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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:
I should preface this. I should preface a lot of things in fact, usually with “She was already dead”, but in this case, I need only disclose that I’m not a critic.
Critics are invariably asteroidal pricks, and I’m not. I really am just the world’s greatest. So it was my birthday, see, and I was taking my Ma and Da to see Paul McCartney in Hyde Park.
We had a long lunch. What did we have? I hardly think this is the time*. This lovely lunch, (and it was a lovely lunch), aside from being an enjoyable part of the day in its own right, did impact on a full appreciation of the entire Sunday lineup. We missed Joshua Radin, who I’m only vaguely aware of; some almost-certainly-antipodean archangel of banality, whose soporific noodling about misplaced affection would have sent me on a willing one-way trip to a Swiss hotel room, and the divorcees and homosexuals in the audience into some massive, shuddering orgasm.
