“Don’ wander, mayte! Iz orl in Scottish, innit?” larfs the disgusting cockernee barrer-boy in his oh so amusing Guy Ritchie-style East End patois. Oh dear. This isn’t pop so much as [I]jazz [/I]crossed with (ugh) literature. And it’s either a spoof put out by the writers of [I]The Fast Show[/I]’s [I]Jazz Club[/I] or it’s a pile of incredibly dull wank clumsily fumbled together by stoned Irvine Welsh fans. This, in short, is what rap would have sounded like had it been invented by Jock skag-heads. A half-awake pervert rambles on about discovering a sex diary in his girlfriend’s knicker drawer over a tedious backing probably provided by cheroot-sucking 57-year-old white blokes in berets and goatee beards and the overall effect is somzzzzzzzzz. SHIT! Sorry, fell asleep there for a minute. Now, where were we? Oh fuck this. Do you mind if we put Marilyn Manson on again? “ISOLATION IS THE OXYGEN MASK YA MAKE YA CHILDREN BREATHE IN TO SURVIVE! I’M NOT A SLAVE TO A GOD THAT DOESN’T EXIST! I’M NOT A SLAVE TO A WORLD THAT DOESN’T GIVE A PISS!” Ooh BABY!
– Steven Wells.