Are you feeling blue and not 10ft tall? Press 1 on your keypad now.

I briefly touched upon my contempt for the insanely popular CGI phenomenon and possibly highest grossing film in history, “Avatar”, in my previous post and have since found startling new evidence which has propelled it to the forefront of my satirical backlash. I was perusing CNN online, getting up to date with Obama’s Sate of the Union Address and OK fine I was alerted to it via a friend’s Facebook status, whatever. I prefer The Onion anyway.

So basically a nasty little post-Avatar occurrence has transpired among audiences worldwide, in that they have actually experienced depression and suicidal thoughts because, (and I am in no way making this up), “they long to enjoy the beauty of the alien world Pandora.” That is a word for word accurate sentence taken from an article on CNN. 

And honestly, I empathise with these people I really do. I too have been experiencing depressive thoughts and suicidal tendencies, because funnily enough the more I see of humanity the more I am plunged into the depths of sheer despair at the uninformed stupidity of my fellow human counterparts, to the extent of which it actually engulfs me and prohibits me from doing anything construed as even vaguely productive.

Now, I am not someone who is easily shocked, easily riled yes, easily critical, yes, easily taken advantage of in a drunken situation, usually, but I could hardly stop my mouth from flying open as I continued to read on. It appears on account of this newly diagnosed, “post-avatar depression”, communities and forums have sprung up online to provide an outlet of informal sharing regarding the intensely emotional withdrawal symptoms the suckers are feeling. I can only surmise the title of the threads, Feeling blue and not 10ft tall? Longing for an inter species relationship? Pausing the video game and removing your clothing and touching yourself?

It appears some people are having trouble separating virtual life from real life and were so genuinely immersed in the 3D CGI effects that they feel a sense of loss when no longer able to experience the idyllic utopia they’d visited for 2 and a half hours. I mean I guess it’s what a lot of men feel like after indulging in some pornography and the self-realisation hits home “my mister is never going to be 18 inches like that guy's, man I feel short changed by nature.” Or how I feel whenever Girls Aloud slink around my television screen in little glitzy numbers shaking their 24 inch waists at me. Our inadequacies are often magnified by unattainable ideals, but it doesn’t take long for reality to slap you back in to its painful embrace. Especially when you hear Cheryl Cole speak. Let’s just say a Geordie voice over fused with a L’oreal hair campaign may be the most amusing oxymoron I’ve heard in a long time.

But most shockingly of all, was the fact that the reaction to the basic premise of the plot (in which a human corporation seeks to pillage and drain the resources of the alien community), has highlighted a majorly uninformed demographic of people. “Fans expressed feelings of disgust towards the human race”, with one commenting, “I live in a dying world.” Oh so now the polluted environment in which we have lived in for quite some time has finally hit home to them. Humanity is plundering the earth and draining its resources. This is brand new information. Thank you James Cameron for enlightening me on this fact. Because that hasn’t been a permanent media fixture in terms of culture and politics since oh I don’t know the 1970’s! I wonder if the same film could be used to enlighten these poor depressed individuals that human beings are actually the culprits for global warming? No, better off letting them live out their fantasies in Pandora and keeping that one to ourselves.

Girl power gone sour.

So, if you hadn’t already been saturated with endless nominee lists, red carpet glamour tips and had the Maccabees rudely interrupted by another music ceremony playlist shamelessly being plugged on Spotify, its Award season.

But seriously, if you didn’t already know that, you would not be accessing this blog and would therefore lead a very desolate life on some barren subterranean patch of landscape in a corner of the globe not even Attenborough would venture to. Which funnily enough is where I’m proposing all Tool fans should be dumped in my annual online petition to eradicate sheer crap. Just call me the Amnesty International of good music taste.

