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Magic Live Events
Invites, tickets, logo boards, lanyards, wristbands, HD screens, er, menus.

Jesus. Feast your eyes on this dross. I love Magic, I really do – I worked full time for them for over five years – but their output we can all agree on is absolutely deplorable. I’m trying to think of another scenario where Dido would be the most interesting and diverse act on offer.

The thing with this montage is…I’m looking at Robbie Williams – if, like me, you’ve got a natural ability for picking out the thing you despise most in amongst a large group of things you’re largely indifferent to, you’d naturally be drawn to him – and I’m thinking ‘actually, he’s not the worst of these.’ And for a long, long time he was my absolute number one. You’ve got Williams the tortured artist, trying to con people into thinking he’s some kind of credible musician; ‘I hate the Take That fans that come to my shows. I just want to strangle them and shout ‘LISTEN TO THE LYRICS!’ at their stupid teenage faces.’, and then you’ve got Williams the Stoke binman, dressed in a muscle top, craning out of a Ritz hotel room shrieking ‘I’M RICH BEYOND MY WILDEST DREAMS!’. What an absolute legend. A smug, fat, talentless legend.

And then we’ve got Take That. Barlow. He’s there, oh yes. He’s there at Children in Need and he’s asking schmucks like you and I to chip in – if we’re lucky he may play one of his hits on the Old Joanna whilst Mini-Me and LispMan potter about, stare at their shoes and wonder what to do. Howard’s wishing he was still DJing in Ibiza and Mark’s wishing he was still cheating multiple times on his pregnant wife. But Barlow…he cares, you see. He cares because he’s not paying any income tax. You could say he’s rich beyond his wildest dreams and he’s doing it at your expense. You could say that. You could say that because it’s fucking true.

The nerve of the man. The men. I hate them. But obviously I don’t hate them enough to not make money out of images of their faces.

So who’s the real monster, I ask you?

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