Brings back vivid memories of when me and my mate Ray went on a trip to Dresden. We met this rotund goth in a bar, head to toe with tattoos and piercings, real filth and after a while took her into the disabled bogs for a spit roast. We were both pumping away in her with Napalm Death on in the background and her wailing "MEIN GOTT" at the top of her lungs. I remember spaffing all over her back just as Siege of Power kicked in. As i shoot over her, she takes Ray's cock out of her gob and says "do you want fries with that?" in a faux American accent. Anyway, we go outside and there's this gammy little geezer in a wheelchair sitting there furious, giving me daggers, because he's had to wait so long, so I lean into him and I go "I hope you have as much fun in there as we just did you little cunt".

This was released around the same time my first born entered this miserable world. Joan and I would often refer to her as Kid A. How we would laugh. The Radiohead theme would continue, as when Hail to the Thief was released, that same child had recently been kidnapped, never to be seen alive again, which was a welcome relief, as she was a right little prick. How we laughed. Police investigations came to a head in 2011. Several dismembered body parts belonging to my daughter had been found in the local woods. Imagine our faces when we were told this news as Radiohead released King of Limbs. We could barely hold back our laughter.

As a former locust abortion technician myself, I can confirm that this record truly represents what an under appreciated role we have society. It really gives us a voice.

I lost my virginity to Van Morrison. To be clear, I don't mean whilst listening to Van Morrison, I mean he stuck his knob in my bum. 'Twas the summer of '71, me a shy farm hand on the verge of becoming a man, him an established musician using his power and influence to take advantage of a pre-pubescent stable boy. The memory still lingers like a dark, unwavering trauma. He needs to be stopped.

I could crywank all night to this behemoth. Blisters on me fingers and on me dick. So much blood and so many tears. Like a recently widowed hedgehog trying to escape from a blender. Welp.

Got spacked out of me heed to this!

Glad he's dead.

Ooooh they sound better than the birds I normally end up with. The last one sounded like a hungover Johnny Vegas gargling gravel out of a weasel's armpit. Squealed like a dirty hog when I slipped it in her wrongun. Tells me she was pissing rusty blood out of her ass for 6 weeks. Pints of the stuff. 3 stars and a bag of chips.

Old dusty tits, you son of a bitch.

Ahh 1977. I was more into punk than this shite. Spikey hair, ripped jeans and sucking off wheelies in alleyways was my game. ELO can fuck right off.

They didn't run far enough in my opinion. It was more like that marathon where Paula Radcliffe bend down and took a runny shit at the side of the road.

Phwoar! I'd love to cut their slits...ideally if at least one of them was underage.

Oh my god, it just took me away to somewhere else...where I was murdering over and over.

I can't stop thinking about my girlfriend fucking other men.

Has anyone ever watched an episode of Ex on the Beach? Jesus Christ, is this what people are like now? Psychopaths. Back in my day instead of shouting "CUNT" at eachother every 5 minutes and shagging eachother's girlfriends, we would put on this album and just chill out...and then shag eachother's girlfriends.

Oh boy! What an album! Had me bopping around my living room like...a chirping cricket -Until the third song anyway. Then things turned dark. It's been dark ever since. So dark. So bleak. So cold.

Love of bit of Frankie. The man has such a smooth voice and such a massive hog of a cock. Yes, Frank son. Charming the ladies with your tone and then slamming them with your bone. What an icon.

Ahh I remember going on a geography field trip to Stafford back when this dropped. I saw myself as a bit of a bad ass motherfucker - well as much as an eleven year old could be. I remember learning all of the words to Fuck Tha Police to try and impress a girl I really fancied. On a break time, me and my mate Stanley decided we would wander over and try and show off to this girl and a group of her friends by performing it in front on them. We had the baggy Jean's, the caps, the attitude, but although we wanted to, just about stopped short of blacking up. We were feeling confident and thought we had done a great job and that the girls would now desire our 11 year old white boy bodies. A short while later, our teacher pulled us to one side. The girls had obviously grassed us up for using inappropriate language and "being weird". Our parents were called and I was grounded for two weeks. Two years later I had fingered two of those girls...because I'm a bad ass motherfucker.

Kala by M.I.A? Who the fuck do you think I am? I'll tell you who I am, I'm *checks username* ... I'm Nigel Spackman. I can't be listening to this garbage, son, I have a reputation to uphold. But here we go... Update: I think it's changed by life. I'm weeping into my Quavers here man.

Hark! Is that an Angel? No. It's this terrific little album from 1970. John Barleycorn must die, but what a way to go out! Rest in peace, Corndog. X

I was watching a BBC4 documentary about duck rustling in the 13th century at the weekend and it blew my mind. This album has a similar effect. The unreachable ambition shown by both Radiohead is reminiscent of the infamous duck rustlers and really comes to the fore on 'Fitter Happier'. A loveable, adventurous romp, with charming pond dwelling creatures. I was on the edge of my seat throughout.

Maybe it's time to take of my rose tinted glasses with this album. I was a massive fan when I was a spotty teen, living on a diet of Monster Munch, cherry cola and danger wanks. I haven't listened to this reford in going on 25 years, so hearing it now and being transported back to that excitement, that optimism, that youthful exuberance that I felt then makes me feel that maybe, just maybe I'm not the old man I thought I was. It was a relief and a pleasure to rekindle my love affair -like sugar on my tongue.

Oh, I am the quarry, am I? I'm not sure what villainous plans you have for me Morrissey, but I'm only half interested in what you have to say. Are you planning on drilling into me? It that your twisted fantasy, is it? To have me, ME! covered in vegetables, laid out in front of you, legs spread with my coin piece pointed towards you, trembling, whilst you warble miserably about foreigners and meat, licking your lips and greasing up your penis. You sick, vegan, racist, self satisfied, bequiffed prick. I'm in.

If only there was some sort of suicide prevention hotline that could have been called to stop this abomination from being made. RIP mum .

The GOAT. Just a sublime piece of music mastery from Waters and Gilmour. The Wall moves with a nimble grace and takes you on a transcendental journey. It challenges conventional themes and the system in one Herculean swipe. A powerful and exquisite tour de force - each and every one of those bricks in the wall delivers a knockout blow, leaving you dazzled and spinning in all the colours of the spectrum before delicately drizzling you on the canvas. Yes, I mostly watch interracial porn these days.

George really found his voice in this one, in more ways than one. What a set of pipes he has on him here. Doesn't now though, sadly....he's dead.

1986 brought us Topgun, Maradona's hand of God and Infected by The The. What clusterfuck of a year it was. I can't think of anything good associated with it. I was in a new romantic phase, getting into Eastenders and trying to avoid getting AIDS (unsuccessfully). Bad memories.

Crowded House? That's because the government has let so many immigrants into Britain. They've not only taken the weather with them, but our jobs, our women, our country. Go home. Brexit means Brexit.

I'm still too seething about Brexit from yesterday, but here goes. If this is one of the top 1001 albums of all time, then I voted remain. A complete waste of time and money - not Brexit, this album.

A wee angry bad tempered man with strange eyes. The bloody best of British. A blowjob from Mr. Blobby.

Glugging red wine all night to this one. Going to sound like a frog farting through his foreskin tomorrow. This one bent me over and fucked me up the arse.... no offence to any of you guys.

Brings back vivid memories of when me and my mate Ray went on a trip to Dresden. We met this rotund goth in a bar, head to toe with tattoos and piercings, real filth and after a while took her into the disabled bogs for a spit roast. We were both pumping away in her with Napalm Death on in the background and her wailing "MEIN GOTT" at the top of her lungs. I remember spaffing all over her back just as Siege of Power kicked in. As i shoot over her, she takes Ray's cock out of her gob and says "do you want fries with that?" in a faux American accent. Anyway, we go outside and there's this gammy little geezer in a wheelchair sitting there furious, giving me daggers, because he's had to wait so long, so I lean into him and I go "I hope you have as much fun in there as we just did you little cunt".

"The Dove from Above" is a large prop animal suspended above the contestants on Shooting Stars merely for the purpose of bearing six key words for further questions. Guests would be prompted to "coo" down the dove. "Coo. Coo. Coo." Noteable cooers are Johnny Vegas and Take That's Mark Owen.

Well, Nigel Spackman knows a thing or two about teenage fan clubs, let me tell you. As a footballing superstar and high street heart throb, I often had to deal with groups of young...boys screaming in my presence. At first it's exciting and you love the attention, but soon it begins to chip away at your soul. The smile once so bright, becomes dimmer and you start to hate the little fuckers. "Nigel! Nigel! Give us a wave. Can we have an autograph? What are you having for supper? Can we get in the bath with you again?". Tiring. I didn't hit that boy though, no matter what you've read. He deserved it, but I didn't hit him. I should have hit him.

Speaking of the kneeling young; the youngest girl I ever got a blow job from passed away this week. I used to babysit for her and her older sister back in the early 2000s. Polite, pretty girl, couldn't hold a mouthful of cum to save her life though.

Rock n Roll at its finest. A fucking heavyweight of an album. Jimmy's axe work is sensational and Robert's vox are piercing. I'd take your mum to uncle Brian's abattoir and bang her to this one. Bang her in amongst the hanging dead meat.

Why do squirrels gather at cemeteries? Are all squirrels goths?

Massive boners all round for this one I'm sure. Speaking of massive boners, I responded to one of those 'spam' emails regarding Viagra last month and the company kindly sent me over 6,000 little blue pills. Needless to say I've had an unbelievably painful dick for 26 days now. I'm in agony. Please help me.

As a former locust abortion technician myself, I can confirm that this record truly represents what an under appreciated role we have society. It really gives us a voice.

Oh Reggie Dwight you old dog. What a treat this is! From the haunting Goodbye Yellow Brick Road to the frenzy of Saturday Night's Alright, just hit after hit. Look at those platform shoes! You'll snap your bleeding ankle, you daft apeth. By all means say your goodbyes, but be careful on those bricks, you silly sausage.

Did I miss some albums here? I'm fuckin livid! My asshole was flapping during this. Fuckin love to drive angry to this. I'm like a roll n rock Derek Bird when this comes on.

Lenny Kravitz is the dirty slut who broke my mother's heart.

Unfortunately, I tested positive for Covid 19 today, so I wasn't really concentrating on this. I remember it being a dope ass motherfucker of an album when I first heard it though.

 But, on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they went to the tomb, taking the spices they had prepared. And they found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in they did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. While they were perplexed about this, behold, two men stood by them in dazzling apparel. And as they were frightened and bowed their faces to the ground, the men said to them, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? ...

FUCKIN' YES!!!!

Speaking of loo reads. I was reading 'Being Freddie' by Andrew "Freddie" Flintoff whilst squeezing out the most painful, dark, foul smelling, Guinness shit yesterday. I must say, what a funny and articulate young man he is. To be a world class cricketer, who goes out on the lash at the drop of a ball, try your hand and boxing and they become a national tv treasure, you really have to hand it to the man. I bet he gets the Guinness shits a lot too. By jove, it was brutal, it felt like molten lava pouring out of my soul.

Ooooooh mama. I once met Peter Hook in the bathroom of a strip club. He had a very powerful stream which made me feel like less of a man, as my useless penis could only spray out a few pale yellow drops of disappointment. As a result of that blow to my psyche, I went back out there and picked out the most coked up stripper I could find. She took me into the back and in a rage I thumped her round her temple, knocking her to the ground. As the blood trickled from her nose, I knew I had become a new, powerful alpha male. I laughed heartily. She died.

I had a right good snore up to this. Fucked me right off. Right, I'm off to guzzle a gallon of Guinness in a beer garden. Ta-ra.

When I was 16, I asked a girl out called Lauryn. She laughed in my face. Feeling low I decided to go to the 24 hour garage just down the road to mask my disappointment by buying some top shelf porn mags. I didn't need Lauryn, I could have a great time by myself. It was only as I was nearly at the counter, ready to pay, that I noticed it was my uncle working. In a panic, I disgarded the porn mags and instead got a cheese and onion pasty and had to satisfy my needs with that instead.

Not this moaning xenophobe again. I'm still trembling here, with him stood behind me, greasing up his penis, forcing me to eat brussel sprouts. Vegan tosser.

I often go to the park alone at night and eat Quavers whilst masturbating and watching the ducks swimming in the pond. I've never been caught. I honestly believe there's nothing wrong with it and the little show off ducks enjoy the attention. So, what are you going to do about it?

I'd shag her

Yes, I fancy her. I would shave off her pubic hair and keep it in a jar to eat at a later date.

Pet Shop Men.

Donald Fagen once took a golden shower on my belly and some of it ricocheted into my mouth. Yummy.

I was running late for my eldest daughter's parents evening a few years ago and didn't have time to change, so was wearing football shorts. As her geography teacher was talking some shit about how well she was doing, I felt a twinge in my stomach. I knew I was in trouble, but tried to stay composed. I'm sat there like "yeah, yeah, she knows all the capital cities of europe because of her years of child trafficking." We all laughed...but then, just as I was standing up to leave, my explosive diahorrea kicked in and launched a splurge of hearty brown liquid, splashing it all across a map of Africa. We all laughed. The Undertones were on in the car on the way home.

MY FACE! WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT ON MY FACE! ARGH FUCK! MY FACE! MY FACE! GET IT OFF MY FACE! WHAT IS HAPPENING TO MY FACE? MY BEAUTIFUL FACE! MAKE IT STOP! MY FACE! MY FACE! NOT MY FACE! MY HANDSOMELY STRUCTURED FACE IS FALLING APART. PLEASE, NO! NOT MY FACE! ANYTHING BUT MY FACE! NOT THE FACE. MY FACE! NOT THE FACE! WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING? WHAT'S HAPPENING?! WHY? MY FUCKIN' FACE! MY FACE! THIS ISN'T FAIR. NOT THE FACE!

Have you ever been showering late at night with your grandmother and accidentally slipped over causing your face to press snugly against her vulva? This record felt like that wholesome family moment. Like a hugging embrace from an old friend...who's a massive racist.Like using a dildo for the first time, but it's a hand-me-down from your brother. Interesting, but perverse.

Did you know that it used to be Simon and Garfunkel and Spackman? Yes, I was part of a groundbreaking folkrock trio back in the late 50s/early 60s. What a ride it was. We sold out The Emirates Stadium and The Millennium Dome countless times, before the drugs kicked in for me. It was a very exciting, but ultimately dark time in my life. By night it was a hedonistic rainbow of women, money, LSD and hobnobs. By day it was a cold coffin of shame and self-loathing whilst trying to enjoy folk music. Eventually my wild ways got too much for the others and they had to cut all ties with me. As a duo, Simon and Garfunkel went on to have enormous success, and rightly so. But, I always thought I gave the trio the edge which would have sent us into superstardom. I'm not bitter though, I went on to have a successful career as the famous footballer and nail technician you know me as today.

Well, let's just say that my bloody valentine was a fuckin' whore who deserved everything she got. Tried to take the kids away from me. Of course she was getting a bloody nose.

Ooof made me minge tingle

Like thumbing marshmallows into the anus of a cat.

When I was a kid, one of my favourite heroes was Batman. There is something I found enticing about a very rich man doling out incredibly harsh punishment to people so poor that they have been forced into crime. Maybe he should use his funds to tackle some of the economic inequalities of Gotham City and call himself Social Housing and Investment in Education Man, but that would be a shit comic.

A mellow fellow. John Grant is the kind of guy who, if confronted with a brutal crime happening to someone in front of his eyes, would cower and run away instead of help them. A real pussy.

TLC stands for Tasty Lesbian Cunt.

Like a Dutch prostitute shitting down the back of my neck, as I smoke a cigar and read short stories about medieval torture. The best days of my life.

Ozzy Osbourne and I were roommates back when we played for the Aston Villa under 12s. I taught him how to bite the heads off bats and he taught me how to take successful panenka penalties. If you'd have asked us back then, we'd have both said that Ozzy would go on to have a fairly noteable football career and that I would become the prince of darkness. What a turnaround. I also used to regularly finger Sharon.

Ooooooh so, so smoooooth. I could feel my fingers sliding down my thighs, take the underpass and arrive with such desire in my dark soft tunnel. It's the record that made me fall in love with music...and also anal fingering.

Every night I feast in complete darkness. Once, I accidentally ate a Puerto Rican kid's ashes. His family were not happy.

This bunch of pricks assaulted my nan. Kicked seven shades out of her and left her for dead. Luckily she survived, sought revenge and tracked them all down one by one...and then gave them all hand jobs. Slag.

My loo read this week has been 'Jade: Fighting to the End' by Jade Goody. A terribly heartbreaking account of her winless battle with cancer. As erotic fiction goes, it was a right let down. Her earlier work of being naked and racist on Big Brother was much more stimulating. How am I supposed to keep an erection whilst reading about a dying woman? I'll tell you how - by simultaneously watching Fireman Sam whilst reading. Naughty Norman Price and dying Jade Goody. What a combo.

Mummy! Mummy! The cat pissed all over my hair again. Please help.

When I was 5 I set my baby brother on fire. He now looks like a melted welly. Not the most handsome of the Spackmen. That's me. As voted for on 8 separate occasions at Spackman family gatherings.

I moved to Japan in the summer of 1982, three years after the release of this. The Japanese had never heard of it, but had heard of me Nigel Spackman. Their entire culture since '82 is based on my suggestions. Especially the manga porn stuff. I love a bit of that. An octopus strangling a school girl? Yes please.

I fuckin' hate it. Garbage.

My favourite. Everything about Marilyn Manson fascinates me and turns me on.

Pussy bustin' fun. That's the real American dream. Just getting paid and getting laid.

One of the best bands of all time. Bono is a top geezer and The Edge wears a lovely little hat.

Your sister's got flaming lips after I gave her super gonorrhea. The fat slag.

FUCK!!!!!!

I lost my virginity to Van Morrison. To be clear, I don't mean whilst listening to Van Morrison, I mean he stuck his knob in my bum. 'Twas the summer of '71, me a shy farm hand on the verge of becoming a man, him an established musician using his power and influence to take advantage of a pre-pubescent stable boy. The memory still lingers like a dark, unwavering trauma. He needs to be stopped.

Pink Flag is what I used to refer to my grandmother's minge as. I turned a bit darker and even green as the years went by. Still a top shag though.

Fuck my mouth.

My usual bus driver Shaun tells me that his sister once went to a Divine Comedy gig and got so drunk that she climbed onto the stage and whipped her flange out. Neil Hannon started wanking. The crowd looked stunned at first, then all joined in.

Panthro was the best Thundercat in my opinion. Most people I speak to about this tend to disagree. I once sparked a mass brawl by quoting Panthro for a whole hour whilst at a Lion-O gig. Those Lion-O fans are such dickheads. Just using his goal and assist stats to say he's the best, whereas Panthro controls the possession and dictates the game. They need to actually sit down and watch the Thundrcats on the battlefield as opposed to just looking at XG.

Chef from South Park is such a smooth, sensual, caring lover. I often dress up as Shaft for children's parties. They love it. I love it.

