So the olympic ceremony was fucktastically horrific. The elderley meat puppet incarnation of the worst Beatle attempting to reverse-force feed ‘Hey Jude’ out of his animatronically operated, Botox gimp mask will give me nightmares for years to come.
Admittedly, I enjoyed getting drunk and yelling obscenities at the television and their was some sort of grotesque beauty in watching The Beast take a rainbow coloured dump all over us. I thought the point about a the capitalists avoiding the grave they were digging for themselves by running low voltage current through genitals and social media devices (hehe,lol, luv u babexx) was well made, although I’m not sure it was the one intended. I was waiting for police to come out doing some stylised dance and beat the young romeo to death for stealing that girls phone, but it seems they were keen to avoid that story about Britain. Interestingly, the agreement of both factions of the Party of Order, Red or Blue with Yellow nipple tassels, reveals nicely the compulsory aspect this proto-fascist festival of festering awfulness. Only that one tory whip who likes dress-up parties, race-hate and twitter seemed to not know, but who would tell an obvious liability like that guy? Nope, it seems you jizz lyrical about what a stirring reminder of Britain’s greatness it was or else there are missiles on rooftops ready and waiting. The ruling class can agree, at least, that it is good we are distracted. The only negative thing I have read about it from a mainstream source came from the Torygraph of all places (have you read that fucking thing, actually more disgusting without the puns and tits of the tabloids, and with bigger words and such serious posturing from the puntits). In the article, the author points out correctly that the left seems to have its eyes glued shut with olympiad knob frosting/female ejaculate – the Guardian worse than most. Fools, the whole thing was re-couped by the time the time (I hate) Lord Sebastian Coe dribbled out his address. Let the so-called left have their little song and dance, chaps, the victory wears a light blue tie tonight.
Anyway, during the bit where you get to rank the world according to flag design and sexual attractiveness like an old world anthropologist, the commentary team excelled in a kind of racist political economy for the majority of countries, whilst having a single inanity about an athlete for the countries from the Olympic North. One point of clarification, for some unknown reason, was why I bothered to write anything about these magnificent games of capitalist soggy biscuit:
Dizzee Rascal is not the King of of UK Grime, despite what that lady wearing a blonde helmet says. Grime is not a monarchy. Occasionally MCs fight over who is king but they are SUB PAR. If anyhting, it borrows from the model of the crime family. Wiley is the godfather. Dizzee Rascal made an album and a half of grime in the early 2000s, but for the last 8 years has only made meat-market techno soundtracks to accompany the mating rituals of fuckeyes. In the intro video where he was shown talking to Bow E3 locals, one of them called him out for only visiting because he was getting paid. Wiley as been saying for ages that Dizzee never comes back to the ends, and the fact that he sold out all the poor fuckers who got turfed out of the ends because of the Olympics, was just about the last thing Dizzee had left to sell out…erm …of.
Exhibit 1: ‘Face’ from his 2004 album Stand Up Tall:
Exhibit 2: As if fucking ‘Bonkers’ wasn’t enough to prove it, this is ‘Holiday’ from the same 2009 album Tongue in Arse, or something:
Quite fucking different aren’t they fucking Clare Balding. Shahaaaaat ya mouth!