The reprobates in Footprints sent me over a copy of their forthcoming album for review this week, but unfortunately I’ve been too busy to listen to it. To make sure we got the review out in time I drafted in a guest reviewer, my old auntie Mary Shitehouse. What could go wrong, eh? Take it away, Mary…
I was very excited to listen to some of the music that my dearest nephew likes, and he sent me some “files” through the “Internet” to listen to on my mobile telephone while I did some needlepoint and wrote letters of complaint to shops where I’ve seen that they still sell those horrible magazines with unclothed ladies in them. I liked the name of the band, as I am old enough to remember the joke from whence it is the punchline. Surely these gentlemen must be popular with the young girls with such tasteful wit!
Oh, my dear Lord in Heaven above. What was I sent? I hope that this… this mess which couldn’t even pass for music isn’t what my nephew listens to and writes about. Not only is it purely and simply abrasive and un-Godly noise, the lyrics are vile. Filth. FILTH.
After enduring “Beer Goggles”, an ode which seems to promote the over-consumption of the Devil’s own alcoholic beverages, I thought I may be on safe ground with “Ride, My Little Pony, Ride!”. My granddaughter loves these books, filled with kindly magic and good messages of friendship, but no these awful men have managed to besmirch and uglify the wonderful world of Pinky Pie and Twilight Sparkle. MONSTERS.
More enticement to imbibe Satan’s own wee-wee is given in “Tequila Nips” which is followed by a song, the name of which I shall have to censor in case the Ladies’ Guild disown me: “Mummyfornicating Hangover”. At least this one describes the revenge of Satan upon your body were you to be tempted by his evil liquor. However, when I saw the title of the next song, I swooned. My beloved Jeremy had to revive me with the smelling salts. When he found out what had happened, he became faint also. How that “C” word can find itself printed on a record album sleeve makes me weep for our children and our children’s children. DISGUSTING.
Though the message behind that song may have been a positive one, the puerile way in which it was delivered made me sick to the stomach. Not so much as the next song, “My Granny’s a Gusher”, the meaning of which completely escaped me until I used that Google website that Jeremy told me was good for finding things out. I had to soak my eyes in vinegar and pray to our gentle Jesus for forgiveness after witnessing the hedonistic behaviour which poured forth from my telephone’s screen. So much naked flesh. NAKED GUSHING FLESH.
“The Horn” lulled me into a false sense of security with its medieval melody, until Jeremy heard and confronted me – rightly so – as to why I was listening to music where young gentlemen were singing about being… engorged. ENGORGED.
I could listen to no more, especially when I realised that “Space Force!” is critical of that lovely Mr Trump. How anyone can think ill of that wonderful family man who has done so much for women’s rights recently (ensuring the young wastrels know their place, as I did back in my youth) is beyond me. MAGA. WALLS. GUNS.
I simply cannot state strongly enough how much you should avoid this awful, disgusting, vile, immature, sickening, Satanic noise. I can’t even call it music. It’s pathetic rubbish of the lowest order and if you care even the smallest bit about the crying baby Jesus, you’ll buy up every copy you can and burn them. BURN THEM ALL.
Jeremy and I are off to the chapel now to beg forgiveness for having our ears tainted by it and pray that you heed our warning.
A New Low is out on June 1st (and available for pre-order), but don’t buy it… burn it
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