Everyone had a really good weekend, looking forward to Monday, in the hope that Saint Bono was actually going to die. It looked odds-on too, as he was rushed into a hospital with a heart so heavy about the plight of the third-world, it could no longer continue.
But alas, like all great news, it was too good to be true as it emerged that there’s pretty much nothing wrong with Bono and that, in fact, he’s made a pact with Jesus Christ Himself to outlive absolutely everyone on Earth, just so he can have the last word.
The prick.
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Accessory to musical murder U2 guitarist The Edge has been told that his proposed property development would be one of the “worst” things to happen to California in terms of environmental devastation.
The guitarist, famous for making a noise which is primarily effects with a thin, marmalade-like scraping of musical ability, had applied for permission to build a group of mansions near Malibu; the plush hangout of the rich and famous… and U2.
The friend of Bono (the guy who wears the glasses and talks too much)- whose real name is Audley Hedgerow – had made a proposal to construct five mansions overlooking Malibu rejected by the California Coastal Commission. Despite making reassurances that the venture would be environmentally-friendly, The Edge’s plans were rejected out of hand due to its impact on the ecosystem in the area.
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The organisers of Hard Rock Calling, that sort of festival like thing that happens in Hyde Park every summer that isn’t the O2 Wireless festival, have decided that former Fall Out Boy bassist and pioneer of the musical equivalent of object dá, Pete Wentz, is a suitable choice for a battle of the bands judge.
Right? RIGHT?
If you’re lucky enough to have forgotten the mid noughties, here’s a crash course in all things Pete Wentz:
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The best thing about being super-rich is that, rather than let governments decide how to spend your tax, you can just keep hold of it, then donate some to a groovy cause, whilst getting baskets of praise and verbal fellatio for making a really exciting thing happen.
Imagine a world where we could all do that! We would look dead nice from giving money to AIDS kids, earthquake orphans and publicity-hungry slag animals. Like polar bears. The furry whores.
We wouldn’t have to worry about our money helping to provide rehabilitation for murderers and young offenders.
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Even though Bob Geldof and Bono may go on with themselves like they have single handedly solved the problem of Africa (that’d be famine and debt, rather than them generally not liking the whole continent), the fact remains that there are still huge problems out there.
Of course, in the Western world, we have our own problems too. Slow internet connections, updates on our computers, a lack of signal for our mobile phones and, of course, the fact that we’re all hugely obese and all joining the type 2 diabetes club.
However, amongst these two main problems is a solution. You can donate your fat to the malnourished people of Africa, thereby saving their lives and making us look beautiful and thin. And really, really smug.
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Poor old Bono – he can end poverty, but he can’t jig about in front of some muddy idiots for an hour.
It’s Bono’s back. It’s not very well. Everyone had been really excited about seeing U2‘s headlining set at Glastonbury – because if you’re going to spend a weekend developing trench foot surrounded by thousands of hat-wearing bastards and godawful Legal High salesmen in a massive field in the middle of nowhere in a non-stop apocalyptic rainstorm, you may as well go all out and make sure that you have a really crap time – but now Bono has hurt his back and it’s never going to happen.
Incidentally, Bono is said to be heartbroken about cancelling Glastonbury. So that’s his back and his heart buggered up. Let’s go for legs next, please. Legs or nose. Either’s fine.
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Irish stereotypes: They will have us all believing that if our paddy friends aren’t pickling themselves in alcohol, they are furiously thrusting their fists in the general area of any indistinct bystander’s face.
Of course, it’s all complete hogwash. The only Irish people we know are singers, and they generally make us drink excessively and punch ourselves in the face.
But if Irish stereotypes are your thing, then you will be right at home in Boondock Saints II: All Saints Day. We’ve got a family of killers (but they do it for good reasons), led by (the very Scottish) Billy Connolly, who travel back to Boston on a revenge trip of inglorious B-movie violence and witless storytelling.
It’s a sequel to the 1999 cult movie Boondock Saints, and if you’re unfamiliar with that film (which, you probably are) then during the first five minutes, you’ll instantly start to wonder what all the fuss is about.
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Festivals are brilliant. Standing in fields, listening to music out of ropey speakers, complaining about being covered in mud and spending £10 on organic hemp burgers. Perfect.
What you want for your money is a magical experience where you get to enjoy bands you like, discover weird stuff like Brazilians who compose songs off radiators and occasionally get off your face on booze. Glastonbury 2010 should theoretically be one of the best festivals of all time. Why? Because it’s the 40th anniversary of the festival. Shame it’s going to be ruined by U2.
Well we say, U2. We mean Bono.
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