Hey fellas have you heard the news? Robbie’s back in town, and his desire for an aquatic-type basement leisure room thingy will likely put dragon-suit-coke-fiend-riff-merchant man out on the tiles; are his dancing days numbered? I can empathise with the desire to protect not just a house, but one hell of a spooky dwelling that I can only describe as Jimmy’s Zepadel (Most appropriate for an Alistair Crowley fanboy), its Grade I listed credentials certainly warranting protection from destructive, unnecessary renovations that could easily be done on another of Moz-lookalike’s numerous far away properties.
Robbie Williams is everything I loathe about manufactured puppetry, a washed out bean sprout whose relevance recedes in conjunction with his hairline. Could it all be a hoax? A cynical attempt to grasp some much needed PR, or perhaps an elaborate joke by two notorious music personalities who seek not only to parody themselves but to make a monkey out of today’s gossip-hungry media, who as the past displays, hasn’t had the easiest of relationships with either.
Yet, as a mere spectator with barely enough cash to afford a packet of titan bars (Mars Bar’s washed up, illegitimate twin), seeing two exceedingly cash-laden egoists (with enough estates between them to make the Habsburgs look like Piccadilly Garden beggars) duke it out over who’s metaphorical gnomes shine the brightest really sums up the concept of ‘1st World Problems’; if we took it down a key and put it into the bounds of the reality you and I are all too familiar with… it’s the macho football dad with the Berlin wall-esque garden fence and the trashy ‘sports’ car versus the old, grumpy, flat cap wearing farmer with enough wax jackets to start a prosperous vintage shop chain.
If I were given the role of justice arbiter, wherein I had to kill one and spare the other; naturally my fondness of Zeppelin and disdain for studio-writer propped piñatas would dictate an outcome favourable to Pagey. Yet, in the confines of reality, one cannot avoid the rampant anaesthesia that is the mass-media; parasitically violating our all too impressionable skull-sponges; oblivious and unperturbed by the real issues the planet it resides in perpetually faces (You know, greed, war, famine, bounty bars etc). This charade of story is but another symptom, like your typical tabloid spewing out its putridity of misinformation, bland content and context-removal headlines that serve the centric purpose of appealing to the lowest common denominator; whether we want to admit it or not, the dynamic of sheep, dogs and pigs has and will remain grafted onto the fabric of society for the remainder of our existence. In fact, the more I examine the wider context of the nonsensical melodramas put forth as food for digestion, the simplistic realisation that I see myself slowing come to is… humans are fucking stupid.
Recent career decisions have compelled me into the journalistic... thing; I could list my literary influences or even debate which 3rd rate beverage has the best economic value per litre (But I won’t). Oh, in addition, I write reviews for the Independents Network.