My kinks include, but aren't limited to: Ass licking Amputees Getting my balls stamped on GILFS Gorillas Smearing my shit into the eyes of my sister Getting my feet tickled Wearing a jacket made of toast and leaping off a diving board onto an angry sea lion. BBW gangbangs Dave Davies' solo work

16 Lovers Lane is actually a crack den I used to frequent. Shit and blood up the walls and junkies everywhere. I was out of my mind for 2 years. Evil, evil stuff. Very few made it out alive.

I don't watch television anymore. I refuse to pay for the TV licence. I now only watch animals fucking on the dark Web. The BBC coverage of animals humping is a bit shit now. I like watching two animals just really going at it like the clappers. Proper walloping eachother in their holes. A big horse's dick crushing the pussy of a leopard. Marvellous.

Oh, oh, oh Marvin you have just brought me to climax. I've jizzed all over my mum's neck. Fetch me a glass of milk and a Snickers at once.

I'd have never paired Beauty from Beauty and the Beast with the crab from The Little Mermaid, but Disney have done it here and it has resulted in a fairly okay record. It hasn't blown my mind in the same way a collaboration between Scar and Princess Jasmine would have.

I sometimes eat mice.

I keep young boys as pets. Some in cages, some can wander freely in the yard. I have eleven pairs of pinking sheers and a nice smile. Today is my birthday. My best friend is named Martin Beresford. He has an older sister. I like baking cakes.

As of this day, Wednesday 30th June 2021, I Nigel Peter Dandelion Spackman, have only murdered 7 hookers. If you read anything different, it's libellous.

I could crywank all night to this behemoth. Blisters on me fingers and on me dick. So much blood and so many tears. Like a recently widowed hedgehog trying to escape from a blender. Welp.

I haven't had an erection like that since Michael Owen scored against Argentina in 1998.

Some of you may have already read my story about Peter Hook's impressive pissing stream leading to me killing a stripper on another New Order review. Well, I have one more thing to add to that - that stripper was my own daughter. MY OWN DAUGHTER!

I first met the Sledge sisters whilst backpacking around Papua New Guinea. Each evening one of them would approach me in private and scream "We Are Family" in my face for up to two hours. Looking back, I probably shouldn't have forced them to have that orgy in front of their grandparents, but what's a boy to do?

Hot diggedy dawg. Reminds me of a sex-fuelled heart attack I once had.

Cyndi Lauper, now that's a name I haven't heard since.... It was January 1985, I was visiting my parents at the lake. It's so beautiful there in the winter and it gives me the peace and quiet to work on my dancing. One morning, fresh from a hectic pirouette session, I was walking along the waterside when a young woman approached me looking, no staring, right in my direction. A playful smile across her lips and one breast hanging out, she tackled me to the ground and shoved her tongue to the back of my throat. We were swept into a whirlwind of love, sex and cheese and four magical days later, we married. Things were going well until one frightful day in late February. I returned home to find my lover naked in the kitchen on her knees, bent over with her hungry brown Sheriff's Badge pointing towards me. At first I thought it was a sexy treat for yours truly to devour, but to my horror, I turned to see my own father stood there, naked from the waist down, hanging out his foot. I gasped as one by one each of his toes climbed inside my wife's crusty anus, until the heel could no longer be seen and all that was left was shin. Her peachy bum had swallowed his whole foot and he was wearing her like a fleshy shoe. Needless to say, Cyndi and I parted ways not long after...although my father and I do often reminisce about the incident.

Reminded me of a poem I once read about Michael Schumacher riding an ostrich into the sun.

A packed lunch of shit sandwiches and jizz. A banana too for nutrition.

I can't get on board with management. Bunch of boring clean shirts in their ties and polished shoes. Probably get home and expect their tea to be on the table. A downtrodden wife, who's been slaving away all day and doesn't even get a "thanks". A cottage pie, a cheap bottle of plonk and five minutes of miserable missionary. Makes me sick.

Is it wrong that I masturbated for the entirety of this record?

I remember queuing outside my local record store in the pissing rain on the day this was released. Me and my mate Ortisse pooled our pocket money together and bought this album. We skipped all the way home, hand in hand and couldn't wait to play the damn thing. Full of fizzy cola, we couldn't hold back our grins as we danced around the room, playing air guitar. Ortisse later hanged himself in the bathroom.

My two year old son died in the same way Eric Clapton's son died. For inspiration.

I used to score a lot of weed and pussy simply by wearing a t shirt with Jeru on. He was my inspiration, my hero, my lover. He just had to run off with my grandmother, didn't he? He broke my heart. He broke all of our hearts.

TUG ON MY PUBES, RHONDA!!!

Oh Bobby, Bobby, Bobby boy!!! This makes my dick so hard that I could probably impregnate you through this screen. The Wailers are named after your mum.

Transports me back to my ex wife's kitchen. We'd drink till 5 in the morning and dance to The Pretenders. A ferocious row would often erupt about the size of her tits. In hindsight I probably shouldn't have 'forced' her to have the boob job and it began the miserable descent to divorce, but they were very little tits and I like a nice pair of big bouncy ones. I shouldn't have married her, but she was rich and her mother had huge cannons. I thought she would develop, but sadly not. The boob job has a success and we had two great years together, until one fateful day on a long haul flight from Mexico to Fiji they just popped...I mean, they blew right up in her face. I knew it was over. They'd never be the same again. We separated two weeks later. She still has visible scars, but it's my mental scars that really haunt me at night. What a journey it was, from tiny flatties, to enormous jugs, to a disgusting, mutilated warzone.

"Whatever" she says, like she doesn't have a care in the world. Like she's not bothered about my opinion. Well, Aimee, you should be bothered. Here it is: I absolutely adore this fabulous gift you have given the world, you beautiful, beautiful woman. Thank you. Only joking, it's shite.

On the eve of my 42nd Birthday party I shoved 18 beetles up my bum. After a rather uncomfortable night, I jumped out of my bed and ran downstairs. All of the family were waiting, along with a film crew and a number of acclaimed art critics. They all sang Happy Birthday to me and I blew out each of the 42 candles on the cake. I ripped down my pants and fired those beetles directly into the faces of the audience. They gasped. I was awarded the Turner Prize.

Woke up tied up in the back of a van this morning. I'd been beaten and battered and had another man's semen dripping down my face, but the worst thing was that this album was playing. Absolute torture.

This moist-eyed camera hogger again. He's recently started texting me again, trying to rekindle our relationship. I'll tell you now, I am not getting back into bed with this superficial, self-obsessed jizz-whistle. His breath stinks of cabbage too.

This was released around the same time my first born entered this miserable world. Joan and I would often refer to her as Kid A. How we would laugh. The Radiohead theme would continue, as when Hail to the Thief was released, that same child had recently been kidnapped, never to be seen alive again, which was a welcome relief, as she was a right little prick. How we laughed. Police investigations came to a head in 2011. Several dismembered body parts belonging to my daughter had been found in the local woods. Imagine our faces when we were told this news as Radiohead released King of Limbs. We could barely hold back our laughter.

Neil.

I was brought up on a diet of fear and whiskey. My old man used to beat me black and blue, then douse me in whiskey and set me alight. It was an exciting time to grow up and sculptured me into the well-rounded human I am today.

Well now, I expect you're all reading this waiting for some crude blonde on blonde story that has nothing to do with this album. So, here goes... I once met these two blonde, lesbian twins. They were so in love with their own image that they, as you've already guessed, started banging eachother. They would scissor so hard against eachother , that one day they caught fire and burnt to death. The end.

An expression of love through the act of stomping a puppy to death.

Alright, alright, fine! Just stuff me with vegetables and fuck me already. Fuckin' Morrissey just won't give up until he's got a parsnip up my ass and is greasing up his penis and waving it in my cabbage filled face.

Oh ho ho ho ho. Oi oi. Oh la la. Feel the sex running through your thighs.

Oh I'll take you apart Kelela.

Gorgeous. Just so, so gorgeous. Beautiful melodies. Flawless beats. Like making sweet, sweet love to a box fresh sex doll.

Reminds me that I need to buy more anti dandruff shampoo this weekend.

Rediscovering this is like finding a crusty old jizz tissue in the pocket of an old coat.

I was watching the grand prix and eating Rolos, when the phone went. I pick it up and it's a wrong number and they hung up on me. So, I phoned them back and screamed "SANTANA!" down the phone at them. I have no idea what they did with that information.

'A coked up mountain hare hopping over a disgruntled badger' is the best way to describe this glam rock masterpiece. The year was 1974 and hares were doing loads of drugs and running wild. The hare revolution was on the cusp of global domination and this album smacked the world in the chops and said "hey, here come the fuckin' hares, man. You fuckin' watch yourself, boy." Hares were all but extinct within 8 months.

You know that saying 'you don't know your arse from your elbow'? Well, it's pretty apt here, because this is shit.

This album has had my dick hanging out the back of it since day one. It still gets me hard, unlike your mum.

This album came out whilst I was transitioning from a top class English footballer to a run of the mill rent boy. It reminds me of those hedonistic afternoons spent plodding round the football pitch, still kidding myself that I could compete with the likes of Jamie Redknapp and Peter Ndlovu, then doing my make up and preparingmy bum for a poudning. Yes, the only place I could really compete with the likes of Redknapp was in the homes of eccentric millionaires, when we'd go round and suck their balls for pocket money. I wish I had the money the players earn now, but sadly for me it was 90 minutes of pain followed by a further 90 minutes of pain as I got bummed within an inch of my life by a grotesque, fat rich man. Of course Redknapp left that life behind, married a popstar and made obvious observations about Dele Alli on TV. I was not as fortunate. Oh to be young again.

She bust her pussy trying to belt out some of these songs. Fair play to her, I bet she's still bleeding. I know I am.

Oh suicidal virgins, my favourites. I once groomed this teenager online and when I finally persuaded them to meet me, they saw I was a washed up former footballer and ran away. They later shot themselves on Facebook live. What a thrill.

It sounded a bit like when you don't wipe properly and you get shit matted in your ass hair. Then later you painfully have to rip it out and it makes your eyes water.

Wow. What to say. I was going through some really bleak times in 1982. Both my older sisters had killed themselves in a suicide pact. I sought solace in the music of Dexys Midnight Runners and boy did it change my outlook on everything. 40 years on and I still have a bittersweet feeling stuck in my throat about it. To this day you can find me both dancing and crying to Come On Eileen. It did ruin my cousin's wedding, but she's a complete slut.

Inject some heroin right in my balls! This was back-breakingly painful to get through. There is just something so insincere about the whole thing. Just like when your mother told her that she loved you, but really she attempted to abort you sixteen times, you resilient bastard.

I once met Tom Petty (without The Heartbreakers) in a greasey spoon just off Camden highstreet. He was tucking into a full English and unbeknown to him got a bit of egg was stuck on his face for about 35 mins. I smugly waited until I had finished my mug of coffee, stood up and announced to everyone in earshot that Tom Petty was an egg-faced sausage-lover and ran out. I watched from the window as he wiped the egg from his embarrassed red face and as he did I banged on the window and let out a fart so thunderous that the single glazed window shuddered. He looked on in horror. What a fuckin' loser Tom Petty was that day.

'The Birth of Cool' reminds me of when I spent my forties as an adult baby. We would meet up in groups of 12-15 and our mums would feed us milk, hug us and change our nappies. I would often piss and shit myself for real, which was a source of such joy for both me and the mums. I was thrown out in disgrace after an incident. I suggested, or more tried to force myself up one of the mums, so I could be reborn. Please understand that this was not sexual, I was merely trying to understand how it would feel to be born, to experience the journey from the womb, through the vagina and into the world, all with the awareness of an adult. Needless to say, the police were called in, the adult baby centre was shut down and I served 18 months in prison.

Oh go fuck a goat in the ear. I've just about torn my cock off on this one. I was the first trans character on Sesame Street. The Avalanches said I couldn't do it, but guess what? I did it. I did it.

Keith Moon and I were childhood friends. One afternoon, when we must have been about 13-14 we skipped school and Keith cooked my dog on a barbecue. It was delicious.

The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter. What the shittin' fuck is that? She is such an ugly little, fat cunt. I'd have a right good go on her tits though. Fuckin' sign me right up for that, just not for this dogshit music.

I spent the first 3 hours of today pissing a skid mark off the toilet bowl and listening to this on loop. It was one of the best mornings I've ever had in my miserable life. For once the everyday ennui was penetrated, just like your mum was on her 13th Birthday. Now I will suck on the bones of a duck carcass that I have been saving for such a gleeful moment. Forgive me father!

Funk just does something to me that no other genre can do. 15 seconds in and my erection was bursting out of my shorts. 2 minutes in and I was wanking at such a rate that I thought I was going to catch fire. By the end of the album I was broken, crying with happiness, exhausted, delirious and totally overwhelmed. 5 stars and a raging boner for this one. Amen brother!

I once grew the nail on my big toe so long that when I eventually clipped it, instead of using a key like everyone else, I would use the toe nail as a cocaine shovel. Yes, endless nights were spent shovelling charlie up my schnozz and listening to Otis Redding. Everyone in London knew me. I was a somebody, the toe nail king of the West End. I've left all that behind me now though and can't even look at a bare foot without wincing.

I was up late last night watching a documentary about why birds fly in a V formation and it occurred to me that I've hated 10cc for most of my adult life. In contrast to the birds trying to conserve energy, I was wasting mine with unfathomable hatred of this band. I kicked a cat to death after I heard them on the radio, I pushed a little girl off a swing after I heard her humming...I raped a elderly cancer patient I an unrelated incident. I need to conserve energy now and end the hate. Having said that, I just listened to this album today and have strangled a toddler to the point they turned blue.

I would love to suck on the vinegar tits of Mick Jagger. All that leathery goodness. Ooooh mama. Pour a bottle of Head and Shoulders shampoo on my thighs and slap me silly. Yee haw!

I took a lot of drugs before listening to this. I was whisked off to a magical land, where a talking frog convinced a boy to kill his father. Then a grumpy emo chick started pestering me, trying to get me to choose between fuckin' a zebra or fuckin' a corpse. I chose zebra. Then an abused orphan watched me peel a verucca sock off a disabled ghost. Then a noseless man raped a singing omelette. What's it all about?

The last time I heard this I was on the run from the police. I had butchered a close knit group of teenage girls in Nebraska, after I heard them laughing about the shape of my calves. This record acted like a soundtrack as I fled the country and started a new life as a children's entertainer in Tijuana.

Like a couple of retards trying to fuck a doorknob.

I genuinely feel like my car goes faster and better when I have filled it up with petrol, and that’s how I felt when I got my hair cut this week: I was immediately more confident, I had a swagger in my step and I was ready to go back out into the world with my levels of sexiness restored to their usual intensity. All of that vigour and excitement had evaporated by the time Madonna had finishing squealing on Express Yourself. The rest of the album was an absolute chore too, like wading through a dogshit-filled Toffee Crisp. I could feel my hair physically growing back and my sexual prowess diminishing with every note. Thanks Madonna, you've reduced me to a ball of shame and split ends. My car has also broken down.

Where to start with this? Dolly is my dream girl. I'd listen to her telling me that I'm a piece of shit all year and still adore her. She has very neat pubic hair. Very neat.

Have you ever rubbed chilli under your foreskin and then nailed a deaf girl? It's total bedlam. We sounded like a broken accordion being squeezed by a cartoon donkey on crystal meth. Similar to this album.

The Gun Club's newest inductee Alec Baldwin joined us for our daily shooting this morning. The stats were: Animals killed 89 People killed 13 Not bad for a Sunday morning's shooting, but we must improve tomorrow.

Snow is cold, rain is wet and my dick is rock solid. One of my favourite things to do when it snows is to go outside and pretend it's the first time I've ever seen it, just to see how people react. They usually don't care, so I just shrug, tackle them to the ground and sometimes molest them. Then every time it snows after that, they too pretend to themselves it's the first time they've seen it, to try and block out the molestation from their psyche.

Once such a daring and courageous beast, this effort seems rather lazy and insipid. Just throwing some EDM into the mix, because, well why not? Madonna reminds me of a wounded sealion gasping for air as it watches its pups be fucked to death by the predatory ghost of Sir David Attenborough.

I have been known to be wildly inconsistent with my reactions to expensive items. I will happily overpay for a pair of jeans, and later that same day bemoan the state of the world when an ice-cream costs a fiver, despite both items having a similar manufacturing cost. My biggest blind spot in terms of this is with prostitutes. In Amsterdam I will greedily piss away thousands on the women in the windows, but when I'm in Barnsley, I wouldn't pay a tenner for a handjob. Even though it all leads to the same result. What I'm trying to say is, Run DMC are really good value for money. I think.

I find myself wanking about Fred Neil most afternoons. His voice just lights up my world and I can't help myself. I've wanked on a school bus, I've wanked in a library, a courtroom, a bouncy castle, a phone box, on a ferris wheel, in Nando's, in a primary school, in my gran's bathtub, in a tree, during a hurricane, in a desert, on a jet ski and during a jewellery heist.

Fuck yeah. I'm so excited to hear this that I might shoot myself in the face. I'm having a midlife crisis. I've recently bought a pair of leather trousers, dyed my hair blonde and now drive a ferrari. I fuck midgets in a warehouse at the weekend and keep one in the shed as a slave. Nirvana reminds me of a time when I didn't do any of those things and I miss those times. Help me.

I fuckin' hate Dizzee. This is not music, it's a festering hive of scum and villainy, like your mum's flaming cunt.

The fun I had listening to this when I was younger. I was like a young Theresa May in a field of wheat. Getting fucked by 6 farmers.

As I listen to this I sit and wonder. I wonder, should I let that Filipino child that I stole from the hospital out of her cage? You almost had me there for a minute, Echo. I almost let her out. She stays. The Bunnymen can come visit whenever they want. She'll be here. Caged. Ready.

Long before the days of dating apps and posting your tits on the internet, I once placed a lonely hearts advert in the local paper. It read: Big dick gangsta motherfucker seeks shy, retiring, well-educated wallflower to perform unspeakable, inhumane sexual acts with in public. GSOH preferable. I got over 4,000 replies. I fucked them all.

U2 are a steaming pile of shit. The Joshua Tree hates the fact they named this album after it. Anyone named Joshua is hugely ashamed of any connections to this. All trees are thoroughly embarrassed too.

YEAH! TURN IT UP FUCKIN' LOUD! I murdered a toddler listening to this.

Herbie Hancock, Matt's more accessible, more likeable, older brother. He paints a glowing rainbow of joy upon the faces of everyone who meets him. Everyone apart from me. Colour my life with the chaos of trouble, I just can't stand the man! His music SUCKS! He's a greasy weasel, a gym instructor, a nuclear rocket, a baseball bat, a fat controller, a modest mouse, a toilet brush, the misadventures of Romesh Ranganation, a stain upon a front tooth, a garden gnome, a rainy afternoon, a cunt.

Fire is obviously the best. Wind is a right dickhead.

