Kendrick Lamar

Kendrick Lamarr. More obnoxious than Mark, much, much less attractive than Hedi, you may never have heard of him. He is a rapper. An American one. He is famous for having danced on a burnt-out police car during a riot. The Groaniad wants to nominate his ill-structured gibberings for a Pulitzer prize. I have just endured (what I was doing required too much focus to turn the cunt off) 15 minutes of a simpering eulogy/life history of this chanter of bollocks to ripped-off techno beatz…on Radio 4.

Ultimately, I had to suspend operations in order to register my hatred of this shit on ISAC. And take a boiling piss.

I learned that he had suffered depression as a teenager. Apparently this is unusual. Pity he didn’t succumb, and pop himself through the head with the mandatory .45. His English teacher, modestly claiming credit for launching the cunt on his multiple assaults on rhyme, scansion, grammar and sense within the slack framework of a tribal chant, is called Regis Inge. Which was the only mildly comic point made during a presentation delivered in the reverential tones normally accorded to competent but dead heads of state., with frequent gormless utterances from the cunt himself and samples of his noxious output interleaved with admiring vignettes from his utterly ordinary existence.

Why wasn’t this shit on a lowest-common-denominator yoof music programme? Answer, Radio 4 is now courting the lowest common denominator. Centuries of culture culminate in this. O tempora. O mores. I see the Tiber flowing with much blood.

nominated by Komodo