Last Of A Dying Breed

Not so long ago I was plunged headlong into a crisis of confidence. My friend Potty Mouth came to stay and she informed me that my recent blogs have been shit. Valuing her opinion above everyone else’s* I decided to take onboard her advice and mix things up a bit, after all, she did have a point; I can’t just carry on blabbing on about wanking and drinking. Things have stagnated

It was after a brief period of contemplation that I realized it wasn’t just my blog that was boring. I had become some kind of post-dissertation zombie. I’d cut out every hobby in order to “work,” and in doing so become a walking, talking food bin that resided predominantly in the library and the pub.

The facts were disturbing and I became very concerned that I may never get a fast car or a hot, super horny wife with the ability to produce the three sons I so badly crave. (Maximus, Antony Soprano III and Isambard) It was a very bleak time.

I lay about listening to my usual selection of rock and roll, folk and Dub-Step (also Kate Bush but you can’t really categorize her) and became increasingly stale. Then I actually listened to the lyrics and all became clear.

All my favourite music is about two things. Love or Drugs, sometimes both and neither are particularly conducive to a good mood. Let’s not be harsh, they have their ups but there is always that horrible crash of a come down eventually. No wonder I was frittering my days away with cigarettes and alcohol, if The Stones and The Kinks harp on about being depressed through your headphones then eventually it’s going to take its toll. It’s kind of like subliminal advertising, if you keep walking past a big red block with a giant golden M printed on it eventually you’ll get a Maccy D’s and If I kept listening to Johnny Cash my loved ones would all surly die and I’d turn into an alcoholic. Things needed to change, and fast. There were five weeks of uni left and I wasn’t about to spend them feeling like Morrissey.

I took radical action. (A lot like the feminists I’m meant to be writing an essay about at the moment.) I created a new playlist. On it was the finest selection of Rap, Crunk and Hip Hop I could muster from my.... huge selection. The hope was that the relentless arrogance of rappers would rub off on me and instead of worrying about love and drink I would become far more concerned with praising myself and shooting people from other neighbourhoods.
It worked a treat and after a few days of listening to Jay-z, Ludacris, and Eminem my confidence grew immeasurably. I have started rolling around referring to myself as the Triple Threat. It’s my ghetto acronym because I’m good looking, funny and awesome at sex. That’s three threats. I could even upgrade it to a Quadruple if I include my newly acquired awesome taste in music as a threat, which I think I will.

I genuinely challenge all of you to trade in your rock for rap and join me. It is impossible to feel in anyway negative. Since I converted I have become convinced that I was born in Harlem and that I have an incredible talent for basketball. I also have a strange craving to wear all my most valuable possessions around my neck or on my fingers.

It’s decided, I will continue to listen to rap and Crunk indefinitely.

Elton John counts as Gangster Rap doesn’t it?






*Everyone else has carried on fully loving my writing and saying how amazing I am.