In what turned out to be an enormous error, I had a big, big wank on the morning of an IVF appointment, where I had to go into a little room and provide a sample. So, by the time the moment arrived, no matter how hard I went at it, I couldn't get anything out. In the end I just got some flour and milk and mixed it together with some spit and legged it out of there. My wife was not happy.

It just reminded me of the forbidden love between a special needs man and his mother in law, which forces them to go on the run together ultimately in their car plummeting into a reservoir. Will they survive? No.

I had a dream about smothering by bollocks in gold and presenting them to the Queen on her long overdue deathbed. She thanked me and licked them before passing away with a smile on her face.

I'd shag Paul Simon. I'd make my entire family watch too.

He ate my trousers

If constipation makes your day feel offbeat, try listening to this record. The groove will make you sway and loosen that poo right up. Before you know it you'll have an empty bowel and full bowl of glorious, Instagramable poo. Poo.

I was a former child prodigy. Unfortunately, after getting mercilessly fucked by my scout master when I was 9, I lost any kind of interest in anything. Cruel world.

We used to know him as Frank Sea before he hit the big time. Yep, young Frank got a bit too big for his boots and forgot about us, the little guys, his roots. I don't begrudge him his success though. The kid has a real talent.

My first thoughts whilst listening to this record were that it's very easy to forget it's playing. Like when you're just sat at home on a Tuesday evening and you pop a bit of hardcore porn on, just for company. Isn't it sweet that Bang Bros is a family run company?

Amy Winehouse once sucked me off through a glory hole in a pub in Clapham. She slurped that jizz right up. Swallowed me whole. I felt so small in that massive hole. I think the incident inspired the album Back to Black.

Plays constantly in my mind like a cocaine fuelled orgy with my parents and their good friends Jeff and Margaret. They sometimes dress up as farm yard animals. Jeff has enormous testicle. Margaret has a bucket cunt. It all makes for a rather good time.

This record is as overdressed as a bacon sandwich on a surfboard.

Miles Davis scrambles around like an uncircumcised elephant trying to skull fuck the charred remains of Madeline McCann.

Not exactly a helter-skelter fuck party like I'm used to attending, more a wholesome children's birthday spoilt by an uncle who's shooting heroin on the picnic blanket. NODDY'S OFF HIS FACE ON KETAMINE! NODDY'S OFF HIS FACE ON KETAMINE!

A right old dripping fanny of a record. She's a squirter. SHE'S A SQUIRTER, MAVIS! FETCH THE LAWNMOWER, I'M COMING IN!

Get my dick in a baguette and eat it, this is superb.

This was a waste of my time and money. FEEL MY WRATH, MILTON -YOU CUNT.

As I sit here eating a novelty size neopolitan ice cream that's dripping through my fingers and onto my lap, I can't help but feel emotionally compelled to put my fist through my daughter's face.

I've been secretly banging everyone in the B-52's behind their backs. I plan on revealing this information at the Christmas party and watching the fireworks go off. They all love me, the freaks.

Pussy juice exploding right in my eyes. It stings a little, but feels wonderful. I mix it with acid and throw it at innocent bystanders in the street. Fuck them.

I used to collect all the birds from the yard after my milkshake brought them there. They would squawk in my ear all night as I plucked their feathers. Rough, rough stuff.

Having a lust for life is far more socially acceptable than having a lost for your own sister, like I do.

We had this record on at our Christmas party in Downing Street last year. It made none of us pause for reflection as we snorted coke off eachother's erect cocks. Top night.

I once fucked a pixie in the nostril. It died instantly.

My mate Paul once sold me his mum's used dildo for a fiver. It certainly gave me rapid eye movement.

The soundtrack for an unofficial gang bang that escalated into a mass suicide.

The misadventures of a scout leader and a group of cubs that is strictly off the record. Nothing happened here. They simply went camping.

I wandered lonely as a cleft lip baby at a Pretty Little Miss USA competition. "Isn't she brave?", "She's a loser, Janet. An ugly little loser who's ruining the competition for everyone."

HAVE YOU EVER FUCKED A PENGUIN IN THE ASS? HAVE YOU FUCK! HAVE YOU EVER FUCKED A PENGUIN IN THE ASS? HAVE YOU FUCK! HAVE YOU EVER FUCKED A PENGUIN, EVER FUCKED A PENGUIN, EVER FUCKED A PENGUIN IN THE ASS? HAVE YOU FUCK!

That sweet, sweet voice. Those beautiful looping foot pedals. The sunglasses, the hat, the edge. What's not to completely loathe? A fucking disgusting waste of time and money. A horrorshow, a prison cell, a bargain bin of aborted babies.

A cyclops on cocaine tugging himself off to the memory of the surrogate mother of his first born.

Suck my beautiful cock.

I fucked a 73 year old great grandfather for Christmas. That's a true white Christmas. Steely Dan was the name I used to go by when I was starring in low budget porn in the 90s. I gave gonorrhoea to so many people. So many.

Baby in the hot tub, baby in the hot tub la la la la, la la la la.

The wildest gift I ever received was for my 13th birthday. My siblings had all clubbed together to get me the severed penis of our old scout master. I loved it. I would play with it all the time. Every night before bed I would kiss it goodnight and then fuck the shit out of myself until my anus resembled a bloody casserole.

When I first came across sonic the hedgehog, all the jizz just got stuck in his spikes. He wasn't the easiest to clean. Made him faster though.

A handbag full of mince meat and peas resting on the lap of an older woman with a stiff upper lip. She's on the way back from the abortion clinic where she's been campaigning for free abortions for white males aged 8-13. She has had a successful day's work.

Comfortably the best attempt at music I've heard this hour. It felt like how giving an Eskimo kiss to a baboon's anus after a curry feels.

A fizzing firework that has been let off in the face of a child, scarring them for life. They now live a sheltered, quiet life, afraid of making new friends. They will never find love.

I remember when I first auditioned for Jurassic 5. They asked me if I could perform a backflip through a ring of fire, whilst sucking everyone off. I did it. They then chemically castrated me in front of a live studio audience.

What's the opposite of defecating in a zorb and then having it hit you in the face over and over as you run down a hill?

Ooooooh she's a fine one. Joni could really do with a hot beef injection from her uncle Nigel stat.

This record is the result of an ill-advised experiment between four men and their insatiable lust for having sex with burritos. It burnt each of their dicks off, Peter. For Christ's sake, their handsome penises are ruined. In tatters. They can still fly though. But what use is flying if your burnt, limp cock is hanging on by a thread?

In the evenings after I've eaten a plate of meat the size of a chubby baby, I like to put my suede y-fronts on, open my front door and lunge at any passers by. I am yet to be arrested.

Many years ago I was scuba diving off the coast of Luxembourg. A young Japanese girl by the name of Stacey approached me and broke down in tears. Her father, a former book salesman had recently passed and she wanted to keep his memory alive by riding my penis underwater, I'm not sure how the two events were linked. Anyway, six hours passed and she swam away gleefully. I never saw her again.

These cunts sound like they need to have a bath with an out of work clown. That'll show them real misery. Maybe then they can write some better songs. Clown for hire. £20 an hour. Call 07904881209. Tell your friends.

The upsetting thing about listening to this in 2022, is that I'm currently scooping human shit out of a plughole whilst it plays. Whilst normally I enjoy the chore, (why else would I shit there?), today it just fills me with an overwhelming sense of melancholy. It's the most mournful shit scooping I've done this year. I do look back in anger. I look back at all the shits I've done before. I mentally rank them in order of shade and size and I sigh. I long for 1995 when I spent my time shaving hairy children's back for cigarette money. Oasis were constantly playing and the world was largely more pleasant. WHERE HAVE YOU PUT MY COMB, DEIRDRE, YOU DUMB BITCH?

I was 9 years old when I attended my first circle jerk. It was a lowly lit room at the Chelsea training ground. I was dressed in a tutu and had my hair in plaits, as was the fashion at the time. My brother shoved me to the middle of the room and then the lights flicked on. I was surrounded by the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff. They all tugged away at themselves, making strong eye contact with me throughout. I got so swept up by the attention that I didn't realise I was wanking myself. My first time. It was such a turn on. Glenn Hoddle came on my back. Later, we all went out for milkshakes. Somebody bumped into me and I spilt mine all down my front. It was hard to tell what was milkshake and what was jizz. I was completely drenched in both.

My second ever circle jerk was just before my 10th birthday. Again it was with the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff. This time we went to the woods. The coach journey was wild and bristling with anticipation. Some couldn't wait and simply had a wank on the coach, much to everyone's enjoyment. The rest of us knew it'd be worth the wait and held on. I was wearing a mini skirt and feather boa and had my hair in a ponytail, as was the fashion at the time. I couldn't wait. It was over in minutes. Such was the attraction between us all as a group, we all shot our loads in no time. A glorious, triumphant climax fom the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff all over my face and chest. Glenn Hoddle came on my back. Later, we went out for lemonade and I managed to spill some on myself. I couldn't tell what was lemonade and what was the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff's jizz. I was soaked right through.

To me melancholy and infinite sadness are the times when I'm not getting completely and utterly drenched in the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff. It's been a tough 3 weeks now without being covered head to toe in the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff and I'm gasping for it. I can barely picture Glenn Hoddle cumming on my back. I need it right now!

I once wore a pretzel as a cock ring to a circle jerk. In was a Oktoberfest at the Chelsea training ground. I was dressed in lederhosen and added the pretzel for extra detail, as was the fashion at the time. The circle jerk was a little more German than usual. The entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff all shouted "JA!" as they squirted their loads all over me. Glenn Hoddle came on my back. Later, we all went out for steins. I somehow spilt one all down my lederhosen and it became hard to tell what was bier and what was the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff. I was dripping wet.

When I think of Solange, I can only think of that time I fisted Beyonce in the ass for half an hour. She exploded.

Talking about head. Do you know how long it's been since I last had a blowjob? 34 days. Totally unacceptable. If you know of anyone who wants to sort me out, give me a call on 07797098556

This reminded me of the first time I snapped my banjo string. I enjoyed the pain.

I like biting little tits. They break off in my mouth easily and are very crunchy. This record reminds me on biting little tits.

An unattractive car crash. A plate of mince meat covered in parsley being pecked at by a murder of ill-looking crows. A drousy zebra stumbling into a pit of broken coat hangers. A minor Star Wars character whom Disney have fleshed out and ruined. A pint of beer with a camel's dick in it. A lazy weekend interrupted by a trip to hospital to visit your dying daughter.

The most important thing to consider whilst I listen to this, is whether it makes me want to eat a raw chicken carcass or not. I have to tell you, it not only makes me want to eat a raw chicken carcass, but it makes me want to eat a raw chicken carcass whilst smothering myself in bbq sauce and squealing like a pig. There isn't any higher praise.

A penguin walks into a low lit bar on the outskirts of town. He glances each way at the assorted villainous characters as they eye him up and down. He slowly walks to the bar and orders a large whisky. A drunken camel approaches him, keen to start an argument. The penguin pauses then whips out a gun and shoots the camel in his temple, killing him instantly. A walrus gets a little excited by the commotion and sidles up alongside the penguin. He charms the penguin with his bawdy laugh and buys him a Smirnoff Ice. They dance slowly in the corner of the room for a while until a single tear rolls down the cheek of the walrus. He sniffs the penguin's ear and whispers something the audience can't quite hear. The penguin gives a wry smile and heads towards the bathroom. He lights a cigarette and waits. There is a loud knocking on the bathroom door. The penguin exhales deliberately, adjusts his glasses and slowly begins to turn the door handle. A look of horror washes over him. His cool exterior is now a distant memory. He slumps to his knees and gulps. An ominous shadow hides his face. He looks up to see a kangaroo. The kangaroo is laughing menacingly and holding a large framed painting of a donkey. The donkey is the penguin's former lover. They haven't seen eachother for fifteen years. The penguin breaks down crying, longing for his lover. The kangaroo has no mercy and smashes the painting over the penguin's anguished head. The penguin lies broken on the floor, blood pools round his head. The kangaroo dusts himself down and leaves. The walrus enters the room. TBC...

The Velvet Underground is a sleazy dungeon I used to frequent when I lived in L.A. It was a grotty little sex club filled to the brim with the most filthy scum you could imagine. I once had a threesome with Harrison Ford and Lady Gaga on the pool table in front of everyone. They were a majestic pair of fuckers.

I once had a surrealistic pillow. It strangled me one night whilst I was playing with myself. I enjoyed it. I got me hooked on axphyxi-wanking. I've never looked back. Thank you.

A gnat in a hat. A pig in a wig. A sexy little swine drizzled in cum dancing a jig on the groove of my bum. The major says "who goes there?" and the alley cat sighs and they all end up dead in pursuit of the prize. The candlewick drips in the eye of the snail and the little boy trapped in the belly of the whale. The hourglass breaks and the storm passes through and all that is left is the memory of you.

A diamond in the rough, a postman in the buff. A lolly left unlicked, a vote card left unticked. A raging bull, a rotting skull, a local paedo on the pull. A twisted nipple, a raspberry ripple a coked up alchy having one more tipple. A brutal rape, Professor Snape, a broken world we can't escape. Goodnight my dear. Goodnight.

Kevin Garnett in his speedos climbing up a tree. A crow flies in and steals his throat soothers that he's been saving for a special occasion. Mark Wahlberg looks on pensively. The tree breaks and Kevin falls through the floor into Belgium's capital, Brussels. Jason Orange is there. Naked. A troubled horse jumps out of a house of mirrors and plays the bongos for a few seconds. The onlookers are impressed. Matt Damon appears. He's frowning. A beekeeper eats a pear. Everyone dances to Boston by Boston apart from Eddie the Eagle Edwards. He does a ski jump into the endless corridor of time. Hacksaw Jim Duggan greets him with a warm smile. A small crab falls from the sky. Robert Downey Jr catches it in his mouth and spits it back at the world. Tanny Grey-Thompson stands up and applauds. This causes a radiator to malfunction and jockey Ruby Walsh to burst into song at first, and then into flames. The gatekeeper lets 11 fish and 4 sheep into the dining room. They are presented with medals for good behaviour during their time on The Weakest Link. The orchestra plays the theme tune. The corpse of Meatloaf wrestles a priceless vase. The winner must drink the piss of Princess Diana through the eye of a needle. The referee blow the final whistle and they all go to the bathroom for chips and drinks. Sarah Palin wants crisps.

Tom waits for his Cornflakes, his Cheerios, his Weetos. He launches it all down his throat like your mum gobbling down uncle Mike's cock. He walks out into the on-coming traffic still in his dressing gown, his todger flapping in the cold morning mist. What's that you say, Jim? How's your nan doing? Still like a fist up her growler? Yeah, yeah mate, I'll be round later. Lend us a fiver? I'll have it back to you by next Wednesday when Rita pays me for the violin lessons she so desperately needs. She can't play a fuckin' note the poor cunt. Where's my butt plug gone? I had it an hour ago. Tom waits for Rita to come round. She loves to tickle her toes in the hours leading up to the event in the hope of getting a sausage sandwich out of Trevor. She never does. Tom cradles his young son in his arms and smokes a cigar. You like that don't you, Toby. Me and ya muvva don't like eachother anymore, but you'll keep us glued together until your infant death, which is due next week. Rita turns up, fanny hanging down round her ankles, channeling her inner Princess Anne. Tom is annoyed because he's already eaten half of his advent calendar in the time spent waiting. Rita slaps him and then beautifully plays the violin. She's been practicing. Tom realises she doesn't need him anymore and can't help but feel like he's been betrayed by his soon to be dead infant son, Toby. He snatches the fiver from Rita and stuffs it down Toby's neck. It snaps. Rita cries out in horror and runs away to Belgium's capital, Brussels. Just another day in paradise, ain't that right, Phil? Ain't that right? Toby you poor dead cunt.

"KIWANUKA" said the snake as it slithered down the slide. "KIWANUKA" read the speaker as she looked away and sighed. "KIWANUKA" screamed the boys as they marched along with pride. "KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA" "KIWANUKA" caught the eye of the runaway bride. "KIWANUKA" in the mind of the tragic suicide. "KIWANUKA" grips the jury as the witness spills their lies. "KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA,KIWANUKA" "KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA " "KIWANUKA" says the congregation listening to the Pope. "KIWANUKA" fills the priest as he unbuttons his robe. "KIWANUKA" fears the choir boy ready for his probe. "KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA " (Whispering) "KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA" "KIWANUKA" cries the girl as she buckles to her knees. "KIWANUKA" from the rapist as he calls her a tease. "KIWANUKA" oh the horror, as he watches her bleed. "KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA, KIWANUKA "

Ella, how's your fella? Does he keep you in his cellar? Ella, how's your man? Is he still fisting his nan? Ella, how's your boy? Fucking children with their toys? A little bit of spit never harmed anyone you know. Would you like me to cook you a beef Wellington, Susan? Well, would you? Answer me!

This is like open heart surgery from the point of view of the heart. Painful, uncomfortable, but with just the right amount of sexual tension. It's a noose around an unborn baby's neck. A sex tape set in a cancer ward. Crying whilst fingering your twin sister.

This record reminded me of when former football commentator Gerald Sinstadt and I took a cricket bat to a bag of kittens. What a day. We went back to mine for a Happy Meal and then both licked out my mum. Gerald commentated throughout. Well... when he didn't have his mouth full of course. My word she had an ungodly amount of anal warts.

I once nodded at a blind horse and ended up being married to her for 15 years. What a 'mare. Had I winked, I'd have been much better off, so I dont agree with the sentiment one bit. The Faces performed at my son's bar mitzvah. He had recently been diagnosed with leukaemia and wasn't in the best of moods. Ronnie Wood tried to cheer him up by flirting with him and boasting about how much mashed watermelon he could eat in an hour. We all sat around watching Ronnie jamming melon in his gob like it was going out of fashion, which of course it was at the time. After the hour was up and nothing short of 38 watermelons had been consumed, Ronnie and the rest of the band got on stage and performed their hits. You could see Ronnie was struggling and his bowels eventually gave way. He shit all over the stage and decorated the front row of 13 year old boys in fizzy brown pebbles. We all fell about laughing and renamed them The Faeces. My son died of leukaemia later that evening, but what a send off it was.

Polly put the kettle on. Polly put the kettle on. Polly put the kettle on, we'll all take E. Fuck me what a tea party that was. I was off my barnet. I ended up shagging Keira Knightley round the back of a broken ferris wheel. Her skinny elbows kept prodding me right in my sweet spot. Complete filth that lass. You wouldn't know it from her prim and proper characters on screen, but get her within a whiff of an abandoned fairground and she's as rough as arseholes.

