is to go down Geroge’s lane. Everyday.

10 pithy pop-punk song titles we are unlikely to hear in 2012:

 

  1. I was a sheep; you were my sexually frustrated shepherd.
  2. One day as a lion’s prey
  3. No need for introductions, I’ve read your bio on E-harmony
  4. Maverick? I’m the norm for alternative.
  5. I heart Tennyson
  6. Love can’t be bought at Target, only at a Vans official retailer.
  7. All roads lead to Denni
  8. You had me at “I don’t have VD”
  9. We don’t “break it down/ to the break of dawn” because  “break” and “Down” can’t legally be used in the same sentence without paying royalties to Madball
  10. Defend pub rock