The Stool Pigeon

June 28
I’m sooooooo hungover. I’m glad I didn’t go to Glastonbury after all. I decided to go to Nelson Mandela’s 90th birthday party instead, which was very moving. His actual birthday is not for a couple of weeks, but he is 90, so perhaps they brought it forward in case he died in the meantime. They had all the greats: Razorlight, Simple Minds... even had some African musicians, who did very well. If they could afford guitars and proper drums, there’s no reason why they couldn’t be as good as Scouting For Girls. It has nothing whatsoever to do with colour, as Nelson has demonstrated, being the greatest and most inspirational leader the world has ever seen after Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher.

Queen and Paul Rogers were just amazing. After Freddie Mercury died, Brian May could have just retired to his big mansion with Anita Dobson and watched the constellations with his curlers in, but no, he decided to carry on - even against the wishes of his bass player John Deacon - bringing us a hit musical that’s still running, and getting a man to sing who isn’t a patch on Freddie. You have to admire that sort of dedication. I mean, it’s not like he needed the money is it? He has the business in his blood.

July 21
I’m so disappointed to hear Johnny Rotten and his friends beat up Kele from Bloc Party. I know Kele has a punchable face, but really, he doesn’t deserve to be beaten up, especially as they said he has “a black attitude”. Well, what other sort of attitude is he meant to have? I don’t think John Lydon is a racist. After all, he was on I’m a Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here! with the athlete Diane Modahl, and he never beat her up during the whole time he was in the jungle. Unless he did, and they edited it out. Oh dear, I’m not so sure now.

Anyway, Kele might have brought it on himself a little bit by asking Rotten when he was going to reform his other band PiL. How could you possibly ask that of the man who wrote ‘London’s Calling’? So stupid.

Off the subject a bit, but have you noticed how much weight Diane Modahl has put on since she started presenting This Week with Andrew Neil and Michael Portaloo!?

August 13
I can’t believe it! Peaches Geldof has married her boyfriend Max Drummey. He’s not even famous, Peaches! While he doesn’t have a made-up name like her other boyfriends, he is called Drummey, which is quite funny as he plays the drums, probably to the max. Ha ha, it’s little wonder I work in PR. If she’d married Farris Rotter then her name would be Peaches Rotter, which sounds like gone-off fruit.

I suppose if Peaches and Max asked me to be in a threesome I’d do it, as long as I didn’t have to lez up with Peaches too much. I’d be terrified the whole time that Sir Bob would walk in: he’s got such a temper and, besides, he has enough on his plate, single-handedly saving Africa. Still, Bob wouldn’t be too mad at me for long if I kicked Robert Mugabe’s fucking head in. You never know, all of those things could happen.

September 9
Have you seen the list of Mercury nominees this year? My god, I’ve hardly heard of any of them. Who are the Portico Quartet for fuck’s sake? And who are Robert Plant and Alison Krauss? She’s got a lovely voice, admittedly, but why she needs that skinny old stream of piss with a Noel Edmonds goatee is anyone’s guess. Estelle is an American! They only nominated Adele because she’s a fatty! It’s an absolute travesty. And how the Kaiser Chiefs weren’t nominated, I’ll never know.

I hope Radiohead win it. They don’t get anywhere near the recognition they deserve. Plus I downloaded their album for 50p, which must surely make it the best album by a mile.

You wouldn’t catch me dead at the Mercury’s, not even if one of my bands - say, the Gayest Ones, who are amazing - were nominated. They’ve only got two songs on MySpace, but you know what I mean. I was there last year at the Grovesnor House Hotel, and I couldn’t believe the opulence... the sheer extravagance of it all, especially when there are starving babies in the world. “This is all so decadent,” I thought to myself as I was tucking into the Young Knives’ champagne and eating their leftovers. I didn’t know where the band were, I was just surrounded by a bunch of weird blokes who looked like substitute geography teachers. Anyway, you wouldn’t catch me there again, and it has nothing to do with the fact I wasn’t invited this year. Whether it’s down to me shitting in the Klaxon’s hotel room bath last time I don’t know. They were very nice about it when they threw me out. It was so pissed that it took me four hours to get home, which is probably double the time it took to scoop that massive turd out, so I don’t feel so bad about it.

September 11
I can’t believe the summer is over already and there’s been no sun to speak of. I’m paler than Nick Cave’s arse. I’ll have to start going on the sunbed again, though even the people at the tanning centre told me to stop going a few years ago, warned me I’d get melanoma. “Fuck me, if my tits get any bigger, I’ll have to knock through next-door,” I told them. Just as I said it, the receptionist was sick all over his computer. Gay.

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