Throwing a toaster into a bubble bath full of toddlers isn't normally how I get to spend my weekends, but on those special occasions when the stars align and there's a certain magic in the air, I will find myself doing exactly that. I've never questioned why I have such a desire to do it, it must just be hard wired into me from when I was growing up. My parents always seemed fairly relaxed and my household was full of life and joy interjected with the occasional blazing row. This was only because we love eachother and I'd imagine it was pretty typical of most nuclear families in the 70s. Every few weeks I would beg my mother to allow me to have a sleepover with my school friends, to which she would reluctantly agree. I remember playing all day, eating junk food and just having such a laugh. We would play in the fields behind the house until dusk, but this would often lead to us being covered in a musky cocktail of sweat and mud by the time we were done. Mum would send us all up to the bath and we would all jump in together, like we were celebrating an FA Cup triumph. I would usually insist that I was clean first and would leave the bath having barely got my armpits damp. I would head into the kitchen, unplug the toaster and run back upstairs. The other kids were still lathering eachother up, having a great time and I just casually tossed the toaster in, killing them all instantly. I remember the feeling of overwhelming happiness coursing through me. Such a thrill. We buried the bodies in the same fields we had played in just hours before and didn't mention it again. The police found no evidence and we were free to do the same thing again and again without anyone becoming suspicious of the children going missing at our house or the sheer volumes of toasters my family was purchasing. More innocent times.

Hands tied, face down on the pavement, I was clearly in trouble, the game was up. A summer spent in the Cotswolds with the family sounded like the wholesome slice of recuperation I so desperately needed after another long season at Chelsea. We arrived to our hired cottage Wednesday morning, the smell of freshly mowed lawn in the air and a cool summer breeze tickling my brow. My heart was brimming with anticipation and I couldn't wait to get started. Marjorie and the girls headed down to the beach to set up camp for the day. I stayed behind as I said I needed a massive shit and didn't want them to be overpowered with my unbearable stench. Once the coast was clear, I began. I could barely contain my excitement as I unzipped my rucksack. There they were, still in their plastic wrappers. Perfect. Ready. I had always had a fondness for puppets as a child. The older and creepier the puppet, the better as far as I was concerned. I couldn't go to a Punch and Judy show without getting a raging stiffy in my shorts. Over the years my fascination grew more fierce, as did my dick. I found myself at more and more kids' birthday parties, but ultimately the questions and accusations from parents got a bit too much, so I had to force myself to stay away. I wasn't interested in their brats, it was the puppets, but who would believe me? Of course I would have the occasional lapse and find myself wanking in a nearby forest. As I peeled back the wrappers and touched the polished wooden faces for the first time, I knew these puppets were special. I came instantly. By the time I cleaned myself up I knew i had to get to the beach before the family started asking questions, especially my youngest Rhiannon, she was a real cunt like that. In my haste I must have left the front door open as I furiously headed to the beach. A mistake that would come to haunt me. After what felt like an eternity building sandcastles and paragliding, we returned home to find that our cottage had been ransacked. My sweet puppets, they were gone. My heart sank. I was inconsolable at the loss and also at the amount of sand in and around my foreskin. I left the cottage in a rage, determined to find the culprits that had ruined my life. It had been 6 hours searching park's and wastelands looking for clues when finally I saw something in the distance. It was either a dead child or to my horror, a crumpled, decapitated puppet. The knot in my stomach twisted as I approached. My biggest fear was realised. I sank to my knees. The next hour is a complete mystery to me. I must have blacked out, terrorised to my core. I awoke shaking, covered in blood and semen on a slowly rotating roundabout. My trousers were round my ankles and I was wearing no shoes ot jacket. I could hear sirens approaching rapidly. I knew I had done something bad. I ran.

My friend Dave and I spent a heady weekend back in 1969 tripping to this colossal record on some ridiculously strong hallucinogen. It was pure liquid acid, dripped onto centimetre cubes of plaster of paris, which you had to keep in the freezer to prevent the drug evaporating. Having chewed and swallowed a cube apiece, we listened to “Sister Ray” at huge volume, pinioned in our chairs. It was my first and only true synaesthetic experience: I could actually see this music, a turbulent, roiling maelstrom in which, though merely mono, the various constituent elements were clearly visible as a three-dimensional sculpture of visual sound. Dave died.

I must admit that this record immediately took a stranglehold of my heart. Its playful elegance put me in mind of when Ralf Little tickled my virgin anus with a feather duster all those years ago. What a little angel.

Nightmares are the best part of my day. Most Wednesdays I wake up screaming like a methed up marmot who's just stubbed its toe. I sound like Kerry Katona coughing up a parrot. Then there's usually a vacuum of deafening silence before my foreskin deflates and produces not only the most foul stench imaginable, but the sound of an injured ghost of a crocodile, trying to claw itself back into a different realm. Peter Pan, Peter Pan, Peter Pan.

I often jump in the bath with my dad and his friend Rick. We would thrash around listening to 00's hits and tickling eachother's balls. One time Julian Casablancas joined us. He brought ice cream. It was just good clean, soapy, creamy fun. Much like this record.

Red and yellow and pink and green, Orange and purple and blue. I can sing a rainbow, Sing a rainbow, You can sing one too Black and brown and grey and black, Black and blue and red. I can beat my wife up, Beat my wife up, Beat her 'til she's dead

DID YOU CUM IN MY BURRITO?

A sadness trickles down her tits. She sighs. "Nico, find me a new lover. Mangus has the ball sack of a child and it's repulsed me to my core". Nico unleashes a thunderous boff and sets upon his journey. "Deborah, I will find your king. By golly, if it's the last thing I do, I will find you a new penis to lick your gravy off."

A soiled nappy blowing in the wind. It lands on the unsuspecting face of Gaz Coombs. He spends the next 10-12 working days trying to get the shit out of his sideburns. It has become hard and knotted. Eventually Gaz gives up and takes his own life. There's a lesson to be learned here.

Listening to this record was like washing your dick in a sink after spending two weeks shagging the granny out of your own cat.

Elliott Smith snorts coke off his mum's tits. Pass it on. My dear friend Sir Whippy Pippington passed away listening to this record. RIP.

Dannii Minogue once told me that she likes fingering herself to the sound of Ray Charles, so it must be good.

I don't know how long I could be a vet before I got bored and started shagging stuff.

I once motorboated my auntie at a wedding. Everyone was disgusted, but we didn't care. In fairness, she gave me head at the altar during the ceremony too. I was 8 years old. Love a Spackman wedding, the perfect storm of pleasure and crime. Lemmy was also there and gave me the thumbs up, so I'll take that as a victory. He refused to give me head.

The white stripes The brown stains The endless nightmare in my brain The red blood The green eyes The eerie mood that fills the skies The purple helmet The pink hole The crippling darkness of my soul The blue moon The yellow sun The inviting trigger of my gun The black night The grey skin The rotting body of my kin

Muse have always struck me as the kind of band who dye their pubes in place of a personality. I've just dyed my pubes red and it looks like I've murdered an octopus in the bath. The music sounds like one of the non-Chris Martin ones in Coldplay had a wild weekend listening to Radiohead and tried to pass it off as an original idea. The result is terminal ear cancer.

It hurts when I piss. It's been going on for months. It all began after another successful gang bang with the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff. They completed pebbledashed me with jizz. So much so that I dropped a pint of lucozade on myself. It was impossible to tell what was jizz and what was lucozade. I got home later that evening, washed the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff off my face and body and just started pissing blood everywhere. The Clash played live in the background. Joe Strummer remarked about how much jizz and blood there was. I told him to shut the fuck up, because I'm well hard.

Jeff Goldblum's shiny diamond anus.

Oooooh a big bag of milk leaking on my face. My needle dick jabbing her minge. Heaven.

Your face is just a combination of thousands of years of other people's faces.

Everybody Loves Raymond would have been a much better television programme had this been the soundtrack for it. I feel like Robert would have become an ever-growing presence in the series and eventually take over the reigns. Everybody fuckin' loves Robert. Raymond would have felt like a complete, useless cunt and blown his brains out. Robert wouldn't care.

You know that feeling you get when your mother has stuffed cake after cake down your fat gob and although you love the taste of the chocolate frosting and the sponge and the jam and the cream, you've just over indulged so much that you're violently sick all over your grandmother and her new pristine white air max trainers? Well, this album perfectly encapsulates everything about that feeling. Except the cake tastes like rotting fish guts.

Sexual prowess diminishing with every breath. Jesus living in a dustbin, smoking cigars and doing crosswords. A filthy little dwarf ruining a picnic. A friend of a friend of a friend once told me never to eat the tits off tiger whilst it's laps at saucer of milk.

Like being stuck on a slow moving train next to a Toby jug full of warm urine that has learned how to sing

She wasn't experienced, Jimi. She was very much under-experienced as you well know. I'm surprised you got away with it. You knew her age. Fuckin' disgusting.

I was eating a lovely apple crumble for pudding at my parents' house whilst listening to this. I got so angry at what I was hearing, that I spilt it all down my brand new cardigan. It was hard to tell what was apple crumble and cream and what was the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff's jizz.

The most popular part of my dick is the neverending foreskin. It's been on the Jeremy Kyle show 16 times and always has a punch up. The screams from all that have seen it give me sexy nightmares.

I'd rather cheese grate my nipples and shoved a corkscrew up my jap's eye than listen to this again. But, then again I do like doing both of those things.

Depressed Mode

I once stayed at Morrison Hotel. I murdered a young woman in the bathtub. I'm sorry. I'd had too much to drink. LOL! I didn't really! Gotcha! No, I was completely sober.

I once conned a Mod into thinking I was not going to murder him, but I totally did. I ate his goat for dessert. All mods own goats.

I saw a woman get born today. It was fascinating. Burst right out of that thing.

Chilli behind the foreskin is a lovely, sexy birthday treat. Try it.

Helen Mirren in a thong gyrating up against Usain Bolt. The waiter cries "that's not how you tie a bow tie". Paul McCartney eats a large cream cake with his hands and laughs.

I just cannot stop wanking to this. Fuck me, my dick hurts. Somebody stop me. Don't stop me. I need this to feel alive.

A slow motion plane crash that should have been prevented before the inevitable 9/11 tragedy...

Eating cake on the toilet

At first I thought it was going to be a burning wreck of folk indie, copy and pasted from other bands from the same era. Imagine my surprise to discover that I was completely fuckin' right. Eat my shorts.

I'm not saying that I'm definitely going to fuck a horny MILF in my area to the backdrop of AC/DC, but I am currently filling in my details on a website. FUCK ME JANICE, 43, 9 MILES AWAY! FUCK ME TO HELLS BELLS!

During an interview with Time Magazine in 1982, Karen Carpenter revealed she had a major crush on upcoming football prodigy, Nigel Spackman. When asked about the revelation, Spackman is quoted as saying "I'd fuck the shit out of her ass 'til kingdom come, but unfortunately I'm dating my own uncle right now". It remains unknown as to whether the two did eventually fuck the shit out of eachother, but a close source tells us to "get out of my house you lunatics, before I call the police".

Miriam is the name I sometimes use when I groom young boys and girls online. They find the name comforting and are more likely to turn up at my lair. Other names to consider are Barbara and Pat. Keep on grooming, baby!

As my addiction to pain killers spiralled out of control, I knew I had to listen to some Justice to stop myself from shitting myself to an early grave. My word, did it help. It turned it all around for me. I went from popping pills every 13 minutes to shagging Britney Spears. A big meaty casserole of dicks and anuses.

My, my what do we have here? Makes me feel like a virgin princess being aggressively gang raped in the shower. Each song rips me open just a little bit more. The scars will never heal. The tears will never dry.

Muderering prostitutes on the highway. What a life. I miss doing it so much. So many people died and i just didn't care one bit. I tell you what guys and gals, I'm going to fire up the engine and go out murdering right now, just for the memories. Watch out! Especially those of you with spina bifida. That's my kind.

I lost my virginity to Mötorhead. They each took turns to fuck the shit out of me. It was neither fun nor meaningful.

Mr Jumbles, my 3rd grade teacher, once told me to dance like I've never been sexually assaulted by a teacher in the supply closet. This music really brings that spirit to the fore. I feel alive. Thank you Mr Jumbles, you inspired me to be me.

Just like a squirrel trying to fuck a dead girl on the abandoned railway tracks.

The result of of a threesome involving Scrappy Doo, Richard Madeley and a self employed wellness guru named Breeze. A real hate fuck between the three of them.

Hey, what's up Cum Knuckles? Fancy joining me for a burger and fries this coming Tuesday? We can put on some Maxwell, talk about our feelings and re-create the Hindenburg disaster.

Man, it's not often I get a full erection listening to anything other than my own baby drowning, but this is done something to me.

About 9 years ago I was performing at Glastonbury’s cabaret tent and a strange bloke jumped on stage in a pair of green Speedos, waving a stick and an orange, shouting: “When the sun shines upon the earth, it is Planet Sex.” Everyone in the audience suddenly goes full Glastonbury, shouting: “Let him be! Let him express himself!” Then he dropped the orange and the stick and pulled out a knife. I asked him: “What are you going to do, butter me to death?” Then he skipped off stage and into the fields. He killed 4 people.

Rubbing bacon on my clit and listening to Van Halen. What a beautiful evening.

A detailed dossier of the time my wife and I both shat on a dead body.

8 pints in and this piece of shit enters my life. What a gross waste of my time. Get me some smack, I'm off to curl one out on my daughter's chest as she screams in horror and delight. 1 star, you prick.

A reet scabby baby covered in shite roond its wee bumhole.

Stuffing ice cubes down my knickers and squealing like a burns victim is how I like to experience this record. Nothing is as exciting as the first time I heard it. I was banging a whore at the time though. I say whore, it was the remains of a small boy covered in maple syrup.

Ahhh Marshall Mathers...a name I haven't heard since... Well since he fucked my dad to death. It was the eve of my 15th Birthday, the usual crowd gathered round my parents' house for nibbles and drinks. Eminem swaggered up, pants riding high and jeans around his knees. Without any thought or hesitation, he'd pushed my dad into the pantry and rode the dick off him until they both bled.

Who ate all the pies? Who ate all the lies? The fat bastards will never find love in the dark. They will never be allowed. They will never be happy. Eat another pie, you fat bastard.

Don't play with fire or like me you could end up with a disgustingly disfigured penis. It's like a half melted candle. But not a thick one, a weedy kids' birthday cake one. Children are still allowed to blow on it and make a wish if they like.

If I could mould an unsuspecting youth into doing every dark desire I have, then this record would certainly be the gritty soundtrack that accompanied all of the sick things I would conjure up. It should act as a warning to anyone under the age of 16. Stay clear of me. I'm dangerous. But that's what you like about me, isn't it?

Whilst this was playing, I groped a young Japanese man in the checkout queue at Tesco. He was happy and smelt of oranges.

As a very famous 90s footballer, I know this record incredibly well. The boys in the dressing room would always stick this on after a big win and suck eachother off. Those days when the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff would jizz all over me were some of the best times ever.

I once pimped a butterfly to my mate Angry Pete. He tore the fuck out of that butterfly's little bum. Talk about red admiral.

The Band played at my 14th birthday party. They were all stoned and one of them threw up all over my new yellow pullover that my nan had knitted. I can't thank them enough. It was hideous. She was so shit at knitting. A pathetic laughing stock in the needle world. Grandad later divorced her because of her knitting. Honestly, it was so bad. Fantastic at sewing though.

Screaming like a banshee, my mother fell to her death. She had been drinking tequila shots out of an ashtray for six hours and was performing Shakespeare on the balcony of a Premier Inn. A rhino burst through the door and heckled her performance. It knocked her confidence and she began to cry and eat dog food. The rhino's work was done, so it left. My mother ate dog food for three days, crying her heart out. On the morning of the fourth day, she would reluctantly agree to pose for Playboy. She packed her suitcase and headed for Leeds/Bradford Airport. En route she encountered Kate Winslet, who told her she reminded her of an old fridge magnet she once owned. This put a spring in my mother's step. She climbed to the top of a post office and threw herself 14 feet to the ground, impaling herself on the penis of a ghost.

Morrissey, is that you again? Meat is Murder? Are you going to stand behind me again, greasing up your penis, ready to put it inside me? Your big meaty fleshstick right up inside me? You sick vegetable bumming racist.

My mama told me not to finger anyone with a hairy growler. I told her to fuck off and fingered her dry.

Weller, Weller, Weller huh! Tell me more, tell me more... Actually, Paul, don't tell me more ive heard enough.

As a regular hunter myself, I find it hard to believe that these kids have ever hunted anything. The lyrics are whiney and it's all a bit too angsty and teenager in love to merit my full attention. Of course, if it's only deer that these boys are hunting then I can't comment. They aren't real men like me. I hunt humans. In particular, vulnerable women and children. That's why any music I make is fuckin' badass, unless this useless shite. I could order this music at moonpig.com.

What a fat fuck that kid on the cover is. Grotesque, obese, ugly motherfucker. Can you imagine giving birth to such a beast? His mother must feel physically and mentally ill.

Today I etched the face of Hitler onto the scarred bottom of my good friend Peter. He loves the nazis and I love etching. We listened to The Kinks as I did it. It was fun.

Ive scraped worse from the sole of my shoes tonight. A complete waste of Nigel Spackman's time and money. I'd rather fuck a mouse.

I once shagged Adele behind the bins at KFC in Crewe. Talk about a bucket.

I went girl crazy 3 weeks ago. Murdered 11 and inflicted life changing injuries to 332 others. I'm due for sentencing next week.

As a man whose job it is to be brutal to the youth, let me tell you what I think about Elvis Costello. He's a fuckin' little bitch man who could never be as brutal to kids as ive been.

This took me back to my big drug taking days. What a trip. Every Tuesday afternoon we'd finish training, I'd get showered in the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff, take a load of pills and hit the clubs buzzin' off me tits. Eat my dick, life.

Garfunkel used to fuck my wife behind my back. She paid him $400 an hour for his huge pipe. That daily hot beef injection from young Art cost me a lot of money in the divorce. She had such a massive bucket cunt by then though. It was like throwing a hotdog down an alleyway, but with more genital warts.

This reminded me of the time I was found shagging a watermelon in the bathroom of a Wagamamas.

Mike Ladd gave me monkeypox on the train back from Luton Airport last week. He can go fuck himself.

People often tell me I look like a young Prince when he was in his purple pomp. My chosen colour is brown though, because it's the colour of shit. I'm really into scat porn at the moment. People shitting on things, people shitting on eachother, people eating shit. It all gives me a raging stiffy. Here, Prince shits out a record that tastes delicious.

Ahhh Ice Queen Nanci Griffith, the one that got away. I used to stalk her and her younger sister until she filed for a restraining order, forcing me to attempt suicide 37 times. Bitch. I banged the younger sister though. Hard. Without consent.

A womb with a view. I eat placenta on a daily basis. It goes best with vinegar and brown rice. Yum.

You can just tell from her voice that she's had so many dicks rammed down her throat. Impressive.

This record will make your dick bleed so much, that it will force you to tear it off and feed it to a baby chimpanzee for supper.

Billy Joel. The stranger in the bath, the finger in the anus. This man is so addicted to cheese that he goes to bed each night wearing pyjamas made entirely out of dairylea triangles.

My heart bursts with semen every time I hear this record. It's like the first sunshine of the summer, or a rousing Nazi rally...just really tugs at the heart strings. Its beauty is so exquisite that it can make a grown man put his own cat in a blender and wank as it liquidises in front of his stupid crying face.

