“Mr Mealor was famous for five minutes when a tribe of squaddies’ cockwarmers wailed their way to the top of the Christmas charts with his profound meditation on separation and loss, ‘Whoever You Are’ , so obviously we need to cash in fast before his name drops out of the back of your head forever,” said a Decca spokesman. “Unfortunately, the only thing this fucktard’s managed to bang out since Christmas demands the services of a vocalist with a throat the size of a hatchback. And, unless we can teach a whale to sing in Latin, there’s nothing in the natural world which can hit three octaves below middle E.”
This does not exist, and neither do computers |
“Ahem. Dis shout going out to anybody what gots a throat the size of a fanny magnet,” he warned the public. “Bluds! Bluds! All you gots to do is convince yourself your bath-time grunts is like waaay better than the perfectly-modulated tonality of a trained world-class professional, then tell all your chav mates with wicked sound systems in their wheelz that you is be shouting out to all your homeys on the long-playing Decca release of da hipster Paul Mealor’s subwoofa-pumpin’ ‘De Profundis’ innit.”
“Standard,” he added shiftily.
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