Anyway, I think it’s safe to point out that British music is not what it used to be, what with the advent of Reality TV and the overall public fascination with fake celebrities, fake body parts and fake alternate universes. (Of course that is a direct reference to that film which hasn’t received an awful lot of press in all honesty, “Avatar”. It looks far too colourful for my liking. I’m from South Wales, frankly drudge and dreariness is all I’m used to, so getting visually raped by a rainbow is not something I’d recover from very easily. I mean I haven’t even seen anything in high definition yet, baby steps James Cameron, BABY STEPS!).

But, I digress. Over the last few months every music publication I respect and subscribe to has been getting their knickers in a right old twist over the recent flurry of female pop acts making their mark on the British popular music charts. And being the hyper critical and disparaging human being that I am, they have left me with an after taste so decidedly sour that I felt compelled to berate them.

A pop music track follows the same basic principles of a one night stand and always has done. In that it's casual, it's fun, it's punchy, it does the job for a short duration and after a few months you're completely unaware that it ever existed. Alternative music therefore has always followed the basic principles of a monogamous relationship, (in that it is an alternative form to the causal tryst). It requires more depth, more than two themes, more focus on extended works, more emphasis on live performances and pertaining to a particular sub-culture instead of having a more general appeal.

And nowhere in either of those concise definitions is there any trace of contrived banal rubbish. Which is exactly what these feisty females are churning out at the moment. Personally, I’m all for girl power, (I even once witnessed a live music event by the people who coined that phrase), but these Topshop mannequins with no souls just scream "try hard" and there's nothing worse than trying too hard when you don't have a shred of charisma or talent to fall back on. Therefore I’m going to do everything within my power to knock them flying off their pedestals of pretentious mediocrity. Naturally.

First up, Pixie Lott.

Oh honey, whoever instructed you to cavort in a pair of Topshop sequined knickers at every opportunity in the hopes of magically injecting a shred of something even vaguely profound into your flat attempt at a popular music effort was catastrophically mistaken. And as punishment for this gross oversight they should be catapulted directly in to a cavern in Afghanistan to spend the rest of their days scrubbing Osama Bin Laden’s turban clean with their bare knuckles, (because that is after all where he’s been eluding the top military outfits in the world for all these years). And while I think it’s simply upstanding of you to collaborate with super chavy High Street retailer River Island and yet another generic children’s charity in producing a truly heinous piece of attire for the watered down music fans amongst us to wear at V Festival, it’s just not the caliber of British pop music chosen for us by the upper-middle class that we’ve all come to love and expect.

Ladyhawke.

I’m not going to dedicate too much satire on this one, as she’s just a tartan fringe sporting blur to me. But really speaking, anyone who describes themselves as a pop superwoman and takes their name from a mid 80’s movie starring Michelle Pfeiffer, should be handled with the utmost trepidation. In the NME world of electro pop this sort of behaviour is considered acceptable, however in normal society she’d be receiving an electro accolade alright, in the form of shock therapy treatment straight out of the 1940's. Which is not to be confused with the electro popular music genre these succubus’s attach themselves to in an attempt at securing musical credibility. Stay in Topshop on repeat where you belong please.

And finally, Florence Welch: and the Machine.

Or as most of us know her, Noel Fielding: in a really bad ginger wig. Philandering her way on to the scene channeling Kate Bush in her crazy drugged up phase and interrupting my otherwise tranquil afternoon spent writing satire via another Spotify advert for her staggering 20 track album. Which only proves her music is just as confused as her on stage flailing theatricality. She’s Joss Stone. On crack. Forgive me NME, the BBC, the Guardian and anyone else who appears to have lost all sense of logic and reason, for not being crazy about that idea. She’s contrived, she’s boring, she’s messy, she’s over produced and she falls flat. I’m done with the witticisms now, this is my pure unadulterated hate for her simplified in black and white, clear and simple. I wish her lungs to cease to function. Got it? Good.

I predict a swift fall from grace Jade Goody style for all those involved. First comes public shame, followed by a bald OK! cover and then finally death.

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