Rod Stewart has an unusually thin penis. It's like a witch's finger. You'll squeal when he inserts it into your bum. Squeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaallllllllllll. It's my finger in your bum. It's my finger in your bum. Now lick it clean. Yum, yum, yum.

This record reminds me of my infamous darts career. It was 2008, I was carrying a handbag full of toast to my mother in law's house when darts legend Tony 'Softface' Mclair, approached me wearing nothing more than an erect penis. He said "hey Nigel, if you can carry a bag of toast as compentenly as that, then you can sure as hell throw a dart at a board". I too now had an erect penis and immediately started hurling darts at things. A successful one year darts career was born. Unfortunately, it all ended after I killed that young boy, but that's a story for another day.

Listening to this record was like eating Custard Cream crumbs out of a dumpster whilst riding a big dicked black man.

Try and stop me having a wank in the shower about this. I dare you. Yes, YOU! Come and watch me, you dirty little pervert.

It's tha sound of da police. Sting makes me feel like a virgin gay guy ready to take a veiny purple dong up me bum bum for the first time. Get your fuckin' pipe right you there you tart.

Remember Chantelle and Preston, the celebrity super couple from the 00's? How can you not? Big Brother and the Ordinary Boys were box office and made many a man cry from their penis. Anyway, this record by John Martyn reminds me of the time Preston stormed off Never Mind the Buzzcocks in a glittery cardigan because his wife's book was so fuckin' stupid and he couldn't handle it. I wonder where they are now

Kumquats! (Kumquats? Damn!) Call the po-lice, and the fireman, kumquats! (Kumquats, damn) This week's top pick's papayas, man Girl, who sent you for satsumas? (×4) Cos Upton fruit's gon' give it to ya Wednesday afternoon, usual spot TWO FOR ONE APRICOTS

I once went to prison for punching the pussy out of my niece. My cell mate was a huge, heavily tattooed man named Rupert. He was a toff who ran a paedophile ring in West London. Cool guy. I hope he's well.

A wise man once told me to eat all my sprouts or my dick would rot off. I didn't believe him. By age 14 all I had left was a rusty, festering wound where my dong should have been. My predicament forced me to construct a new cock out of an old dildo and newspaper. It was a disaster.

It's not very often I want to stretch my scrotum so far that it tears, but after enduring eight minutes of this record, I had to do just that. Now it's really baggy and a bit of an eyesore. How am I ever going to seduce Jessica from my yoga class now?

I once shagged her in a greenhouse. It was blummin' hot I tell ya.

As an admirer of utterly horny women greased up and chained to a radiator, I could really feel myself getting a right lob on for this...until it started. I found myself being so enraged that i ran next door and stole the newborn baby of my neighbours. I sold him on the black market for £60 and a copy of the first series of The IT Crowd on dvd. Quite the day.

Wrestling with adolescent anguish and a tiny penis Kid Rock delivers a cry for help on this increasingly important record. This behemoth is truly one for the ages. Everything you ever thought you knew about music is forgotten here. There's both a prickly centre and shiny smooth edges polished to within spitting distance of a country nu metal lovechild that explores deep themes and tickles a dark underbelly of misery and misogyny. Eat a spoonful of this and stick it up your cunt, Jesus.

The cool thing about the Sex Pistols is that everyone has heard of them, but nobody has everyone really listened to them. I find myself wanting to experience this raw, animalistic instinct to love it, but I'm actually just left here with a thumping headache wanking over an episode of Scooby Doo. It's when they unmask the bad guy that is usually the climax point. In many ways it sums up how I feel about sex and pistols and modern life. Why can't it all just be a lot nicer? Why can't we just throw on The Thong Song and just dance our hearts out?

My ex was a violent femme. She would come home, take her bra off and beat me to a pulp. Her tits had an unbearable pong that often caused me to vomit all over our medieval furniture that she insisted made the house look like the kind of fuck chamber ancient Kings used to force maids to suck them off in. I disagreed.

Daydreaming about skull fucking Amy Winehouse is one of the best things you can do with your weekend. In many way it's easier now she's dead. I imagine her singing whilst I cum in her. She sounds heavenly.

The Dark Side of the Moon is a mind-blowing record with a textural and conceptual richness that not only invites, but demands involvement. It is emblazoned with a certain grandeur that exceeds mere musical melodramatics and makes me want to drain my balls of all the cum.

Nick Drake is a pervert. That just needed to be said. In regards to Pink Moon, I'm not really kind of sicko who immediately thinks of a young boy's pert bum sticking up in the air for me to insert my meaty dong into and any of you who thought that should be ashamed.

I recently had an issue with one of my teeth. I was coming back from a weekend break with my awful family at Center Parcs, and I was eating a cereal bar when it took part of a back tooth with it. I was struck by two things – first, I would have to go to the dreaded dentist as soon as possible, and second, breaking your tooth on a cereal bar on the way home from Center Parcs sounds like the lead single from an album called I’m So Middle Class You Wouldn’t Believe It. None of this is related to this sexy little record by The Byrds, as it's not particularly middle class or dull, but I thought I'd share a snippet from my miserable existence instead of giving a proper review to show you what I'm up against whilst I knock out these daily reviews. The tooth still hurts, because I'm yet to go to the dentist, because I'm a complete pussy.

I can feel the rhythm coursing through my veins. The remarkable thing about it is that some people think it's a joke and just random industrial noises, but those of us who are in the biz, know how powerful and influential this record is. It's breathtaking in its ruthlessness. It's not afraid to go to places you never knew you needed to go. A masterful triumph of heavyweight crescendos and thunderous beats. Danger lies around every corner. Beware.

Johnny Cash is the kind of jungle cat that licks his balls and then kisses your neck. He's a rough-riding cowboy who will fuck your mum and make her cry. I hate him, but i love him. FUCK ME JOHNNY!

Oh, Madeline my dear is that a white rose? You know how I adore them. My grandfather had the most magnificent rose garden with over 200 different species. Every Friday, he'd go out into the garden, clip a dozen, and make my grandmother a beautiful bouquet. He'd hand it to her and she would accept with a wistful look in her eye and sunshine in her heart. He would then push her against the wall and ravage her to within an inch of her life. Does love like that exist anymore?

Slit a pig's throat and drink the blood. My ears feel like they've been seduced by an elderly man with a powerful whistle. Lick my fuckin' bum.

Have you ever spat cum onto the floor of a Travel Lodge? I'm going to bite your genitals off. About as arousing as a cot death.

I wouldn't wipe my magnificent arse with this utter piece of crap. My grandparents would be turning in their graves if they knew I had to review this. They're not dead though. Not yet. The frail, sexy, grey beasts. You should see my grandmother's beasts. Quite breathtaking. Unbelievable nipples. And grandpa's foreskin deserves its own special place in history.

This queer, weird eyed lesbian punk really turns my stomach, but what a joyful record this is. I can feel myself turning for him and it's only compounded by the knowledge that he's dead and I'm a prolific necrophile.

I once bumped into into a pregnant prostitute who accused me of trying to touch her unborn baby. I remember Stereolab was blaring out in the background. I was questioned by the police, who eventually realised there was no case to answer, but fuck me, it was a stressful afternoon. The funny thing is though, I did actually have a grope.

My wife often says to me "Nigel, you're a 46 year old man who's fantastic at giving me orgasms. Do you really have to scream 'Come together' every time we're reaching climax?". The truth is, I don't know that I'm doing it. I've filmed us fucking eachother many times and she's right, about 14 minutes in, at the top of my lungs, I bellow "come together" over and over until she's finished. It takes me another 10 minutes of wanking over her tits before I can cum though. One day we'll do it.

After listening to this record, I vomited my lunch into the face of a premature baby. It's Friday and I often swing by the maternity ward on my lunch hour. I had just polished off a handsome meal consisting of seaweed, carrots and horseradish, swilled down with a jug of piping hot strawberry lemonade. I'd seen eleven babies already and my heart was feeling so full. The twelfth baby was next up, I approached slowly, not to startle it. It looked so small, more so than the previous eleven babies. There was something different about this baby, it had tubes hanging out of it. I took one look at its face and gulped. Then the vomited poured put of my face like an overflowing sewage pipe. It completely covered that baby. God knows if it survived, I barely did.

Aaaahhhhhhh maaaan I love Bon Jovi! What a record! It always gets me feeling frisky and in the mood to watch Power Rangers. There is no greater love in this crazy world than the beauty in Bon Jovi's voice and lyrics. Amen. I'm listening to it again right now.

Merle Haagard once said to me "Nigel, we've known eachother for 15 years, but I've never actually felt your dick. Do you mind if I give it a quick squeeze?" I was taken aback by his utterance, but allowed him to squeeze his hardest on my manhood. Merle squeezed it so hard that it eventually went blue. I thanked him, he thanked me, and we never spoke again.

I stick ice cubes down my pants to arouse my increasing flaccid penis. It doesn't really work and neither does this record. My freezing dick isn't happy.

My wife's mood fluctuates as much as her weight does. When she's naked it's hard to tell what's a stretch mark and what's a self harm scar. She likes Deep Purple and who am I to judge the sad, chubby moose?

I remember taking a trip to Romania back in the mid-nineties with my best friend Frosty Ian. After guzzling at least a dozen dark beers, we found ourselves in the backroom of a dingey, smoked filled bar. Alice in Chains was playing which really brought the mood down. Ian was in a bad way and sank deeper into a battered up old sofa with every swig he took. I was slurring my words and dribbling all over the ear and neck of a washed up barmaid with a pair of tits like a broken accordion and a fanny like a crow's deathbed. She must have been desperate for some action, because before we knew it she was straddling Ian's rigid length, whilst I tried to thumb my soft cock into her cesspit of a gob. This broad loved it and squealed as we both jizzed in her eyes. She scrambled round like a maltreated Stevie Wonder, as Ian and I high fived and wiped her blood from our faces and penises. We headed off into the night laughing and making wise cracks about the monstrous rogering we just gave that disgusting troll.

As the sweat pours from my brow due to raving along to this for the past hour, I find myself very, very excited. I haven't felt this way since I lived on a farm in North Yorkshire with my good friends Mickey the Paedo and Brian Bracewell-Richards. We had a lot of farming adventures involving animals and ploughing. We ploughed animals. We had sex with farmyard animals. Every day. For 13 years.

As a proud Priest-head, I can't really put into words what this record means to me. As a young man without identity when I first heard the lyrics, I wept. Finally someone had voiced every feeling I had bottled up inside me. This release was so powerful and completely turned my world upside down. In a good way. I felt that I could wear what I wanted, shag who I wanted, love what I wanted, without any prejudice. I owe these guys everything and if they are reading this, from the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU! You made me the man I am today.

I learnt how to kiss to this record. I would practice on my hand and also sometimes on my sister. Yeah, looking back, we did get a bit carried away. I probably shouldn't have bummed her, but there's no point in dwelling on that now. Besides, how can you regret the time of your bloody life?

My mate Alan Eaglecock and I used to piss on eachother whilst miming along to Duran Duran. HIS NAME IS ALAN AND HE PISSES ON MY FACE. Those hot summer nights and delicious golden showers, what an innocent time it was.

I went to see Rush in Utah about 15 years ago. Me and my then girlfriend, Rita with the lumpy tits, got so drunk before the gig, that about 4 songs in, she threw up all over my brand new flip flops and so I punched her in the face, killing her instantly. Rush saw what happened and could not stop laughing. They all posed for photos with her dead, lumpy boobs and paid for some new flip flops. We have been friends ever since.

If Willie Colon and Ruben Blades were to fuck, their offspring would be an ugly shitehawk with a cleft lip and a big old elephant cock. It would barely pass as human and would be the kind of child old women would audibly gasp at as they watch him masturbating. I'll let you decide whether that means the child is masturbating or the old women are. Maybe it's both.

I was once walking through the jungle with my brother Hakan, when we heard a woman crying for help. Instead of going to find her to try and help, we just carried on walking, because we just didn't give a fuck. We later heard on the news that she was a well known predator who lured men into helping her before ripping their cocks off. Ive never felt so relieved.

A horny group of dirty spud munchers bending over in front of the mirror, fingering their bums. Touch your toes, love. Touch your toes.

As I sit here shoving cake into my fat face and thinking about lost love, I can't help but think that listening to this record was just an incredible waste of time. I could be out there, on the prowl for some perfumed pussy, sharpening my talons, ready to devour an unsuspecting feline. Instead, it's cake, crying and watching repeats of the entire first series of Big Brother. The one with Nasty Nick and cheeky scouser Craig. A tear rolls down my crumb-laden face as I shit my shorts, sigh and remember the good old days. You have been evicted.

In the middle of the night I awaken to find a pack of wolves feasting on the remains of my father. Rather than panic and try to scare them off, I put this record on and dance. I dance so vigorously that the wolves stop eating my dad and begin tapping their feet to the rhythm. Soon Kevin Costner turns up. He smiles.

Courtney Love you beautiful grunge monkey. Youre like Princess Diana after the crash, but before the death. Unbelievably sexy. You make me want to feel a good pair of tits.

I once bumped into Chris Martin in the fruit aisle of Sainsbury's. I asked for a photo and although he obliged, I didn't feel like his heart was really in it and in the picture he seemed dead behind the eyes. I told him that it wasn't good enough and he apologised, but that wasn't good enough for me. I punched him in the face, knocking him to the ground. I smashed him over the head with my shopping basket and dragged him out of the store. I bundled him into the back of my Peugeot and drove to a nearby lake. I opened the boot of the car and he begged for mercy. Mercy did not arrive. I pummelled him to within an inch of his life. I drive away regretting not having finished the job.

These dirty little shit eaters make a real mean record, mummy. They eat more shit than anyone ive ever known. They eat so much shit and that causes them to shit more and therefore eat more. It's just a conveyor belt of eating shit. Eat shit.

The thought of listening to this record fills me with dread. I can't tell whether I'm going to stratch my ass until it bleeds or get such a rock hard boner that it feels like my carrying a rocket launcher between my thighs. With that in mind, I've chosen not to listen to it and instead sing lullabies to the homeless.

Saggy tits and swinging balls Passed out in my overalls A blazing row, a crumpled can, a rusty nail, a faded tan My bloodshot eyes, her broken wrist A ray of sunlight in the mist The hateful looks, the broken smiles, and all I'm thinking all the time... is... You fuckin' cunt, I hate your guts Go away, you filthy slut Your fanny stinks, your arse is fat But, I still love you, that's a fact RIP Pauline.

Robbie Williams is a very talented singer and dancer. One of the very best in the world. The only problem I have with him is that he just will not stop having sex with disabled pensioners. This directly affects my mental health as the only thought in my head most days is Williams pounding 93 year old Doris in the ass as she howls in both pleasure and pain.

As a sparrow hums a nursery rhyme and a terrier shouts at a stick in the river, this record thumps me square between the eyes. I hadn't prepared for such a klaxon of obtuse clanking and tonking tones. My heart skips a beat like a plastic bag dancing around a set of temporary traffic lights, like a burnt out stripper trying to arouse a lonely businessman, who hasn't had an erection since 1998, like an unwashed chimney sweep eating doughnuts with his filthy hands, like a dying owl choking on a mouse, like an under pressure table tennis player serving for the match, like a hotel receptionist trying to check in an unruly group of teenagers, like a dropped baton in a relay final, like an unopened can of beans thrown into a lake, like a bridge over troubled water, like a worrying itch on a gonad, like a virgin, like a freshly shaven muff, like a piece of shit on the roof of your mouth. I like it.

Reminded me of the old Mondays, when I'd do some light training in the morning, have a nutritious lunch and then get covered head to toe in the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff. What a life it was.

Good evening dickheads! Let me tell you all a little thing about this record. It fuckin' sucks, man! My daughter could make better music, and she's dead.

Ohhhh yes Willie! Bringing some mad big dick energy to my life. You fuckin' legend. I want to eat your ass.

Hey Marvin! Marvin! Why don't you just leave me alone? I'm just trying to make my life better by earning an honest day's wage, but here you are again, trying to talk me in to doing drugs and partake in sordid sex rituals. Just let me be. I hope you die, you creep. Leave my sister alone too. She's already had 4 abortions this year, she doesn't need another.

This one was like a rugged set of tits on a dolly bird past her sell by date. She got them out for the first sun of the summer and they're a bit burnt and sore. She will go home, pour a large glass of cheap white wine and rub lotion on them. Her landlord looks in through a crack in the door and masturbates peacefully. She knows he's there and puts on a bit of a show. "Still got it", she sighs to herself as she climbs into her off-white bath that's seen better days. She submerges herself and unleashes an enormous fart from her ageing vagina. The mirror shakes. The landlord cums.

Every time I close my eyes I picture myself at my own funeral. I'm surrounded by an orchestra of dwarves playing Arcade Fire tracks on flutes. My mother is crying, my father is dancing. My wife and children are nowhere to be seen. It's a sorry state of affairs. In the distance I see the shadowy figure of a woman I used to love. Her face is pale, with crimson lips. I try to reach out to her. I scream, but she looks through me blankly. I fall to me knees and crawl towards my coffin. It's draped in a Chelsea flag which has been completey covered in the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff. I laugh. The ground opens and I fall into hell. This is where I finally see my wife and children. They hate me. It's everything I ever wanted.

Moby, Moby, Moby. You sexy little cunt. This record soundtracked the greatest period of my life. I wasn't used to having periods, being male, but one day Play by Moby came on thr wireless and my minge just would not stop gushing with blood. Since then, I've had 7 different incidents, each involving the music of Moby and a lot of vaginal bleeding. Buckets of the stuff.

Listening to this record was like shaving your balls whilst drunk. Sure, some parts are smooth and satisfying, but mostly it's an absolute shitshow of blood and mangled pubes. After the initial euphoria has worn off, you're left with pain and itching and a mess all over the bathroom floor.

Pearl Jam are the kind of band who eat cheese on the toilet. They smother cheese all over their filthy bodies and suck eachother off through cheesy glory holes. You know I'm right.

I was due to record 'An Audience with Nigel Spackman' for the BBC back in the early 90s. I overslept and was late setting off for the recording, meaning I hit rush hour traffic. Feeling hungry, I decided to grab a large cheese burger from a vendor on the corner of a road. I wolfed it down in seconds. Moments later, I felt my stomach begin to twinge. Soon, thunderous belches and farts oozed out of me. I was in trouble. I was in a race against the clock, but also about to burst with a volcano of shit. I decided it was best to just get to the venue and unleash hell in my dressing room. As I pulled up, people were already filtering in and some keen autograph hunters spotted me arriving. I found a dark corner of the carpark and decided I couldn't wait any longer. I had to get this shit out. I moved onto the back seat of the car behind the driver's seat, pulled down my pants and curled out unimaginable darkness into an old shoebox I had previously discarded. What a relief. That was until someone tapped on the window of my car. I turned to see a group of around 30 Nigel Spackman fans staring in horror at what they had just seen. I opened the door, posed for some photos and gave the shoebox to a young boy as a souvenir. I smashed the gig and went home triumphantly. This Heaven 17 record reminds me of that evening.

