Spunk your Punk credit card
Die with a Punk insurance policy
Choke on your Punk macVicious Burger
Drown in your Punk piss beer
Enjoy your Alzheimers in a punk pensioners home
Get shipwrecked on a punk cruise
Yadda yadda yadda – get the picture?
Roll up!! Roll up!! Getchya Sex Pistols branded credit card (as long as your credit score aint punk, naturellement)
Yes sir, yes ma’am, Punks and Punkettes, mes dames et monsieurs, all this and more can be yours if you toe the line and act obediently and slip neatly into the round hole that has been assigned to you.
We have decided that what you need is much more stuff to keep you under control. And yes, ye of Generation X [no pun intended], we can turn you into cooing Golems and sell you anything we want, even if we have to sink to a subterranean levels in order to make you realize just how much you need these precious precious preciouses.
Now sit down, shut up and listen to the nice marketing man you debt slave scumbag.
Even Louis Vuitton, the dullest most tedious lowest common denominator name in the luxury brand market have decided how important it is to be a punk, and to prove their punk credentials they are fully prepared to let anyone with a spare £10K buy their imitation, no no no, faithfully ‘inspired’, Seditionaries’ forgery rip-offs. Sycophantically and slavishly forged by
- That bacterial life-form and pensioner mugger, the odious Phillip “Jabber the Toad of Toad Hall” Green’s ex-lackey,
- That lowest common denominator painting by numbers “couturier” that made you hate Umbro,
- That Darling of the fashion set,
LVMH lapdog Chihuahua, Kim “Cocknose” Jones.
Diehard lowest common denominator Stop Me and Buy One Punk
For All Seasons Kim “Cocknose” Jones.
The most elite of all the luxury brands has seen the light and sold its soul to punk, well at least until the end of the spring /summer season. At which point any remaining stock, immaculately manufactured garments, be they of the most sumptuous of silks, the rarest of cashmeres, the richest of leathers, the most imperiled skins and endangered furs known to man, handbags, shoes, boots. . . Any item of this £10,000 punk collection [or any one of their collections for that matter] remaining unsold will be shipped to Paris and chucked into the furnace. This incineration is to make doubly, triple sure that not a single item will even mistakenly, by an act of the Gods, fall into the hands of someone that can not pay the pound of flesh required to meet the elitist and exclusory standards they demand from their insufferably shallow clients and to ensure that they can extort as much as possible from their rich but interminably dull patrons as nothing goes into the sale – if you want it then pay their king’s ransom high prices and prove your elitist status.
In order to attain the spiritual purity that this sacred dominion holds, in order to embrace life’s ultimate culmination, to achieve this earthly zenith and breath the rarest of airs and to be entitled to the absolute eminence of the coveted affirmation of the Louis Vuitton Seal of Approval one must meet the most exacting, stringent, demanding and burdensome of ‘standards’ and triumphantly surmount the herculean trails, beset with very peril and rigorously controlled. No Nobel Prize needed here, no these tests are measured solely by the number of zeros in their bank account. Nothing else, there is no deed, no moral or ethical obstacle or boundary their conscience cannot overlook. There is no sin that cannot be forgiven or at least ignored, no genocidal deed too dastardly to exclude anyone. That is with the exception of those guilty of the ultimate offense, the guilty of the most iniquitous immorality, the unforgivable, the unpardonable sin of poverty.
You can be the most murderous, baby eating dictator, the most horrendous child molesting paedophile rapist, the lowest, bottom feeding, morally corrupt, heinous individual to have ever disgraced this world making Hitler look like Mother Theresa, and you will still meet their exacting quality control standard, they will prostrate themselves at your feet, fawningly lavishing the most fraudulent of feigned respect and admiration providing you smash your credit card to bits.
Punk pioneers Louis Vuitton say ‘fuck morality, fuck integrity and fuck you and give us ya fucking money’ and snivelingly grovel for as much of that fucking money as they can greedily gouge from their trite, spinelessly banal, endlessly conventional, cornball, corrupt, arrogant, dull as dishwater, decadent clientele. Add water, shake vigorously and dilute with piss to taste … Hey Presto! A Cunt-for-a day, whoops! I mean Punk-for-a-day.
Sadly it doesn’t stop there, this isn’t the first time punk has been used to hawk shoddy second-rate wares.
Hmmmm… I’m a Punk, I fancy a drink and I fancy a riot? But I just can’t seem to do all 3 at once.
