TIRED AND IRRITABLE

by Ross Sharp

I am at my local pub Monday afternoon, and I am flipping through that days copy of “The Australian” (it’s a quick flip) (and no, I did not buy it, there was a copy on the bar), and I come across an article by one Alan Howe, a commentator and columnist (ooh-er), who has chosen for his topic of the day, David Bowie’s lyrics, which he proceeds to describe as mostly “nonsensical”, “rarely interesting”, his “Achilles heel”, and that Bowie himself based his own career on “spotting and appropriating” the styles and sounds of others, or “trailing the blaze” as Howe puts it.

As I plod through his own dreary words, I wonder to myself, “Who the fuck is this guy?”, as I had never heard the name before, and shall probably never hear it again, as he appears to be one of these tedious, cockwalloping fudpuckers so full of their own self-importance, and so consumed by their own opinions on all manner of things, they feel it necessary to ruin the service for the rest of us by pissing in the Holy water and nicking all the wafers.

There’s always one.

“Putting things into perspective” for the alleged benefit of us poor, deluded souls out here whose thinking needs be “corrected”, and corrected by none other than some random creative typist in a broadsheet tabloid which uproariously calls itself a “newspaper”, and the rest of us call “shit”.

I shan’t go on much more, but, whilst Bowie and his work, his art, his fashion and influence will be discussed, debated, and analysed for decades hence, Alan Howe’s shall not be remembered five seconds after his expiry.

There’s some “perspective” if you need it.

Alan Howe

Alan Howe. Life of the Party. Twat.

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