Do you ever feel you have been cheated?
There will be a mighty roar when the dark prince Bono takes to the Glastonbury stage this evening- like a choreographered rally thankfully punctuated by the UK UNCUT protestors waving the placards of doom at the showbiz monolith U2 winning the war in the law of averages.
We will stand there, dumbfounded, soaked in Bono’s vile sweat as the clown prince of Jesus Rock stalks onto the stage in his midget heels, with his God hard on and back pocket stuffed with business cards from the Bush family and I will be left wondering just where it all went wrong, knowing that the Wombles are not only sexier but more rock n roll than his band.
Somehow, as a rancid schoolboy, I was conned by the great froth mouthed, amphetamined sex beast known as punk rock into believing that I was going to be part of some sort of stink breathed, gakk infested, terror monkey stukka diving assault onto the vile and badly haired pop mainstream.
For a few brief months I took the beatings on behalf of the skinny trousered punk rock uberlords as I stalked the beer washed streets of my windswept hometown of Blackpool where anti punk violence was an Aperitif before the main course of lard soaked fish and chips.
It was worth it because I felt like I was on the barricades for some sort of revolution collecting bruises was all part of the punk rock experience as much as collecting seven inch singles.
Imagine my shock and disappointment when I realised that all this was for nowt. And that all we were doing was paving the highway for the likes of U2 to launch into their huge international taking the piss philanthropist carrier by bolting together the genius guitar of John McGeogh (god bless his brilliant soul) the bass lines of Lord Peter Hook and the Combat rock chic of our beloved Clash.
They then worked hard and grinned like Christians in an orgy and became the biggest band in the world that no-one really loved.
It all felt very wrong but the Americans made them superstars and their admittedly okey dokey songs sold out the stadiums that superior bands would not even be allowed to piss on.
This all came rushing back to me when I heard that the band were to be playing Glastonbury and that somewhere in the middle of all that mud and expensive Wellington boots there would be the most hideous shrieking since Sting was told that he was not an ‘interlektual’.
The thought that Bongo and his cloth eared Afrika corpse corps would be stukka diving Glass Stoned Bury and entertaining the backstage great unwashed micro celebs who would be leaving their expensive portacabins that are larger and more comfortable than your flat for a glimpse of the pint sized messiah was too much to bear. The micro celebs and their jolly hockey sticks good friends the Eton Rifle Tories will be glorying at the side of the stage, dancing like accountants at a Christmas party whilst on their mobile phones as the band launch into their ill gotten booty of hits whilst I unleash my lunatic fringe and spray-paint the computer screen with spittle and furious words in a spray gun of molten word jism of AK! AK! AK! AK47 adjectives that somehow fail to capture my dissolution with my utterly wasted youth as I realise with a sickening curse that…
U2 made punk rock a waste of fucking time.