Korn are the most important bands I've ever had the pleasure of watching. They moved me to tears with their eyes and knees. Their hands and teeth were a little bit warmer than I had anticipated, but that made my ankles weak and my thighs swollen.

Jeff Buckley died for all our sins. It was a snowy December night 43 years ago. A lithe young man climbed through the window of a barn. He had been out all night, he was tired, broken and shivering. His body was bruised and his anus was bleeding. He sobbed himself to sleep. He never woke. He was found on a frosty Christmas morning by a group of businessmen who used the barn for blistering bum sex during the holiday period. They finished a marathon buggering session and folded his body into quarters and stuffed him into a backpack. One of the businessmen, Iain with two I's , ran to a nearby airport and threw the backpack onto a conveyor belt where it spent 4 weeks circling unaware passengers.

Rubbing my chubby cock on the curtains after dribbling down my ball sack. What a seminal record this is and for me, what a semenal record too. In case if haven't realised, I jizzed and then wiped it on the curtains.

I wash my face in a bowl of warm piss each morning. It makes me feel invigorated and helps me focus my mind for the upcoming day of sexual abuse I will suffer. I listen to Spiderland when I get home. I'm sore and tired. It helps me process the cruel things those women do to me. I eat apples and try to block out the nightmares with thoughts of hardcore pornography. Today I win.

An enchanted princess once warned me not to listen to Peter Gabriel. He had fingered her in a children's fable and she did not like it. Not one bit.

I was the first toughest in the infants, because I am Nigel Spackman and I'm fuckin' solid

A glorious cocktail of fun, hope and ill-gotten semen make this record a timeless scar down the forehead of a once pretty infant girl.

I once sexed k d lang so hard, her ass prolapsed into oblivion. It was a fun Tuesday morning. Nobody died.

God help us. I need to have a really big poo and all I've got to help me is this music. I can't believe it's come to this. I'm going to poo everywhere and then die. Get me a slice of apple pie.

Dick squeezingly bad. The The is a fuckin' stupid name and I don't like it. Irritating record.

As summer turns to autumn, this record should really enrapture that slightly melancholic changing of seasons, but it doesn't. They're a raging herd of dull cunts.

A hugely successful gang bang with the lights on and all the children going wild for the wonderful spectacle on show. A roaring triumph glazed in a spicy cum sauce.

This record reminds me of the life I used to have. During the late 70s - early 80s, I worked as a pole dancer in a bar in Soho. Every morning I would cover myself in glitter and wait for my shift to begin. I was like a prowling lion, ready for action, ready for hot, glittery, pole dancing action. The amount of money I made was obscene and the things I'd do to my adoring public would bring a tear to the eye of even the most alpha male in the prison yard. Gary Glitter stole my act and went on to have more success than me as a prolific paedophile. The life I could have had.

A gargoyle crawling under my foreskin turns and gives me a look that tells me I haven't cleaned myself enough lately. I panic and wonder what to do. My shame should never be known. I wank and shower him in a litre of semen. He drowns and I cry.

I once had to be deloused before entering a kindergarten. It was so undignified and really embarrassed me in front of all the kinders. I went a hot shade of crimson and two of the cooler boys pointed and laughed at me. I got my revenge.

Well butter my muffin and shit down the back of my eyeballs, listening to this record was a colossal waste of my life. What an ugly little cunt.

A caramel bomb of putrid villiany. It makes me feel both horny and depressed. Saddle the donkey, Pedro. We're going home.

John Zorn has made a work of genius that will transcend the ages. I went into this record completely blind and naive to what music could truly be. This damn incredible soundtrack feels like it has taken my aural virginity. My ears are bleeding for the first time, but it feels so good. My darkest desires have been set in motion, like a runaway train about to meet an explosive crescendo at the bottom of a rocky ravine. My windswept hair has Zorn's semen brushed through it and his dick is hanging out of my slack jaw as I listen in complete awe and adoration. I lust as it slithers its way into my psyche, into my trousers. If I could, I would marry this record so hard, that it would think that it's been fucked sideways by its own grandchild in the back of a station wagon heading 1000 miles an hour into the centre of the sun.

The drunken voice inside my head is telling me it's time to go home. I stumble into a bush and rest. As I lay there Hail to the Thief flicks a switch in my mind and the night is illuminated. The rain pours down and drowns my soul, but a glimmer of light claws open my imagination and a chasm of colour drains out into the world. It's coming at me at 3 million miles an hour and my heart is racing, chasing, embracing the wonders within.

The first issue is that I'm definitely going to fuck a goat for a bit. The second issue is that a white rose will cause a few scratches on my heart. The third issue is the way the music is hunting my mind, hurting me in ways you can't imagine. The fourth issue is that a llama is jealous of the goat. The fifth issue is one I can't tell you.

A big bloody hairy pussy of a record. Pouring with blood all over my face. Slurp it in.

My Offspring are much worse than this. They are amongst the worst people I know. A hive of cunts. In contrast, this record is very charming and gives me hope that one day my bastard children will die horrible deaths.

Hey there Debbie, how's your old man doing? Does he still have to think about me just to get an erection? I feel sorry for the bloke. Poor sod has to sling his limp meat up your festering shit hole too.

This record haunted my life for 25 years. Finally I got it out of my system and here you are, ramming it down my throat again, like my old man used to do to your mum. It's quite shit and I don't want to ever hear it again.

Jack Nicholson's character in The Shining actually wrote an incredible novel whilst locked away in that hotel, but the book/film edits don't want you to know that. No, that's all "all work and no play, makes Jack a dull boy", "here's Johnny" and murdering his family bullshit. There's a magical novel out there though and you're all to scared to admit it. I'm led to believe that it inspired this record.

I fucked my first sex robot to this record. She malfunctioned and scorched the tip of my penis so badly that my cum was like molten lava for 3 weeks. I pumped my load up her so many more times.

Bed wettingly shit. A complete and utter disaster of a record that makes me want to strangle an infant.

My first born child died so this record could be made. Tim Buckley does that sacrifice justice.

I'm listening to this record whilst sitting on a busy road, out in the pissing rain. I've been here all night. I like to creep out at midnight and shag cars up their exhaust pipes. Today, my dick swelled so much that it is stuck and I've had to wait for the fire brigade to come and release me. The humiliation intensifies my pleasure.

I don't know what to say. I don't want to piss off any Bonnie Prince Billy fans. In fact, quite the opposite, I want to piss ON Bonnie Prince Billy fans. Golden showers are back baby and I'm coming for ya.

This preposterous record sounded like an enraged horse shitting all over the face of a crying baby in the living room of former Prime Minister Tony Blair. Alas, we're all going to eat eachother's dicks.

I like to butter my grandmother's feet and have her dance on my belly.

I've just about wanked myself dry. What a fuckin' masterpiece. Let's 'av it large.

I'm listening to this record on the way back from teaching some disabled children how to swim. It's really cheered me up after a few of the weaker children drowned when I dunked them under the surface. Well done, Joe & The Fish, you've really saved my weekend.

A raging load of horseshit with a little bit of glitter mixed in, presented to a beautiful young princess on the morning of her 5th birthday anniversary. She excitedly grabs the gift and bites into the gooey surface. She eats the whole lump without pausing and then exclaims "George Jones is my daddy". Nobody cares.

It's like a flick book of dick pics left on the washing line for your mother to find.

Speaking as someone who once breastfed a flamingo to good health, I feel that I have the authority to make the ultimate judgement on this magnificent record. Wu-Tang Clan deliver a sumptuous, sexy, deadly fucknugget, that really makes me want to bend over and devour a watermelon with the lips of my anus. It's not often I say that. Such high praise indeed. What a brilliant man I am. Wu-Tang are very good, but not a patch on me. I'm so successful and awesome, that I make lesser men want to die. I am solely responsible for the rise in suicide rates amongst young males and it's entirely down to their jealousy of my incredible life. Catch me on the flipside, bitches, I'm off into town to capture myself a bride and some chicken wings. Ooooooh.

I'm eating a raw lettuce head and listening to Pere Ubu. My thoughts are this... can a ostrich kill an unsuspecting baby with just one look? Can a cow suffocate an unsuspecting baby with just one breath? Can a weary train driver on his way home from another long day of driving trains up and down, up and down, see into a baby's soul with just one wink?

Ripped my old woman a new arsehole whilst this played on the stereo. An exquisite Thursday afternoon. A noticeable smell of pussy was in the air and wide brimmed smiles were glued on the faces of all involved.

This record reminds me of the 13th time I had to clean the bathtub after shitting so ferociously that I tore my anus wide open. A remarkable way to come out to my parents.

Be still my beating heart. This record inspired me to become a footballer. Its every beat gives me a stonking erection so hard that it could kill an army. My mother always told me I wouldn't make it, but she was wrong the awful hag.

My, my. Her voice pierces your foreskin like a grenade being thrown into a pile of dead crows. The world is not good enough for her talent. Now, eat my eyelids, you pack of cunts.

A foaming crescendo of molten sex. The first time I listened to this record I was high on hallucinogens, flying like a panda in a hot air balloon, straddling the clouds and dancing in the stars. My mind had been opened to a new galaxy of noise, a glittering corkscrew of shimmering gold dust sprawled across a whirlwind of life. My mouth tasted like sawdust and my legs were glued to the floor, but this music spun my head off its shoulders and propelled me into the future. A future caught with its pants down, on the wrong side of town. A future so dark and twisted that it took on the form of an army of spiders leaking out of the skull of a lost relative. I would never be the same again.

After hollowing out my eyeballs and dipping my face into a bucket of frogs, I can see myself falling deeper and deeper in love with this cowardly record. It will fuel my passion for the next 16 hours. In this time I will complete a complex jigsaw of an elderly man bent over with his sagging, withered ass pointing towards us as he sucks on a large lollipop and takes a photo of his enormous dick. Yes, today will be just fine.

A nervousness grips my throat like an anaconda squeezing the life out of an IT consultant. I wheeze and cough as the record plays on. Soon, I'm throwing up all over my brand new diamond encrusted loafers at how disgusting the music of Fleetwood Mac truly is. It's such a basic bitch and makes my toes curl and my dick shrink back up inside my bloated body. How dare they?

John Prine us the kind of guy who can take a real hard cock up his ass. His music is a a piece of work itching to be castrated. I both love and hate everything about him. A beekeeper amongst wasps.

What's new pussycat? Whoaooooaaoaoaooooaaoo. Hit me with another one, Christine, my bladder is about to burst.

Deep Purple reminds me of that time I was repeatedly kicked in the cock and balls by the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff. It was shortly after they had all jizzed on my face and chest.

An arsenal upon the senses. This freaky little record gave me one of the most powerful orgasms I've had today. What a shit splattered success. My heart wants to headbutt a racoon into Jupiter.

Dirty, dirty red girl. This record dripped down my chin like being jizzed on by the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff.

As someone who likes listening to music whilst I flick grapes into the open minge of my obese wife, I can confidently say that Devendra Banhart improves the experience tenfold. She came in under seven minutes. A new record for us.

Little Richard is a magnificent human being. He introduced me to my 3rd wife, Linda. She was a sailor and a poet with dark rings around her eyes and below her baggy vagina. She wore a solemn expression on her face and glumly shuffled around the house like a depressed ewok with the weight of the world on its shoulders. I used to lock her away in a drawer at night and fed her damaged tulips that I would purchase from the local florists on the way home from a busy day of being Nigel Spackman. She took her own life in the autumn of '73. I found her hanging, lifeless listening to Little Richard on the radio in the kitchen. She stank of salmon fillets. There was a note on the sideboard that read "Try locking me away in a drawer now, you cunt". To this day, I have no idea what she meant. The funeral was a fine affair. Many of Linda's friends and family did not bother coming and so Little Richard and I, drank whisky and danced into the wee hours of the morning, laughing and joking about how Linda would always say that she hated us and wanted us to die. We couldn't work out what she meant, the silly billy. That woman remains a mystery. Why did you do it, Linda? I keep an empty drawer for her and often smile as I pass the florist on the way home. She was special and I'll never understand why she hanged herself that day. Little Richard still pops by for supper every fortnight and we make a big deal about re-enacting her final hours. We eat salmon fillets and tell eachother we hate eachother, then laugh. Why Linda?

Elliott Smith must have been a tiny little virgin when he penned this self-indulgent, soppy, sad fuckwhistle of a record. I for one, love it. I identify myself within the lyrics and it makes me want to catch a leprechaun in a net and hump it until morning.

Dr. Octagon, get out of my vagina, you beast! You horrible little perv, I told you not to touch me there. You sex pest. I'm nine years old. It's all coming flooding back to me now. The horror.

An African baby boy, snatched from the arms of its mother. He screams for her teet. She laughs and fondles her clit as she listens to The Who.

A perfect brunch of turkey and terror. A goose caught in a compromising position by the local priest. A handsome robot arm wrestling a spare set of house keys in a meadow. The window into the rest of the apocalypse. Home by tea time dear.

If history has taught us anything, it's that stuffing a turkey with barbed wire and wrapped up parcels of your own dried up semen and serving it for thanksgiving, is not the best way of introducing yourself to your inlaws. We all make mistakes and here, The Cramps have made the mistake of thinking that I'm not going to listen to their record and not choke myself to orgasm.

The sheer bollocks of Queen on this girthy record! Freddie sounds like a foghorn choking on the last doughnut in the box. Such poise and energy intertwined. A rather large barrage of carnage. A lillywhite blossom in a glass of still water sat on the mantlepiece, wilting in the late evening sunshine. A bulldog shitting all over the living room rug. A pencil sharpened to the point of snapping. A dingo yapping at the dead body in the boot of the car.

I was watching She Hulk Attorney at Law this afternoon, when all of a sudden I felt an enormous ache in my bum. It was a pain I hadnt felt since that cruise I took with Blondie back in the mid 80s. Then, I spent 42 hours straight, chained to the toilet shitting up a turd so powerful it registered on the Richter Scale. Today, it was different, my bowels rumbled and eventually fired out hundreds of spiders. I'm finally a dad.

Nick Cave once came at me with a knife at my daughter's birthday party. He ruined the whole day. I'll never listen to his music.

As a trained puppeteer, I can honestly say that Massive Attack had no impact on me whatsoever. I find it really hard to believe that Massive Attack would even have the gall to claim that they've influenced every movement ive ever made with a puppet. They haven't. They're lying to everyone. My puppetry is NOTHING to do with Massive Attack. NEVER WILL BE.

I'm classic, Jurassic, I'll stick it in your ass-ic. A rockstar, a cockstar, a shove it in your ass-tar. I'm a legend, a bellend, i'll stick it up your rear end. Yo, I'm the champagne, the propane, the reason you got ass pain. I'm a baptist, a rapist, you're gon' get your ass kissed. I'm a big spender, sex offender and some might say 'a bender'. I'm a gangsta, a panther, and at weekends, Samantha. I'm a weirdo, a hero and a mega paedo. I'm fantastic, I'm plastic, I once dated a spastic. I'm a necrophile, a paedophile, i've even fucked a crocodile. Mic drop.

Shagged the night away to this one. Oh boy. So much cum. A major vaginal discharge. All of the above is false.

This record sounded like my nan scraping sawdust out of her fanny with a rusty spoon. In a good way.

A perfect blend of ear bending splendour riding a zephyr of peace and tranquility. This tore a hole right through my mind and exposed my inner most fantasies to every inch of my quaking being. Hold the phone, Pedro, we have lift off.

A baby boy forms from the penis of a Wotsit. He travels through life, threatening to destroy the world with his gentle voice. He wades his way through a trough of broken bottles and cow shit to present his immaculate balls to the queen in an unflinching display of dominance and humility. This is the result.

Jeff Beck struggles through this turgid mess like a hobo trying to fuck a mousetrap. It reminded me of the time I sang karaoke with Craig Charles at the funeral of his mother. A fuckin' total abomination that cause 15 more deaths. It was a bloodbath.

Neil Young is the kind of man who would sleep with your mum, spit in her face and give her herpes. A weak, pathetic little loser with a notably enormous dick. Yes, if it wasn't for that man's gigantic horse cock, I wouldn't have a father. To be clear, Neil Young is not my father, nor is he my step father, but his massive penis was like a father to me during some of my most troubled times.

Michael Jackson was one of the greatest artists of all time. His music transcends the ages and influences the best in the world today. Michael Jackson was one of the greatest paedophiles of all time. His sex offences transcend the ages, the illegal ages. He's influences such greats as R Kelly and Gary Barlow.

Don't look at me in that tone, you swine. OK, OK, I did eat all the sausage rolls, but you licked my scrotum last Thursday and I wanted to get some revenge. You may have out foxed me to win that fair maiden, but I can't stand by and watch her throw herself head over heels into your cauldron of lies. Either you tell her or I will.

If you watch Jaws backwards it's a heartwarming story about a shark that gives limbs to disabled people.

A post orgasmic chill unlike no other I've ever experienced. Usually I'm flying through the clouds, feeling like just about the best bloke in Britain, but this post-coital bliss is kind of different. It makes me feel dirty, grubby, like an unwashed toothbrush being gently guided down the back of a hippy and into their undergrowth as a form of entertainment for a gang of posh youths trying to up their street cred in front of the prettiest transexual this side of the Mississippi.

My friend Twelve Pint Simon loves this record. He used to travel to Belgium every weekend and play it LOUD so all Belgians could hear and kiss him on his mouth. I said "Nobody likes phlegmish kisses" and he said "did you just say phlegmish or flemish?" Then I pointed out that they are homonyns and I was making a pun. Simon laughed, went outside and ate crisps in the carpark.

I once dipped my burning spear into the head mistress of the local secondary school. She was quite a goer. Loved it up her harris and often let me spill all over her hair. Dead now, of course. I can never keep them alive.

I once spent an hour in the company of a wildebeest named Tall Mike. He chewed my ear off about the difficulties wildebeests faced when trying to complete their tax returns. He really did not enjoy the whole process and was keen to let me know. I didn't care though, because I'm not a wildebeest, I'm a big man-legend named Nigel. I wished him well and took a huge bite out of an apple I'd been saving for such an occasion. Tall Mike smiled, did a line of ketamine and swam away singing.

I played this full blast at my mum's funeral and my auntie came so hard that the church got permanently closed.

The idea that our knowledge has limits depresses me. How do we know that anything is real? How do I know that Small Faces really made this record? Suck my tits, you utter sex syringe. My French girlfriend shrugs.

Winter in America can be the most wholesome thing you can have on your toast in the morning. I don't understand what happens when you endlessly milk a camel for pleasure and go home no happier than you arrived. A restless whisper drifts into my conscious and reminds me to file for divorce next Wednesday. A selfless act on an otherwise bland evening spent ironing the creases out of my face, but you can never get back that youthful vigour, no matter how hard you run a mower across your brow. A lost life wasted, an angel of mercy and a charmless clown walk into a bar. The barman tells them to go fuck themselves and they gladly do. The end of a miserable chapter.

