26 August 2006

Dear Lord,


Sorry, Sir Elton, if that is your real name, but f!@#ing don't!

Hip-hop? You are decidedly un-hip, and should you hop you'll undoubtedly break what hipness you have.

Or I shall.

You see, Sir Elton, we'd rather listen to the Teletubbie's new hip-hop album. At leat they have some street cred.

Your street cred is nonexistant because:

a) You are a pasty balladeer in your mid-sixties.

b) You were brought up on the “mean streets” of Chelsea, which is not Compton by a long shot.

c) Your signature fashion statement is far more Liberace than Pimpalicious.

d) “Candle in the Wind” does not include the “busting of a cap” in anyone's arse, there are no drug or alcohol references, nor does it ever mention “bizotches", "hos" or any other oh, so genteel, rappish allusions to "bed-candy" *, yo.

Is this the face of rap? NO! I'm not sure what it is the face of. When I take my glasses off, it looks suspiciously the the top of an unbaked ham pot pie.

Knighthood used to mean something; the laurels for the gratuitously mangley capture of a French man-of-war, or the desperate struggle against overwhelming waves of pissed-off, machete wielding indigenes.

Yet just try to take a French ship these days, or defend the flag from the slathering, ululating, Italian hordes of Long Island; and the Police will arrest you as soon as dammit.

On the other hand, write a catchy tune or two and be willing to wear a sequined feather pinafore while prancing about like a wallaby with a hot pepper suppository, and you can slap a “Sir” in front of your name.

I say we round up these poncey quasi-musical types and, by gum, make them earn their knight hoods.

Put them in scratchy red woolens, hand them an Enfield and a bayonet, and send them to the dusty far-off to reclaim some God-forsaken third-World shite hole for the Empire.

I recommend New Jersey.

(* I shall be beaten for this, and rather severely, I might add.)

And that's the way I likes it.