I laid eyes on rather amusing news story several days ago, detailing how petulant popstar Rihanna and her 100-strong entourage had completely wiped out the stocks of a Nando’s restaurant in the UK after one of her recent performances. My first thought was ‘there is a joke there and I’m not going anywhere near it.’ My second thought was, ‘your music is shit, so it’s lucky that you get your tasty junk out in all of your music videos and ‘accidentally’ had leaked those downright uninspiring nude photos of yourself to the sexually frustrated pre-pubescent masses so that they can continue to fap merrily away in front of their iBooks (they’d definitely have iBooks – rich little suburban American fucks with middle-class names like Brandon and Michelle) and keep your whorish ass in the top fifty, amen’

My third thought? ‘Battlefield was a fucking horrendous movie (who bases 90 minutes of live-action film-making on a fucking board game… Seriously) and your baffling attempt at acting was more robotic and stiff than Robocop after a few lap-dances at a Voltron-themed strip club (how glorious…) Rihanna was so patently awful that she made that sinewy old chicken-wing of a thing (Madonna) look like Jodie Foster.

Rihanna’s complete lack of acting talent aside, it astonishes me that she couldn’t have thought of something more elaborate or decadent to spend her ill gotten gains on than some overpriced chain-store chicken. What happened to the good old days of pop stars buying copious amounts of hard drugs and shacking up for a lock-in with a gaggle of bisexual Malaysian prostitutes for week long fuck- fests? Ahh, heady days…

Pop and rock stars have an immoral obligation to society to live the lives that the rest of us don’t have the financial means to successfully live. Kudos to Hendrix, Moon, Morrison, Scott, Winehouse, Buckley, Joplin et. al. for having the guts and determination, the intestinal fortitude and the sheer willpower to see how many drugs the human body can digest before one soils his or her self and dies. There’s no point playing the single when you have got the ability to hit the home run…

I must admit, it’s about 11.50pm and I’m as full as a primary school. I went out to dinner in Brunswick with a few mates from Tassie (Thai – it was tasty) and then I somehow found myself in what could only be described as a hipster enclave. So many mustachioed faces to punch and so little time… I went and tried to order a beer and ended up in a protracted conversation with the barmaid about the benefits of organic wheat farming in the context of beer brewing.

‘Hey, impossibly good-looking alternative bar girl… Shut your stupidly attractive mouth and pour me an overpriced boutique beer.’

‘Mmm… Tastes like regret.’

/end communication

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