A friend and I were having enjoying a few bottles of Shiraz in rainy Flemington last Sunday while watching the footy on TV. That sounds somewhat classy, but I’m talking $8 corner shop piss here – one of the bottles actually had the word Shiraz printed in gigantic Comic Sans font on the label as if acknowledging its own horrendousness. I’d already rung and ordered dinner (duck laksa, yes sir!) and had expertly timed it to be ready to pick up when the half-time siren sounded. The door had just closed behind us on our way out when my mate realised he’d locked his keys inside. This was somewhat of an issue as the only way in or out of the third floor apartment was via the now securely locked door and his house-mate wasn’t home.

So began a cross-city car journey to a wanky sports-bar in Prahran in the driving rain to collect keys from his house-mate. 45 minutes of my life I wouldn’t ever get back. We arrived and I parked out the front while my mate ran in to grab the keys. I could feel the bouncers silently judging me & my shitty old Honda as I idled at the side of the road. My evening had evidently taken a turn for the worst.

As you can imagine, I was already in a shitty mood when we turned and headed for home.

Then I saw it…

I took a particular Regurgitator song literally… and look where I am!

There’s a gigantic billboard suspended to the left of the Westgate Bridge with the enormous grinning face of that piece-of-shit teenage X-Factor fuck-puppet Reece Mastin plastered on it.

At that very point, I wished that there were a Dukes of Hazzard-style stunt jump placed in line with the billboard so that I could launch my vehicle off the side of the bridge like a heat-seeking missile. I’d pump up the volume on the car stereo with something befitting the occasion, like the introduction to ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’, which, coincidentally, begins with a scene where a group of  primates become intelligent enough to use rocks as tools and weapons and use those rocks to defeat a rival tribe.

Reece Mastin is my rival tribe…

Regardless of the cinematic subtext, I’d get a great deal of enjoyment out of punching a car-sized hole through that stupid little cunts’ face at 200 kilometres per hour.

In case you haven’t heard of this germ before, donate three minutes and six seconds of your life here. Unfortunately, it isn’t tax deductable. (Also, shut your eyes and listen – he sounds like a fucking girl, doesn’t he?)

The X-Factor is ruining music. There was an ad on TV tonight where they referred to One Direction as ‘the supergroup of our generation’. YOU CANNOT BE FUCKING SERIOUS! The term ‘supergroup’ was coined in the 60s to describe huge acts like Cream and Journey. Supergroups were, ‘rock music groups whose performers are already famous from having performed individually or in other groups’, not saccharine, cookie-cutter pop boy-bands churning out instantly forgettable 3 minute chunks of aural dog-shit at the behest of faceless corporate heavies.

Since when do we need to discover ‘The Next Big Thing’ via a reality television show anyway? Whatever happened to talented musicians grinding out success by playing gigs and gathering a legitimate following over a sustained period of time? The issue is that record labels don’t care what sort of music they’re releasing and what sort of shelf-life the artists they represent will have, they just want to make money. The X-Factor gives them the perfect vehicle to do exactly that. Hell, they’d record the sound of Reece Mastin giving slobbery blowjobs to the executives in the ornately furnished boardroom at Sony if they thought it’d sell units. They’d probably even drop a Dubstep track in behind it. Kids love that shit. It’s so ‘now’.

/end communication

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