Not a problem anymore sonny, how about our Molotov Cocktail Kit, make one from the empty bottle of overpriced, Rohypnol infused, wife beater Punk Beer. No doubt for, those special occasions, family beatings, those awkward larger social gatherings a bottle of wanked in Punk wine, trodden by steel toe caps, will be “coming to a store near you” very soon.
That tramp bearded, rocket building, tug boat round the bay, mother burning, train delaying, failed balloonist, blue rinse twat Sir Branston Pickle wants you to pay through your safety pin pierced nose for his punk credit card with a very punk variable 19% APR interest rate.
Highly principled former Pistols front man John Lydon stated in an interview for the Daily Telegraph that he “only does things that [he] wants to or that [he] believes in” and credit to him for those righteous sentiments.
He obviously believes in eating butter and selling out, so he decided to combine the 2 and eat buttered crow and grab his 30 pieces of silver with his butter fingers whilst shoving what he loves down our gagging throats. So dedicated to his task was our rebellious tweed wrapped incorruptible that sales apparently increased by 85%. How does that song “Liar” go again?
That bubblingly toxic, aspartame filled, coin cleaning solution Diet Pepsi used The Ramones’ “Blitzkrieg Bop” in a commercial. They weren’t the only ones to do so either.
It has also been used by Cartoon Network as well as low-end sun cream Coppertone with its paedo pleasing label and gastric nightmare Taco Bell felt it would shift more of their butane gas preserved, GMO rich, carcinogenic, glow in the dark, non rotting burritos.
More recently, failing white goods retailer AO World, did an exact replica cover version, only this time they changed “Hey! Ho!” to “A! O!”. Do you see what they did there, clever eh? These “top of the food” chain advertising execs really earn their crust.
I’m Hating It. The mix of shit and food is never better exemplified than by McCunts who used the Buzzcocks “What Do I Get?” to pimp out their vile “Shit Flavour Craps” I mean “Big Flavour Wraps”. Adding insult to injury, plagiarising Jamie Reid’s iconic artwork – What do I get? Chicken Peri Peritonitis, peptic ulcers, diabetes and impacted bowels guaranteed – Supersize Me Now.
“Everybody’s Happy Nowadays” pop pickers, and sticking with the Buzzcocks, Geriatric torturers, AARP [American Association of Retired Persons] used this to try and refill the still warm beds in their recently vacated rooms. They opened up membership to any over 50 unwanted family member and tried this ditty out to disabuse people of the notion that it’s an organization for mildewed coffin dodging pensioners and to make sure their staff have plenty of gurgling dementure cases to use as punch bags while siphoning their bank accounts dry. The line ‘Life is an illusion, Love is a dream” takes on a deeper significance when you realize that most AARP inmates have Alzheimers.
Iggy Pop is another firm advertising favourite, “Search and Destroy” was used to promote child labour sweatshop loving Nike.
Shiver me fucking timbers, me hearties, heroin anthem “Lust for Life” was used by blood thirsty pug washing pirates Royal Caribbean Cruises. Mutiny on the fucking Bounty shipmates; booze and smack are fine in international waters. And sadly the Godfather of Punk didn’t check the small print on his policy properly and done got his sorry arse insurance commercial banned for making false claims, fork tongue motherfucker.
The Clash don’t just love the Westway and other bright traffic systems but also some of the cars on them too. “London Calling” appeared in commercials for Jaguar. We all love a rogue and so do the Clash because “Pressure Drop” found its way into advertising the Nissan Rogue, the mid-size crossover punk SUV.
When you think of ugly oversize badly made vehicles, what phrase leaps to mind…? Yes! Exactly. “With a heart full of hate and a lust for vomit”. So sang Shane McGowan of the Pogues and the geniuses at Cadillac felt that it not only summed up their target market and existing clientele perfectly, but also their piss poor quality, massively polluting, wannabe land yachts.
Get used to it, the revolution has turned full circle and will most certainly be televised, crammed with advertising and live streamed, also available to download, in DVD, Blu-ray, Death Ray, limited edition, BOGOF Japanese import, serialised in the Daily Fuckwit and FREE (with 10 proofs of sodding purchase), [limit to one per household only].
Anti-capitalist agendas and punk songs are as good as anything else if it means you’ll part with your diminishing cash reserves in exchange for a mirror and a handful of shiny beads, a big gulp of firewater and some Smallpox infected blankets.
Sold to you by the counterculture anthem because they really care.
Cheap dialogue, cheap essential musical wallpaper to aspire to escape from other peoples misery.
Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?
Words by Paleface