'This town needs an enema!' - Jack 'The Joker' Napier.

Snarl!
When will a real rain come and wash all the scum off the streets?
Walking around town on a Saturday night these bloated days is simply a sickening experience without the benefit of alcohol or other intoxicants.
The mindless herds of chickenheads with their hate-handles sloshing around their exposed midriffs, like dough being swirled by an over-enthusiastic Italian pizzamaker, and their rubber-headed white-shirted men pissing and whooping along the street - an amorphous mass of homogenous inanity.
I can barely stand it anymore.
The worst part is the depressing sameness of it all.The Joycean paralysis is pretty much fulfilled. The complete extent of the control that is held over trends is apparent. The magazines tell the biathces what’s in style, the shops sell it, they buy it. And it’s the same clothes in every shop, the same ringtone on every phone, the same records in the collection, the same DVD’s, the same views, the same venues, the same attitudes, the ability to think creatively and independently is not only absent, it’s actively shunned. These people seem to crave similarity and abhor anything that might set them apart, except for seeming to appear affluent.
Scores, of cluckers pile out of the Q-Bar tottering on ungainly stilettos, all intentions of looking graceful banished in the act, the uniform is easy to imagine. Flimsy little skirt with big brown belt, perhaps some sparkles or rhinestone. Shimmery little top, blasted by the elements, with goose-pimpled breasts spilling out in a vulgar little burp. GHD straightened hair, probably blonde and layered with an oh-so boring ‘funky’ fringe. That damned contrivance should stand for Generic Homogenous Drone. What happened to spirited, curly, wavy wild hair? It looks like an army of fucking mannequins out there. Then there’s the bag, the things are so small and pointless, you could carry, what? One johnny in there? You’ll need more than that love. The men are even less original. These accursed white shirts. Collars and cuffs open, Ibiza chest exposed, hanging loose but tight around the shoulders and ‘roided out biceps. The fucking neo- mullet is de rigueur.
This pansy-ass little effort that requires a tub of dax to coax barbs of half-dyed blonde hair into faggoty little spikes at the back and front. Remember the Fishhead look from Travis about six years ago? All the nonces had it and this is the new one. I wouldn’t mind (well, I would) but surely the role models for this cut are the campy metros that are to be found on Big Brother? What irony. Still, they don’t care, it says in the mags that this is what the buurds want so that’s what they’ll sport. Prags.
You can’t even speak to them. The mouths open and only static-like television noise comes out. It’s all media regurgitation, not a single inspired thought or concept. If they’ve read a book it’s the Da Vinci Code, if they’ve bought a rock album it’s The Killers. That would be fine if it wasn’t FUCKING EVERYBODY! But that’s the attitude y’know? Go into a shop and they’ll look to see what film or music is declared in big bright imbelice proof letters saying NUMBER 1, and that’s the one they’ll buy or rent. I hert dats gut! I hert dats not spowst to be any gut!
I hert lowds of people say tha was shi. Its spost to be shite. It’s ‘supposed’ to be? As in the makers went out there with an agenda to purposefully make it crap? I can imagine that to be the case actually in many instances.
I heard this one in the cinema queue – ‘What do you want to watch? ‘ says the sac to his Sac-ette (See? They haven’t even considered yet if they would like something or not, they’ll just go with the blind faith that their diminutive minds will be entertained, or numbed)
‘I dunno, what about that?’ (Points to poster of Inside I’m Dancing)
‘About a lad in a fucking wheelchair? Bollocks to that!’
‘It’s affin getting four stars though.’
‘Oh?.........Must be gut so’
And in they go. Lord Almighty.

I can’t fight the Bland Band on my own! Fewer and fewer are my allies against the tide of gormlessness.
Fuck the magazines, fuck the legal greed, fuck the nothing scene.
I shouldn’t even have to mention the misnomer of celebrity. But everyone knows the problem there. Don’t complain about it, just don’t buy it! Don’t buy the fucking things, don’t subscribe to the digital celeb channels, don’t wear logos on your body. Would you wear a t-shirt with McDonalds on it? Then why wear one with Tommy Fuckfinger? Don’t be a sandwich board.

Dublin has been eaten, what you have around you now are the leavings of a million cathode-ray lobotomised consumeroids.

Bullshit.