A record that made me want to jump out of a moving car. An incredibly low moment in my week.

I'm utterly in love with a woman called Becky. She eats crabs outside the local supermarket every Wednesday evening after finishing her part time job as a labourer. She produces the most enchanting fanny farts that echo around town. I simply must have her.

Boring Brian walks into a bar a little after 8pm. He orders a beer and sits back in a chair. He notices a familiar face in the corner of the room. He cannot believe his luck. He walks to the bathroom, staring at the man in the corner. He has lost all composure and splashes his face with water. He checks he pulls out a gun, stuffs it down his pants and exits the bathroom. He approaches the familiar man. The man becomes agitated and asks what's going on. He does not remember the face of the man stood before him. It had been 20 years. Boring Brian never thought he'd get this opportunity. He offers his name to the man, but he remains non the wiser. Brian explains where he knows him from. A juvenile detention centre. The man had been a prison guard who had an eye for young boys. He tormented and abused him to within an inch of his life. Brian smiled, pulled out his gun and shot the man 37 times in the head and chest. He settles his bar tab and leaves.

Captain Beefheart you son of a gun. You owe me a go on your sister's tits. She disappeared down a drain pipe on a dark night last spring. She broke my heart, she broke my mind, she broke my penis and I cried. Shelly Beefheart, my love, my muse, my everything.

I was once hypnotised on stage in front of about 2000 people. I began fingering the woman next to me. I thought I was playing the harp.

The beach boys are a set of fictional puppets created by Disney. In classical mythology they're known as thr surfing fuck puppets of the sea.

A perfect expression of exuberance and fun. The ideal record for murdering a toddler. The soundtrack of my youth.

This record sounded like that feeling you get when the doctor has just told you that you're cancer free for the first time in over two years, but then tries to grope you.

Well fuck my bleeding ass harder than you ever have before, it's only me old mate Jon Spencer with one of the greatest pieces of music to ever penegrate my hairy hoop. Fuck me. Fuck everyone.

As a child I was touched by Gene Clark. His music inspired something in me. I became very driven and determined to make it as a professional footballer. His words are incredible and were the perfect backdrop for all of my lifetime achievements. He also physically touched me. He touched my bum and my penis. I love him.

Jerry Lee Lewis is a friend of mine. He lives in my coal shed and dances in the moonlit shadows. He hurt my butt with his gigantic mancock.

Rod Stewart shagged my Aunt Mary on her 40th Birthday. She says he's the worst she's ever had and gave her the clap.

Suzanne Vega and I once shared a midnight kiss in Bruges. She breath stank of cigarettes and cabbage and she bit my lip so hard that a fountain of blood squirted into her eyes. I pushed her down the hill and never saw her again. Stupid bitch.

These mop top scamps gang raped me in an alleyway on New Year's Eve 1966. I've never felt so alive.

I hated everything fuckin' single second of this embarrassing record. A total disgrace.

Give me a blowy right now daddy!

Licking tits for a living is the life I love. My nipples go crazy every time I see a newborn baby shit itself. A wet Wednesday evening spend in the arms of a transexual army vet who will not shut up about the size of his balls.

As I walk through the valley of a shadow of meth, I can't believe what I'm hearing from Brian Wilson. The sounds melt through my brain and tickle my soul with enough force to wake a walrus who's been in a coma for 6 month after being run over by a downbeat cyborg. The cyborg wasn't paying much attention to the road as it had recently found out that its wife had been sleeping with the local mayor.

Nobody ever died from getting fingered too hard, but I came pretty close listening to this.

Hot buttered tits dipped in treacle, dripping into the eye of my anus as the sun comes out. What an immense piece of aural sex. My eardrums are bashing one out.

Largely cathartic for me. As you know I dated Shelley Beefheart for 4 years and she made me cum a lot. Captain Beefheart was always a bit of a prick to me because I was fisting his sister.

Big poppa! I've been to Felt Mountain and ate a large burger. It was like a dream. Ryan had chicken nuggets and felt sick. He ran all the way home.

Mashing my soft cock into the anus of a young lady feels like this record sounds. She's not happy, I'm embarrassed, and nobody gets off.

Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there! He wasn't there again today, Oh how I wish he'd go away!”

A cucumber stuffed right up to your mother's stomach. She is screaming like a cat in the wind.

A suave businessman named Peter once told me to eat all my vegetables, so I ate a disabled baby alive.

Go eat a dick you little crowey cunts. This hurt my hymen.

Mummy hmmmmm I've pooed my nappy again. Please pass me a napkin, you disgusting trollope.

Washing hot piss through my hair I realise that this is the most joy I've felt since the time I found my dad getting a tit wank off my mum in the back of our old vauxhall nova. I was 12 at the time and it was my first sexual awakening. Listening to this Joy Division record and being pissed on by my friends is the only thing that has come close to that wonderful afternoon. I miss them dearly.

Fuck the fucking fuck off

Blood and chocolate is my favourite meal. I eat it every Thursday afternoon after I just fucked your mum in the ass.

A spooked moose in the shower shaving its back. The prickly centre of the perfect stroke gives the moose the horn. He goes out a rapes a young tiger dressed as Dracula. He's the number one candidate to win Big Brother this year.

A bin bag full of knickers of the victims spilled out as the carriage doors opened. Tom and I locked eyes, he showed no panic, no fear. I was terrified. I could see that the other passengers were watching, but Tom just picked up the soiled underwear and stuffed it back in the bag. I wanted to make a break for it, the open door was beckoning me towards it, but Tom gave me a look as if to say "you're going nowhere". I sat back in my seat and tried to gain my composure, sweat was dripping from my brow and my heart was pounding. Had we just been caught on camera? Will any of the witnesses call the police? Will Tom Waits deliver the same fate to me, as he had all these poor women?

Here's comes Billy Boy with his head like a cement mixer and horror movie smile. Look at him performing backflips for the crowd outside of the back of Tesco. He makes me feel sick to my stomach. His propeller mouth and his bulging belly hanging out over his tight jean shorts. A short-sighted lager swigger, with flame hair, drooling at the sight of the penguins dancing in the blizzard.

Pat my cock. The whispering seduction makes me leap out of my leather trousers and into the paddling pool. She can touch my neck hair with her vulva.

Like eating an ice cream cone full of dog shit. My God, my ears will never recover from this. Suck my hairy cock.

Ooooof I love rubbing hot rats on my bellend. It makes me feel powerful and sexy. My face is a little numb as I push a little bit of shit out if my hot bum bum. Jingle jangle.

Shagging the remains of an abortion out of your ex girlfriend is a wonderful remedy for grief. This record is the perfect soundtrack for it.

Sucking the semen out of a frog passes the time better than listening to this steaming heap of cow shit.

I wonder if Stevie ever dreams of having rough anal sex with me. Boy, I hope so. That'd be just swell.

This record feels like trying to get rid of stubborn anal warts. Painful, but in such a way that it sexually awakens you. There's no turning back now, Bobby.

Farts along like a pig in a tumble dryer.

Feels just like a jellyfish on my genitals. It's so bad that I've fucked my nan to death in a violent rage. She said that she hated it too.

A jizzy tissue stuffed into the pocket of an old man having one last look at the rotting corpse of his wife as he buries her in his backyard.

I've been listening to this record all day long. It's driven me to quite an interesting mental state. For the last 30 minutes I've been furiously scratching my scrotum. It's now bleeding and I feel okay with it. It's nice, you know? Like a comfortable pair of slippers or an unknown tongue in your ear. My eyes are twitching and I've clamped my anus wide open. A girl from over the road is inserting Wotsits into it via a funnel as I squeal and ask for more. She's shy and unassuming, but I think she might be a little bit confused about what's happening here. I'll pay her the usual rate and hope she doesn't spill all the details to my chums at the country club. Some of those guys are really straight laced and dislike some of my silly ways. I wish them well and hold no grudges, but if any of them made fun of me I would slice theirs dicks off and wear them as a skirt.

I've been knee'd in the dick enough times to know if I enjoy it or not. The truth is, I find this genre of music hard to stomach most of the time, but this little record caught my ear hard and had me dancing round the kitchen all morning. A ray of light on an otherwise gloomy day. You could say it's a real knee to the dick. Yes, I enjoy it.

Oh my days. 2002 Bruce Springsteen is the greatest of all time. The Boss delivers a stellar record that oozes with class. A marvellous culmination of all of his best work. His vocals are on point and his buttocks as hard as ever. What a derriere. Fine, fine buns of steel. That ass is to die for. Sumptuous peach.

Lick me bum bum. It's a freakin' masterpiece. A scrunched up sock full of dog shit thrown at your headmaster. A baby in a manger smoking a rolled up cigarette and shouting cruel observations as passers-by. A proud Norwegian woman slipping over in a dance hall. A couple of Nazi barmen pouring a round of orange juice for a group of yoga mums. The ending of Titanic performed by school children for an unimpressed bank manager.

I listened to this record whilst surfing high on a cloud of hallucinogens. It transported me into a hurricane of broken promises and golden showers where I relived my own birth and conception. A powerful tsunami of shame and delirium washed over my brain and broke me down into a million pieces, which have been woven together by a longing for a loving touch.

A whirlpool of mind bending rocket fuel that spins you inside out and leaves you dripping with an urgent sense to fuck anything in front of you. A crunched up volcano at the point of climax, pulsating and throbbing, ready to culminate all over your brand new shoes. It's the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff jizzing all over your chest on a Tuesday afternoon.

An agonising, slow, torturous death of a record. A shit in a kettle in a Premier Inn hotel room, but it's too late, you've already drank the tea. Musical AIDS.

A blunt punch in the front bottom. The Rolling Stones are the only group of men I would let loose on my mother. She's gagging for it, the slag.

As a prolific pyromaniac myself, I must say that this record is appalling and really misrepresents us fire Lords. Shame on them.

The next day I woke up to find David Bowie naked, confused and blubbering his eyes out. I couldn't help but feel an enormous sense of pride, however his whimpering and tears clouded this with guilt. Over the years this feeling has gnawed away at me and I now wonder if I did do something wrong. David never spoke to the police and it certainly didn't feel wrong at the time, but now we'll never know.

As Batman loomed over the dead baby, his throat cracked. He'd been waiting all weekend for his chance to piss all over the dead daughter of the man who stole his favourite pair of leather shorts. Batman smiled, released his penis and a sturdy stream of urine splattered all over the lifeless infant. He finally had his revenge.

A suburban dad dressed up to the nines in his wife's favourite boob tube. He eats a meat pie and slugs back a pint of gravy. He spits poison into the face of the slutty barmaid who hands him a shandy. He beats his wife to death in the back yard as his neighbours watch on. Nobody says a word.

A pair of mongrel dogs fighting in the carpark of a pub in the rough part of town. One shits all over the back heel of the other one and shoots a look into its eyes as if to say 'don't you dare come round here again'.

A caterpillar eating a hearty casserole of shit and peas. This is the death of innocence and the birth of Margaret The Fucklord, ruler of the nipple peasants. All Hail her.

Stick your head in the oven and crank it up to 300! We have finally hit the jackpot with this blockbuster of a record which makes me wetter than my auntie's honking, steaming pussy. The hills are alive with the sound of me wanking myself into an incestuous coma and you're all welcome to join me for the ride.

Sonic the Hedgehog ran off with me wife. If anyone sees the blue prick, smash his smug face in. Spikey cunt.

A regrettable experience. Torture to my young ears. A real abortion of melody and lyrics that should have never seen the light of day. A festering wound in the back of your eye.

A spicy melting pot of poison and poetry, sliced and sprinkled into the bubbling cavern of a prolapsed anus. My mother is much pleased.

Astrud Gilberto makes me feel both sick and aroused at the same time. It's a rare feat. It reminds me of when I used to come home late from work, tired and soaked through after being covered head to toe with the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff. Man, it was a hell of a day, but boy did it make me tired and took its toll on my skin. Wouldn't change it for the world though.

I once had the opportunity to thumb a Weetabix into Kate Bush's minge, but I had to decline due to work commitments. A rueful day.

As soft as a tense vagina shaking in a windy corridor. A smack on the lips by an enormous cock.

"Beefy lips". "Beefy lips" is all they could say to me. It had been sixteen hours waiting, without another word. The worry, the fear, the unknown. I had so many questions, but not one of the doctors who passed me uttered a single sentence other than "beefy lips". My mind was racing, were they dead? A rugged face snapped back from behind a pristine surgical mask and peered over at me. I looked up, hopeful, fearful. The doctor beckoned me over and pulled back the curtain. There lay my beautiful virgin bride, legs wide open. A forest of tangled pubic hair draped over the thickest, chewiest, shiniest set of matching vaginal lips I'd ever laid me eyes on. I was in heaven.

Tear open your mind and let the Lord bless your soul with the honourable fruit of his loins. For he has arisen and now, forevermore will his glory fill our hearts with his twisted tales of death and marital impotence. God is back and he's very pissed off. Feel his wrath as he forces you to shag your sister in the basement whilst the rest of the family watch.

Bony Joni and I used to clean toilets together for £4 a day. She used to lick them clean, the dirty little scrubber. She wrote this record about me. She repulses me, but I can't help but love the horrible bitch.

All of the worst moments of my life summed up in a mix of shocking beats and lyrics. A disaster that leaps into your face as fast as a gang of nazis diving into your mum's gaping pussy.

I spent most of my teens hiding out in a junkyard. I would catch and eat pigeons for sustenance and suck on the tits of stray cats just for fun and to fuel my beastiality kink. I once fucked a crocodile for 11 hours straight and listening to this record reminded me of that wonderful day. A perfect moment in an otherwise deeply depressing existence. Cum on my tits.

A raging hangover in the form of what some people perceive to be music. I can't stand Taylor Swift. She's looks like a beaver trying to stifle a sneeze and she makes the worst eggs in the morning. Absolutely the worst shag I've ever had. She just lay there, lifeless. Needed to put a bit of minge around it.

Keith Richards once licked the back of my ball sack when we were enjoying a gang bang with a few of the girls from the factory. His tongue felt rough and dry, but it wasn't unpleasant. To show my appreciation, I shot my load all over his neck. The girls went wild for it and were frothing so much that the room began to resemble the video to 'It's Only Rock n Roll (but I like it)'. Poor Keith slipped over and did some real damage to his back. The Stones were forced to delay their UK tour by a few weeks whilst he recovered. How we laughed.

This record caused my erection to wilt like a primrose at Chernobyl, but in a good way.

A toothy blowjob in the back of my brother's old van. Thousands of brown spiders swarming my penis and balls as I look on in horror. It hurts.

Like itching your anal warts until they bleed.

I often have to get up for a wee in the small hours. My bladder isn't quite what it used to be. I've pissed the bed twice this week due to hurting my knee whilst paragliding and not being fast enough to reach the white bowl in time. The others times I've just pissed in an empty beer bottle and slung it out the window. Last Monday I hit a passer-by with once such bottle, killing her instantly. The body is still there in the street, unmoved and covered with piss. I'm not sure what to do.

Adele gets me harder than a Millwall supporting woodpecker. A common bird with a gob like a skip. Marry me you filthy scum.

A resplendent, beautiful minge, that you would be proud to eat your dinner off. Although I would eat every last crumb that would drop out of her vag and treasure it forever, her music doesn't really send my tastebuds into ecstasy. A rather bland and bitter relish smacks against my lips and leaves a nasty taste in my throat. Her beef lips, rubbery and ferocious as they may be, cannot mask the foul stench of her mediocre beats and limp lyrics that pour out of this unappetising banquet. A feast to forget, but a fanny full of flavour.

A syrupy shit splashed across the back of the toilet bowl, that resembles a Jackson Pollock masterpiece, but doesn't get the acclaim. Where's the justice?

What the fuckin' hell is this load of codswallop? A vanity project for virgins. Last picked for the football team and bullied by the cool kids. Metallica are a wet dream on a school trip. They're so angry and, boy, do I not care

After a day spent bathing in sauerkraut, eating wild strawberries and listening to Kate Bush, I think I'm in love. I'm telling you brother, this is how to live. Yeeeeeee Haw motherfuckers. Peace.

This hilarious record is like a hungry anus looking for a black rubber fist dildo to fuck it into the year 3000. A moronic attempt at something different, which fails so spectacularly, that I'm currently fisting my granddad as he pleas for mercy and pisses his linen trousers. The nurses do not look happy.

One Saturday morning I was in Debenhams with my daughter. A store worker was doing a demo of some invisible ink, whereby he would write something on his arm and cover it up with the ink and it would disappear, much to the amazement of my 5 year old. I was forced to buy some and she had a wonderful afternoon being a little magician. She soon tired herself out and whilst she was asleep on my lap, I decided to have some fun. I called my wife over to watch as I wrote "twat" on my daughter's forehead. My wife told me to grow up and was not impressed by the invisibility at all. The following day I get a call from my daughter's school. They tell me that someone had written something on my daughter's head and explained that all of the other students were being questioned and not allowed to leave until one of them had owed up to writing it. Turns out the insivibilty ink wears out after several hours, so over the course of the morning, the word "twat" slowly appeared on her forehead. They never did find out who the culprit was.

Milking some huge tits in a shed down by the river. I mean some serious canons here. A giant pair of swinging bazookas. Enormous swelling melons. Heaving breasts. Big boobs. Norks. Jugs. Bosoms. Knockers. Baps. Hooters. All rubbing in my face.

It was the way she looked at me that caught me off guard. The subtle flick of the eyelashes and a half smile curled around her lips. I was entranced. My eyes were glued to her gaze, my throat was dry and my hands trembled. I approached. I couldn't get the stench of her fear out of my nostrils. Her crimson blood had stained my loafers. My semen dripped down her dead eyes and broken nose. This record was the perfect soundtrack for that lustful, horrific evening.

Sadistic, sinister and sexy. Dr. Sardonicus slays with this swashbuckling serenade. A summer spent in satin suspenders, sipping expensive soups, singing songs from Starlight Express and sucking my sisters' sensual saucepan-shaped swastika tits.

Murdering your wife isn't as much fun as this record makes out. From the first note it bangs on about just murdering your wife when you next see her. Every song finding a new way of getting the message across and really drilling it into you. Murder your wife. Murder your wife. FINE! I'LL MURDER MY WIFE!

This record makes my knees tremble. I wanked so hard that my helmet came off.

The Soft Boys were named after me. As a child I was such a shy little thing, wouldn't say boo to a goose. The Soft Boys used to play rugby in the fields behind our house and one day they asked me to play. They beat the living daylights out of me that day. I was broken and bloodied. I could barely walk. The Soft Boys challenged me to get an erection and I couldn't. They admired that, quit playing rugby and formed a band.

A pasty white, sweaty orgy that's got out of hand, but you're still going to join. Give us a hand job whilst I touch your wife's bits, Tony.

Ooooooof doggystyle, me fooking favourite. What a stupendous thud of a record. A total thunderclap of humour and beats. An urgent surging in my pants. Suck my nob, nana xxx

Since the dawn of time man has strived for continuous improvement and growth. Today marks the day when we all have to stop and take in what an incredible achievement this Orbital record is. We have failed.

