I found this over at the now defunct www.hurlentil.blogspot.com blog, for some reason, he's taken his blog down, but by the genius of google cache pages, I salute you choco
Look. Just look at this guy's face? What is wrong with his face?!
He looks like he is un-evolving before my very eyes, for fucks sake! His brow more ridged with every blink of disbelief! With every sobering slap to my own face, his stare becomes more and more vacant until i can actually see a talking caveman. As much as he struggles with forming simple sentences, a real fucking talking caveman. I am actually looking into the ancient eyes of a real-life, fucking talking caveman back from the fucking dead to destroy our brains with banality. Incredible. I wouldn't be surprised if this guy was 7 foot tall with big hairy arms when he was 10 years old. Roaming around the playground, smashing up the place and screaming like a giant baby, wondering why he was 5 foot taller than all the other kids, needing to be air-lifted into his classroom like some blubbering and hopeless beached whale. Befriending a similiarly rejected asian child with cerebral palsy and going on crappy adventures through the drains. That sort of thing.
Anyway, ahem, that inane, chirpy, winsome grin, dazed, dribbling and pointlessly optimistic as he introduces us (he has to point as his shit sign at the start of every fucking video) towards yet another of his turgid, half-baked musical pies can only mean one thing, it is none other than "Last Night From Glasgow", a series of hilarious "live", mostly acoustic performances spammed out to the public (what did we do wrong?!) to keep our hopes up and our dreams alive. Lovingly shot on his shit-poor digital camera's internal mic (optimum enjoyment, folks, lap it up), set to the quaint, scenic backdrop of his dank, piss-stained bedroom (where he has no doubt wanked his twenties away, weeping into his cornflakes whilst carving the cast of Friends out of mouldy onions to keep himself sane), you can see that, right from the start, Manc_ill_Kid (twat) has absolutely no shame in embarrassing himself and Glaswegians everywhere with his overwhelmingly spack-tarded opinion of what constitutes an enjoyable musical experience.
Spurred on by the early success of the sound abortion that is Sandi Thom, of all people, this poor sod, however, doesn't appear to know what "keys" are, what "natural talent" is, what "nightmarish atonality" means and keeps friends with some of the most unconvincing lunks you could ever clap your eyes on. Where the fuck did he find these creepy, creepy losers?! He also quite clearly comments annonymously, yet favourably on his own performances (sad) and is under the illusion that a few hundred views (most of them his own - own up you git) justifies the "phenomenom" tag he has attributed himself. Gimp.
As for the lunks, take this recent video from Thee Moths, for example. This odd little lumpy sadsack's cover of Cameo's classic Word Up is straight out of your darkest nightmares with it's mind-numbing sloppiness and cringeworthy chorus, sang with about as much conviction as you would expect from a shaved orangutan with down's syndrome, not to mention mutton chops your fat dad could ski down. Wobbling around like a pregnant walrus. I found myself shielding my eyes from the horror as his hands fumbled over his shite little guitar, making it sick up his shredded, clumsy gumph, as the voices deep within his mind encouraged him to just keep moaning, keep on weeping it out until the last crumbs of pain wash over all of us. But it never does, does it? It's just one horrible, perpetually looped delusion. Deeply unsettling, not to mention deeply untalented. I can see him at the end of my bed at night. The sound doesn't stop. The dirt wont wash off. HELP ME KEVIN! NOOOOOOOO!
Next up we have Scunner. I swear this has to be seen to be believed. The guitarist is, quite simply, terrifying. Those wee, peephole eyes and that cold, emotionless, otherworldy expression. If i ever met this man in real life (if he even exists and isn't just scary nightmares coming out of my computer), i'd swear to the sweetest walnut of all that i was about to be molested to death. Horrible. That's not the worst part though, check the absolute nick of the singer as he prances around like Mr Claypole from Rent-A-Ghost. You think you can just dress up like a gay Chewbacca, act like an escapee from Rent and you're suddenly a charismatic frontman? I don't think so, pal. For a start, what are you even saying?! All i can hear over and over is the word "gadzooks" and even perhaps the odd "Bob's your uncle" in there somewhere too. Get lost, weirdo.
This poisonous little runt looks like a 'Brewer's Droop'. Images Of Mathematicians On Postage Stamps isn't music; It's Alan's attempt at proving to the office that he actually is, regardless of how they treat him everyday at work, a bodacious dude with awesome skills. Look boss! Look what i made! Don't call me "Shitty Phil Mitchell" anymore, i'm an actual rocker with a music video and a friend! Funny, because he looks just like the sort of pointless little dweeb you sometimes see crying all over the bus station at three a.m. on a Friday night, covered in sick and in no way should be placed in control of a musical instrument, if you could call it 'control'.
The Just Joans. Yes dude, we know you're Scottish, put it away. Replace whatever words this guy is talking (i would say singing, but he's quite clearly just talking like he's explaining something slowly to a confused foreigner, hence the exaggerated accent) with the phrases "two and two is four" and "the ball is orange" and you have the fucking homeless Proclaimers playing kid's songs in the library for loose change. Edutainment. Barney beware! Awful.
Quite simply the worst song i've ever heard in my life. Ironically, we find our man banging on about "redeeming features" when not one can be found amongst this uncontrollable explosion of sweaty afterbirth posing as songwriting. Manc_ill_Kid (hello again) clunks and grumbles his way through this sorry little number, confusedly battling the perfect little ditty inside his head with the incomprehensible pile of discordant pumps and groans coming out of it, pretending to play like he hasn't just been taught four chords by his boyfriend, introducing us all to the yawnsome concept that, yes, even the simplest, most talentless of mongoloids can make a fucking sound bang, a video, an upload and an html link to point unsuspecting music fans toward sickness. God bless you internets. "She won't be watching this". Haha, you figure? You've lost it mate. You're gone. But thanks for the laughs. See ya.