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You know what it’s like. You’re minding your own business, doing absolutely nothing wrong and then, KAPOW! Some awful Coldplay song barges into your subconscious while being used as an aspirational bit on some dreary television show.
It simply isn’t fair.
However, thanks to a singing intruder (there clearly should be more ‘singing intruders’… it needs to be a ‘thing’), Chris Martin now knows exactly what it is like for the rest of us poor, innocent, ear-having plebians.
Hello. Do you remember when you watched The X Factor final yesterday? Well, by an astonishing coincidence, so did we. And crikey, wasn’t it just totally and definitely and absolutely unequivocally passable? Yeah. Take that, H8ERS.
*Dermot tongue roll* ALRIIIIGHT. It was in two halves, like the bloody brilliant darling that it is. Is it possible to be too entertained? The answer is of course c) Kaposi’s sarcoma.
Nonetheless, yes they absolutely poured out a grand total of FOUR. HOURS. That’s like an hour and twenty minutes per finalist. How many times can we hear Marcus say, “I used to be a hairdresser, and now I’m a singer a bit.” over and over in varying incorporations? Obviously, once you chop out all the adverts that’s only about twelve minutes or so though, obviously. No bigz. So then. We love adverts. They really really make us want to buy produce via an amusing or creative short film piece. Our favourite advert of course is the one where the little boy can’t wait to give his parents a Christmas present, and how it really really made us want to buy padlocks for our doors. Oh alright, “The X Factor” then. Here’s loads of wank about it, in two sections.
The NME has this year decided that the coolest people in the music industry are a bunch of no-names and people we hate with every fibre of our disgruntled being; they will never make it and, if they’ve already ‘made it’, then their last name is Gallagher and we have absolutely no opinion on that anymore.
Being the snide swine we are, it was suggested that we fight the powers that be and show the world of celebrity what’s what and who’s nobody, so here it is in all its underwhelming un-festive glory.
So, in a very well thought out (hastily typed out at midnight last night) attempt to tackle the elitism issues that NME have raised, we got our youngest, hippest (Hahahaha! – Ed) hecklerspray writers – Lauren Mullineaux and Sophie Hall – to create what we consider to be the healthier way to present a list of terrible human beings. We present to you: Hecklerspray Presents: The Anti-Cool List. Presented. To you. List.
People dying is a terrible thing, it’s almost as bad as when annoying songs get stuck in your head, but what’s even worse and more inconceivable than either of those things is when you have fake songs about dead people stuck in your head.
Readers of the ‘Spray, tonight we are disgraced to tell you that we find ourselves in this very situation. Currently we are dancing round the bedsit singing “Ga-da-fi is d-ead,” to the theme of the Conga, any second now the crew from Insidious 2 will be round to start filming.
One day no new music videos will have been posted on all the pretentious sites, and NME Video, that we patrol to inform you what the beautiful people are doing and you’ll just be left utterly heart-broken and convulsing on the floor while singing the jingle from the Match.com advert, because let’s face it you go there every night like the filthy love-hound you are. Until this day comes though we can this week offer you some of the finest dirge on the web and Rihanna, who is so non-dirge that she forgave Chris Brown—according to our sources; the Metro.
You’ve heard Coldplay right? Yeah, that’s the guys that make tepid, stadium-sized faeces, swarmed upon by tasteless flies who like vague lyrics that kinda sound aspirational or touching, but best not to dwell on it because that’s not why one goes to a Coldplay gig.
Basically, it’s music for the bone idle.
Disagree? Well, hear this, chumps: Even Chris Martin’s own children – those little oiks who he loves unreservedly and will support for the rest of their lives – don’t even like Coldplay. And Chris Martin knows that to try and force them would be folly.
Imagine waking up every morning and seeing Coldplay’s Chris Martin lying there in his hemp pyjamas, gurgling while he dreams about drawing another slogan on his hand which will end world hunger.
It’s little wonder then, that Gwyneth Paltrow has conducted an interview saying that she “respects and admires” people who have conducted extra-marital affairs.
This is presumably because she can think of doing little else.
Chris Martin’s Coldplay are unquestionably successful. The amount of records they sell and the number of people who attend their shows around the world are often held up as proof of their quality.
By that token, you could argue that dog muck is brilliant because millions of flies just can’t get enough of it. Or racism. That’s popular around the world too.
Regardless, Gwyneth Paltrow doesn’t care about all that because she knows best. She’s launching her music career and doesn’t need stupid advice from that dippy, stadium filling husband of hers. She presumably thinks Coldplay are just hangar sized turds.
The Glastonbury festival is outrageously overrated. Acre upon acre of tree-hugging hummus weavers hump the ground in the hope that they’re near a layline while pink-faced louts in Stone Roses t-shirts consume crates of Stella ’til they fill their tent with urine.
On top of these obviously good vibes, there’s the lakes of silage that surround the portable shit-pits and burgers so expensive that you could buy a small holding full of delicious cows instead. And there’s the obligatory cry of ‘bolllooooocks‘ that soundtracks your evening as the night draws in.
Of course, the music that Glastonbury has is the reason why people go and, year on year, revellers are treated to one of the most conservative billings on the circuit. That’s why utter dross like Coldplay and U2 are consistently linked with headlining slots. However, unbelievably, there might be an act who actually warrant a trip to the fields of litter – BEYONCE!
