Zane Lowe meets The Killers

A little exposition for those that don't know me that well. I don't really like The Killers. They have a few okay songs, that one about bright sides, and that Jenny Was A Race Car Driver one, but apart from these most of their stuff is pretty average.
Why then was I treated to what felt like ten but was more like two hours of radio fellatio? Out of some sado-masochistic fetish for stuffing my fat ears with dribble-toss? Because, when cooking, occasional songs you find okay lift you out of the misery of work-masquerading-as-food perhaps?
No, none of that, but merely because Zane Lowe reminded me terribly of something I had forgotten in the interim since my days chewing the grimy cud in ugly metal boxes that pipe Radio 1 through nasty speakers older than metal itself. The sheer idolatorification (not a real word i know; read 'the act of idolising') of tepid bands by Gumbyesque. mewling fuckwits such as Zane Lowe and, my personal choice for the molten shit-spittle, Jo 'Jizztits' Wiley.
These incompetent, snivelling abortions of taste sniff and gnaw the most intimate areas of any muso twat that their cavernous-boweled lords and masters present to them, coveting the arrival of these bell-ends as if it was the Second Coming.
Such amazing reportage was heard expunging forth from Zane's dewy cakehole, that I felt inclined to commit at least the gist of a little of his bileous spewings to memory.

'When you write songs, do you always try to make them better than the last ones?'

What do you expect them to fucking say? 'No Zane, actually, on this album, we definitely made an effort to lessen the song-writing quality of the songs, and focus more on just excreting fluids into cups and sharing the cups with children.'

'When you write an album do you find it important to go for a new sound each time?'

Again, same as above. I mean, the guy is paid large sums of money to essentially provide an intimate masseuse service live on public radio. That we pay for no less. I couldn't give a flying fuck at a rolling donut if they think their new album is the best, there's no need, they might think it's worse than the memory of Belsen but they aren't going to say that on national radio are they?
Then Zane whispered (in the hushed, seductive tones of Isabella Rossilini in Blue Velvet, or maybe that's just what it felt like) some factually inaccurate foreplay-banter about the guitarist having God like fingers and the intro to Mr Brightside being 'impossibly complex' and how it made him feel like he was standing on Mount Olympus beside Zeus, presumably pissing into a strong breeze and slowly twisting his own nipples.

Absolute poppycock the lot of it. Come next week, Zane will be lying prone, mouth agape, awaiting the next life-affirming, steaming gospel lunch of some Doherty or Kate Nash of fucking Engelbert fucking Humperdinck-a-like, and he'll once again proclaim that 'That gig at (insert generic London under-18's spunkpit venue) was probably the best gig I've seen all year, the energy in the crowd, they were just jumping about all over the place it was so intense,' as if he were a fourteen year old who has only just discovered that pints of shandy and loud music make people come out of their now day-glow, peak capped, belt-buckled shells, smiling as if half the world wasn't dying of situations so terrible it would make their off-kilter fringes literally fall off into their warm pints of £6 Stella with terror.

I respect a lot of the music Zane Lowe plays on his show, and sometimes he almost proves himself to be one of the more listenable primetime DJ's, but this makes it all the sadder when he debases himself to ingesting the bitter, reproductory effluvium of lacklustre, overproduced kiddie-bands at the behest of any of the multitude of fucktard BBC schedulers.

The shit-trickle keeps flowing, and will continue to do so forever, forming a slowly rising sea of arse-eggs, solely for the supping pleasure of a never ending stream of B-List cocksniffers on 'I Love the 00's (or Noughties if you're a tabloid gossip columnist or a prick,) no doubt due to air in 2010, a time when instead of television sets we will probably have reverted to public speakers as we all realise that none of us have had any money for years and the past decade has actually been a gigantic game of Monopoly, only with money made of air and coughing.