A record so grand, so spectacular, so sexual, that its cum runs down my eyelids and into my mouth. A raucous racket that beats the shit out of your eardrums and shovels that same shit right up your nostrils and into your brain. A dizzy fuckstorm of perverse sexual energy and juvenile fingering by a man twice your age.

A really gentle skull fucking that left me weeping and gasping for air. The culmination of the tantric head sex made me commit a bad, bad crime which I can't quite remember.

Scritti Politti performed at my nan's 70th birthday party. They hopped on stage and began sucking eachother's dicks like their lives depended on it. My nan couldn't mask her disgust and stormed out. The rest of us enjoyed the rest of the show and later ate sausage rolls and had chats about our latest diets and the podcasts we were currently enjoying. Nan was found dead, hanging from a tree in the woods outside. The funeral was a sad occasion and we all consoled ourselves by hiring Scritti Politti to perform, where they proceeded to suck eachother off once again, this time on top.of her stupid coffin.

Anyone who knows me knows that I like my music like I like my women - primitive, raw and black. Brian Eno displays none of those traits on this abysmal record that left my dick limper than a baby with cerebral palsy trying to wallpaper a crack den. Not on my watch.

A drug-fuelled, sweaty pick up truck is where I first laid my ears on this doozy of a record. For all their obvious limitations, Slade succeed at providing a mad house of fun and chaos that leaves its listeners feeling rather crazee indeed. An immature firecracker of joy that made my knickers as wet as your mum's cock-hungry pussy.

Ahh I remember my first rodeo sweetheart. Debra was a 33 stone monster, who ate 13 portions of fish finger sandwiches every day. She was airlifted into the rodeo by a team of highly skilled drones and four contestants from World's Stongest Man on stilts. I couldn't take my eyes off her breathtaking beauty. Literally breathtaking for her, as she struggled to breathe, poor love. She was plonked down on the row in front of me and I could smell her body odour as she panted and wheezed, wondering where the fuck she was. It was love at first sight. I climbed on her back and yelled with delight. She barely noticed, as she was suffering a gigantic heart attack at the time. She died and I was left devastated.

A darkness descends across the land. A young girl cries out in the street, but nobody hears her. The prickly bustle of the wind catches her off guard and she loses balance. A pregnant cancer grips her stomach and churns away at her. She drops to her knees in pain. An old man sees her anguish and walks away in the opposite direction, hoping she hasn't seen him. She has. She sees all of us. She forgives us.

Neil Young once told me that a man can eat all the pussy he wants, but at the end of the day, it's the pussy the man came out of that really matters. That struck a chord with me and it's why I started regularly going down on my own mother. She's been dead 14 years and still tastes wonderful.

A deeply offensive record that basically promotes the use of retarded children as catwalk models. It's not good for their self esteem and makes me feel physically sick. Models should be rake thin, gaunt and lacking in nutrients, not hot disabled teens drooling into their wheelchairs. For Christ's sake, sort it out.

As I look into my baby's eyes, I see her sadness. She goes swimming 6 times a week and can barely perform a competent breaststroke. She's slightly overweight and can't see that it doesn't matter to me, in fact, I'm into chubby women, I like their big fat tits bouncing in front of me.

A heron glides into view and spits a melody that makes me feel invigorated. It is dawn and the sun crawls across the curtains as I roll over and try to shake off last night's vodka Redbulls. A sharp terror fills me as I recall typing a passive aggressive message to a girl whom I barely know from the local coffee shop, who smiled at me once and I took it as a sign that we would fall deeply in love. I had been Facebook stalking her for weeks and after passing her in the street yesterday evening, I must have found some misguided courage. I check my outbox. There it is. I cannot bring myself to read it. I fix myself another vodka.

As a man who once strangled his younger brother to death, I can safely say that I regard this record as as wonderful soundtrack to kill to. Try it.

God bless you. I feel rather numb around my bum hole after opening my ears to this sexy beast. Strumming one out in the garden whilst humming along. A dirty little slut of a record that made me gush in seconds.

Mike Oldfield and I once owned a race horse called Pregnant Debbie. It won the Derby one year and Mike celebrated so hard that his dick fell out of his arse.

As I was jamming my bulbous cock into your mother's pretty little anus, I thought to myself, what would Paul Weller do if I was to shave off his mod haircut and ram it down your mum's throat? He'd obviously be a little upset, but hopefully he'd enjoy the sound of her chocking on his delicate locks as she took my cock deep inside her. We will soon find out.

Reminded me of my days spent in West London. I would spend my mornings with friends and then would get covered head to toe in the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff.

Sipping whisky out of a discarded doll's head and listening to this record at full blast is the best way to spend a beautiful day. Unfortunately, I spent the day cleaning dog shit out of my new shoes.

Buck Owens is a horrible racist. Do not listen to his twisted tales and disgusting view of society. Despicable little man.

As dusk settles on another summer night I can't help but wonder whether Todd Rundgren has ever made sweet love to a woman. He seems like the kind of dude who wanks into a jam jar and keeps it on the mantlepiece.

After eating a whole head of human shit for brunch, I wasn't in the mood to listen to this wretched record, which has more in common with a lost amazonian tribe that it does with modern music. An exceptional waste of time and effort.

It sticks in your throat like an uncircumcised cock covered in glitter. A real romp that made me gag and throw up all over Fernando's new slippers. He's not speaking to me now. What a sour puss. He'll come round when he wants his bellend to be chewed on this evening. Just you wait.

A still born baby of a record. Never really gets going in a way that I'd like, but I am partial to a good dead baby anyway, as something to gnaw on. As long as you're not putting paprika on their head, they taste delicious.

My God, would you just shut your stupid mouth for one second? FML. A steaming pile of shit getting shovelled into my ears. I hate this woman and everything she stands for. I hope she dies soon, if she hasn't already. Bitch.

SEABASS! SEABASS! FETCH ME 3 MORE SEABASS AT ONCE. THESE CUSTOMERS ARE FURIOUS!

I once fucked a drake to death. It came back as a ghost and haunted me. Nick Drake is yet to do the same.

As anal probes go, aliens do it the best. They get right in there and penetrate to the point of bleeding. If I wasn't so turned on, I'd be furious. More, please.

Sounds like Jamie Theakston being bummed to death by a pack of wild dogs. What more can you want from a record?

If one record was to ever sum up how I feel about the decay of the modern world, it's this. An assured display of charisma and charm that makes me want to fuck a dolphin dry. I can't help but feel like a new born baby shitting in my nappy. Well done.

I ate a little too much custard last night and ever since I've been blowing bubbles out of my bellend. It's a good day.

What is this filth? Preposterous lyrics and terrible clothing, but somehow it moved me to tears. A quite remarkable piece of music. Limp Bizkit will be the name of my first born child.

A nude charity calendar of my primary school covered head to toe in the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff.

I spent a lot of my youth wanking in the back at The Chicken Shack. Was it mayonnaise? Was it my jizz? That was why so many customers kept returning. It's good to keep a bit of mystery. It was my jizz.

Suck my massive yellow dong. A mega record that smacks you round the chops and buries its dick in your cheek. My bum is twitching and it's not even time for breakfast. Fire a dog into a lamppost and watch it wee it's pants.

Shove an apple up your bum, Fiona. As a young father to twin girls, if either of them grew up to be anything like Fiona Apple, I would slit their throats in their sleep.

I'd like to get a little deeper into Ms Dynamite. She looks like a right goer. Really deep. Right through her.

Oh Neil Young. Just finger yourself in front of me. Come on.

A shady room in the back of a derelict house holds the key to a world of secrets that will destroy the lives of everyone in the town.

I remember one time I was doing so much cocaine with Holger Czukay, that I forgot that I was fucking his daughter and showed him a bunch of dirty pictures of her on my phone. He punched me in the mouth.

Dexy is such a little bitch. The record sounds like an old panda doing a fanny fart in a cave. I can't get even get an inch of an erection out of it.

Oh, it's Morrissey once again. This preening prick needs to stop trying to penetrate my eardrums with his racist rants about meat and stick to making records like this.

Listening to this record at full volume as I drove the kids to their mother's house this morning, made me feel like crashing the car into a lamppost.

Put your dukes up, we're about to have a right tear up. Fuck my life, I'm spitting blood all over my kid's new trainers. She's not going to be happy with me.

Two duelling raindrops dancing a romantic rhumba as they race towards the bubbling orgy of their peers waiting to welcome them at the bottom of the weathered window pane.

Holding up a mirror to the world and screaming "SUCK MY DICK, HITLER", Aguilera manages to squeeze her smoky orange skin into some questionable chaps and remind us all who we really are. A timeless classic that stands the test of time.

The chore of listening to this one tone record was the hardest thing I've had to endure this week. You must bear in mind that this week I've finalised my divorce, crashed my car and lost two of my children in a freak boomerang accident. By George what a bit of shit on a fork.

The man who stole my virginity, Van Morrison, we meet again. As much as I love the jowly faced old crooner, I simply cannot forget that he took my innocence in a violent act of self pleasure that left me with a lifelong struggle trying to figure out why he did it and who I am.

The smooth sound of Morgan Freeman covered in jam. I was so high.

I feel like the greatest artists always have a signature style and Aguilera's voice is so unique that it makes me cum instantly. Back to Basics draws back the curtains and stabs a dagger of joy into your back. Faultless.

The story of a pantomime villian hopped up on cocaine and craft beer accidently walking in in his parents banging the life out of eachother. Shocked, he storms into the kitchen and dunks his hairy bollocks onto the hob, blistering them to the point of disintegration. He laughs. How he laughs. He cries.

The needle combing through the grooves of my mind as I take some mind melting medication is etching a picture of you into my brain. The fear of this not being reality makes me buckle over and shit my insides into a bin. Is it a dream? Is it a nightmare? Is it the ramblings of a man so high on hallucinogens that he can't muster a decent memory? Is Nigel Spackman a real man, or is he just a concept?

A wide range of products are available to purchase at the gift shop. Please donate anything you can. An old couple walking along the beach stop and tell me to tie my shoelaces, before I trip and fall. But I've already fallen. A single red rose on a pillow. The tangled language of your Bulgarian mother as she tries to build the perfect snowman for you. The moon has never looked as pretty as it does this evening. Who framed Roger Rabbit?

KISS ARE MY FAVOURITE BAND EVER!!! I ONCE PAID $40,000 TO HAVE GENE SIMMONS TONGUE FUCK MY WIFE WHILST I HID IN A WARDROBE MASTURBATING. IT TURNED OUT TO BE THE ONE WITH THE CAT MAKEUP INSTEAD. SHE DIDN'T SEEM TO MIND, BUT I WASTED SO MUCH JIZZ ON THAT DUDE.

A tangled web of self-loathing and careless abandon. Method Man limps through this coarse record, like a man so desperate to prove to the world that he isn't a posh little mummy's boy, that he's prepared to kill an unborn baby with his teeth. 4 stars.

An apple a day keeps the knob rot away. After a torturous few years of being in agony whenever I got an erection, I found rubbing apples on my bellend soothed the pain. Soon I was going through 15 a day. Try it yourself at home.

EAT SHIT, IAN. YOU STOLE MY UNDERWEAR AND TOOK A PISS ON MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

Glenn Hoddle and the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff jizzed all over my hair and back as I sang this record in the shower after every training session. Good memories.

I know you want to slip your fingers down your knickers as soon as you hear the first note, but please resist temptation and let this musical journey rape you into submission instead. What an outrageous record, that drips its gooey semen into your ears and sits back and watches as you struggle to shake it out. Your ears are brimming with cum and there's nothing you can do about it.

If anal fingering was a sport, this record would be the world champion.

Like a dangerous loaf of bread, all dressed up for a night out playing hockey with the boys.

Happy Birthday to me. What an amazing record to celebrate the big day. Just a beautiful time spent today, listening to this and wanking myself silly in front of friends and family. Thank you.

A spikey haired young man once told me to eat his shorts and in a moment of pure rage I did just that. We had a 6 month long affair, which culminated in his death. I don't miss that little jerk.

Justin Timberlake struggles to piece together the ashes of his life after his daughter is murdered and presented to the king as an amuse bouche. This tragic tale descends into madness as the singer screeches in pain and tries to sellotape his mind together with memories of his grandmother's large breasts. The climax of the record finds Timberlake smacked off his tits on energy drinks trying to persuade a young boy to frolic with him on the shallow grave of his offspring. It's a sad story with a happy ending. 4 stars.

A record often played at funerals for the deaf. This was the 13th time I've heard it this week and it brings me out in hives every time. A couple of perverts shitting on the milkyway.

Whilst I don't normally condone the monarchy, in this instance they have made me feel like an underage commoner being buggered to death by Prince Andrew and Prince Edward. And Prince.

Damon Albarn and I once groomed a young vole together. We washed it, clipped it's claws and styled its hair. We also chatted it up online, posing as other voles and fucked it when it was underage .

The ramblings of a drunk dinosaur trying to fuck its way back into existence

A colossal masterpiece that hurtles its sexy ass towards you like a bottle rocket. It's a fascinating fantasy fuck that you never thought you'd get to experience. Your wildest dreams are fulfilled and you just can't wait to phone your mummy and tell her that you've just become a man. The Hives are a heroic bunch of scallywags with tongues firmly in their cheeks and fingers firmly in your pussy. It's a 1000 mile an hour lightning bolt that penetrates you in a way you haven't been since Uncle Roger buggered you senseless behind the shed when you were just a boy.

It's fair to say that given the choice between listening to this record by Goldie or ramming 15 pork pies up my ass so hard, I piss blood for the next 3 months, I'd listen to the music. That's not to say I don't love being chock-full of pie, but the music of Goldie is simply perfect.

It's funny to think that the only reason this record exists is due to world war 2 propaganda. Without it the Nazis would have won and where would we be now? Thank you G. Love and Special Sauce. You saved us.

Straight bitch behaviour, yo. Britney Spears gushes all over my face and boy, do I like it? Holy shit, her dripping cunt is steaming and the smell is something I'll never forget. Smokin'

EATING CHOCOLATE CAKE IN THE SHOWER EVERY MORNING HAS TAUGHT ME HOW TO FEEL LIKE A REAL MAN. I CAN USE IT TO DISGUISE WHEN I SHIT MYSELF. CAKE AND SHIT, CAKE AND SHIT, CAKE AND SHIT. SHOWERING WITH CAKE AND SHIT. SHITTING IN THE SHOWER, SHITTING IN THE SHOWER. CAKE AND SHIT. I'M A REAL MAN. EAT MY SHIT.

A perfect parade of macho boy love and tiny erections. U2 produce one of the most interesting ways to drive a man to suicide. An abomination that makes your ears bleed and your anus sore. Piss off.

The Songs of Leonard Cohen are one of life's most important works of art. The first time I listened to this record was the first time I ever felt love. It nurtured me and made me feel safe and happy. I've never questioned why. It's just something organic. Thank you Leonard. I'll do a little wank to the thought of you this evening.

I love the feeling of suede as it brushes against my quivering thighs. I make my own suede condoms so I can surround my dick with confidence and style as I pound the life of whatever local trollope I've decided worthy of my pleasure. Usually Barbara the 63 year old barmaid at the Pig and Scrotum. She's a right goer. She orgasms very easily and squirts all over my suede shoes and masks. I make her wear a suede waistcoat, which her useless, floppy breasts slide out of. She is not an attractive woman, but by God, can she suck a dick and wear suede gloves well.

The bad man in the playground came up to me today He asked me if I'd like to pet his dog I went over to his car He unbuttoned his trousers A big black dog jumped out and started licking me He spat all over my face It made me happy

A disabled dog limping into the sea to drown. It's okay Little Jake, it's okay. You don't have to be afraid anymore. Lick your bum bum one last time and say goodbye.

A murder of crows descend around the grave of my miserable life. I've died after listening to this shit record. Girls can play baseball too.

Ooooooh look at those big elephant trunks! Reminds me of my own massive dick. Nellie the Elephant fucked your wife and said goodbye to your marriage.

Go Go Power Rangers Go Go Power Rangers Go Go Power Rangers You Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers This record made me feel like one of the Power Rangers. I did some high kicks and jumping around. It was awesome. My favourite Power Ranger is the White Power Ranger.

The train derails and crashes into the wide open pussy of Charlie. She flinches a little, but carries on sucking my cock like a trooper. Bob Dylan sticks his head out the window and licks his chops. He's got a boner that won't quit and is eyeing up my tasty thighs. I can smell his fear. I withdraw my index finger from Charlie's wonderful anus and call Bob over. He wipes his curly brow and sheepishly shimmies towards me. Some debris from the train grazes his penis and he stops. I remove my throbbing dick from Charlie's jizz-filled mouth and piss all over Bob. I drench him. He's drowning and I'm bloody loving it.

Why do we cry, when it's the onions that are getting hurt? The eyes are the nipples of the head.

A ferocious, fiery, blood bursting shit that you never quite recover from. My lord it hurts. It hurts so bad. Tear my eyes out, Jimmy boy.

Nigel Spackman. Nigel Spackman. Nigel. Spack. Man. What a legend of the game I am. I can lick the farts out of a baby, play football and review music. Who's the real Nigel Spackman? Stay tuned.

This record is shrouded in mystery. What is it really trying to say? What is a yank crime? Is it like getting covered head to toe in the jizz of the entire Chelsea first team and backroom staff? Who is Nigel Spackman?

Mylo displays all the telltale signs of a man who doesn't quite know how to sneeze properly. This inconsistent record focuses too much on trying to look down its nose at those who like pop music and not enough time is spent trying to discover who Nigel Spackman really is.

As somebody who has never fucked a kid, I find this record hard to relate to. It's a black rainbow of doom arching over a gang rape of a young seagull. I haven't slept for weeks after listening to this utter shit. Eat a dick. Nigel Spackman. I'M NIGEL SPACKMAN! WHO AM I?

This record was like dildoing yourself to death. In a chuffing good way, bro. It's sweet serenade, reminded me of a young Nigel Spackman lapping at the pussy of his grandmother. Who is Nigel Spackman?

An untimely death that stirs you so much that you go out and commit multiple murders. Will I be caught though? Do they know who I am? Whisper it, Nigel Spackman.

And so we drowned. A pool of boiling faeces submerged us. What a way to go. I feel like it wasn't yet my time. I'm not an old man, not a bad man. Why must it all end here, drowning in a lake of shit, surrounded by some of the most vile individuals I've ever met? Did I deserve this? I'm Nigel Spackman, a fabled legend with an enormous cock and taste for GILFs. I can't die here in this rotten plug hole with Bort and Jai.

This record is very forgettable. It's not a kind of sexy legend like myself, Nigel Spackman. A load of boring nonsense that makes you long for a wank in the shower. I winder what spazjazz will make of it.

Oooh cover me in spazjazz and tickle my arse. We have a winner. Can I be unmasked? Will we ever know?

What is this madness?

Joni Mitchell pissed on my face when I tried to comfort her during a break up. Due to this, I have to score this record as 5 stars.