If I can’t vote for killing Justin Bieber, it’s not my election. And they call this a democracy.
However, we all do still have some freedoms they are yet to strip away. We can unite and click the google ads at the top of this blog!
Oh, the rich and powerful don’t want you to, make no mistake about it. They would have you believe it is *impossible*, at the current hit rate, for Carlo Sands to actually ever *earn* the 150 bucks required for google to bother sending him a check any time before the coming climate apocalypse destroys the planet and, with it, the requirement for Google to send Carlo Sands a check.
That is because they are scared! Sure, the amount earned over a year or so so far has barely reached double figures, but remember what Ghandi said: first they laugh at you, then they fight you, then they give you a check for $150 bucks and you go out and get pissed!
Don’t let them fool you! Take a stand! Click the ads!
Dare to struggle, dare to click! If you don’t click you lose!
It is my considered opinion, avid clickers on the google ads kindly provided by my good self at the top of this blog, that John Cooper Clarke, “punk poet” and the “Bard of Salford”, is a fucking legend.
I have already drawn attention to one of his more charming poems, entitled “Twat”. And there are plenty more delightful ditties to be found on his website.
But more than anything else, Mr Cooper Clarke should be celebrated as the writer and performer of indisputably the Best Poem Ever Written By Anyone Ever.
Now, I can hear the cries of my loyal google-ad clicking fan base. Yes, Carlo Sands is also a poet.
And, yes, my masterpiece, I Kill You Now Fuck Off And Get Me A Drink, was one of those rare pieces of art that totally redefined a genre, revolutionised an art form and was so ahead of its time that time travellers from 2750s feel like backward hicks when they stumble across it.
It is true it was an important, if controversial, piece of work that bravely tackled such taboo subjects as the practice of yelling at corpses that fail to bring you a beer. Which, in my experience, is pretty much all of them.
But, if my more fanatical supporters will permit me to say so (and seriously guys, maybe you should relieve a little of that passionate energy with a few google ad clicks), it still falls short of Mr John Cooper Clarke's “Evidently Chickentown”.
Put to music by his Invisible Girls backing band for his 1980 album Snap, Crackle and Bop, featured briefly in the film clip to the Joy Division song “Transmission”, and played over the closing credits of an episode of The Sopranos, "Evidently Chickentown" is really fucking good.
It presents the most vivid picture ever provided in word form of what it is *actually like* trying to live under late monopoly capitalism.
Inspired by the wonders of working class life in northern England in the late ’70s, it describes life for ordinary people in the “developed” world everywhere.
It may also have served as inspiration of a sort to a post of mine entitled “Dear Motherfuckers” — but I warn Mr Cooper Clarke now, he wont ever see so much of a cent of my google ad revenue.
“The reason I like to do this number is, quite simply, I can't do this on TV. They wont let me do it on TV because last time I did it, the beep operators sued for repetitive strain injury. Also, my swear box doubles as a high-yield pension scheme.”
Evidently Chickentown
The fucking cops are fucking keen To fucking keep it fucking clean The fucking chief's a fucking swine Who fucking draws a fucking line At fucking fun and fucking games The fucking kids he fucking blames Are nowehere to be fucking found Anywhere in Chickentown
The fucking scene is fucking sad The fucking news is fucking bad The fucking weed is fucking turf The fucking speed is fucking surf The fucking folks are fucking daft Don't make me fucking laugh It fucking hurts to look around Everywhere in Chickentown
The fucking train is fucking late You fucking wait you fucking wait You're fucking lost and fucking found Stuck in fucking Chickentown
The fucking view is fucking vile For fucking miles and fucking miles The fucking babies fucking cry The fucking flowers fucking die The fucking food is fucking muck The fucking drains are fucking fucked The colour scheme is fucking brown Everywhere in Chickentown
The fucking pubs are fucking dull The fucking clubs are fucking full Of fucking girls and fucking guys With fucking murder in Their eyes A fucking bloke is fucking stabbed Waiting for a fucking cab You fucking stay at fucking home The fucking neighbors fucking moan Keep The fucking racket down This is fucking Chickentown
The fucking train is fucking late You fucking wait you fucking wait You're fucking lost and fucking found Stuck in fucking Chickentown
The fucking pies are fucking old The fucking chips are fucking cold The fucking beer is fucking flat The fucking flats have fucking rats The fucking clocks are fucking wrong The fucking days are fucking long It fucking gets you fucking down Evidently Chickentown
