Christ, not this tired old bullshit again please. Didn’t we exhaust the I-pretend-to-be-gay-to-be-cool thing with the death of Suede and Brett Anderson’s faux-gayness?

Seemingly not, for in order to appear all windswept and interesting, Pete Wentz has made wishy-washy claims of bisexuality. Before we go any further this is he.

He’s the lead singer of the intolerably awful Fall Out Boy, themselves named after a character in The Simpsons, Millhouse’s starring role as Radioactive Man’s sidekick. So straight out of the blocks he’s made himself unpopular with me for his paint-by-numbers pop culture reference.

In addition to this he’s married to Ashlee Simpson. Why would anyone marry that miming, barn dancer? Look at them, it’s painful.

So we’ve established he’s an attention seeker (why else would you marry Ashlee Simpson), which makes the following statements seem rather obvious.

…anybody above the waist is totally fair game.

Apparently this an allusion to the fact that he’s kissed boys, but no more! Like some kind of bisexual prom queen. Yawn. Though wait, no. It’s simply because…

I’m not a fan of penises.

Phew, glad we cleared that up. What else could this arse possibly say to dig himself further into his let’s pretend world?

How about this gem from the front cover of Out.

Yeah, I am a fag.

Right, so you’re a fag that just doesn’t like cock. I know exactly how you feel I’m a world class tightrope walker, it’s just I’m afraid of heights is all. Dick.

Still let’s save, the rather contradictory, best for last.

I would never come out and say I’m gay, because I’m not gay. There’s part of me that kind of wishes I was gay, and I think that comes from anybody constantly wishing they were in the minority and constantly wants to be fighting everybody off.

What a fucking tit. Why would you say that? What a pointless human being.

I’m all for a spot of Daily Mail bashing but when it comes to talking sides between whiny teens and reactionary right wing bigots, I have real allegiance issues.

It was nice to hear that in its usual over the top fashion the Daily Mail had described the execrable My Chemical Romance as a ’suicide cult’ band and in one article had even said ‘no child is safe from the sinister cult of Emo’! Top stuff indeed.

However it was even more of a delight to hear that as a result of these inflammatory statements that truck loads of Emos were planning a march on the Daily Mail’s offices.

This is bound to lead to some quality images, I thought. And sure enough I wasn’t disappointed.

That image is too juicy to pass up without comment. Let’s start with the lack of apostrophes in we’re, come on whiner, if you want your gloomy world view to be taken seriously make your point using decent English.

The message that sign is conveying is, unbeknownst to you, that you are a cult. You see what that sign says is ‘were not a cult’, which is the same as saying ‘we used to not be a cult’. Which indicates quite clearly that you are in fact a cult now.

I’m not going to get into the layout of the text on the cardboard sign, but let’s just say that next time you should use a ruler to plan out where all the letters are going to go before you get your chunky marker out. After all you’re not homeless, I’d imagine that Mummy and Daddy, who probably drove you to this protest in the Range Rover, do have access to stationery supplies?

Still your mind’s on hair bleach and eye-liner though isn’t it, not typographical clarity.

It’s true this rather sad excuse for a site has been going for three months now. You’d think it would have a bit more content really wouldn’t you?

C’est la vie, I’m sure when I’m wealthy and a man of leisure that I’ll have more time to get my hatred on screen, until then though as a special three-month-anniversary-treat you can have a post about Emos marching on the Daily Mail offices.

So, there I was strolling casually through Nottingham the other day when I was passed by a group of youths. Youths in drainpipes.

Now drainpipes ain’t my thing, as you’d guess, but by Christ not only were they wearing drainpipes but they were braying, braying about their achingly cool band and what they were doing on Saturday night. Look at them.

Now I have no problem with people talking to each other on the street, I’m not a psycho, but when they do it at an ear splittingly loud volume intended to ‘impress’ all around, I do. I really don’t need to hear about Jake’s band, nor do I need to hear about the ‘random shit’ he does. Ok?

Ok.

I also thought the bottle of white wine sticking out of the back of the Blake Fielder-Civil wannabe’s bag was a nice bohemian touch.

They don’t think this is what they do but it is.

Enough said.

I captured this shot on Friday afternoon whilst taking a stroll around sunny, and more importantly I feel dry, Nottingham.

Two little Emos, gender not clear, sitting in the middle of the ice cold pavement with an umbrella up.

Now is it me or is that a really pointless thing to do? Why are they doing it, what is the purpose of sitting in the middle of a thoroughfare with an umbrella up on a cloud free afternoon?

I started to try and formulate a few reasons for the umbrella but didn’t do too well.

For starters the umbrella is see-through so would afford no protection if it was being used to hide them from some unspecified assailant. Other thoughts were that it was being used as a shield against the vicious tanning rays of the sun, but once again no, it’s transparent.

The only conclusion that I can reach is that they’re doing it to fuck with people’s minds.

Which, thinking about it, has worked.

What the fuck is going on in the world?

I mean seriously, what? Look at this photo and tell me what you see.

Legs like pipe cleaners, hair bleached to within an inch of its life and jeans that sit just below the, well, er, arse line.

A nice touch that this boy-thing added was the bit you can’t see, every three or four yards it would eject a stream of watery spit onto the pavement. Literally, it couldn’t move more than five paces without a fountain of its mouth juice hitting the deck. Nice.

Anyway back to my real moan, look at those jeans! My jeans sit somewhere north of my hips, not dangling gently round my thighs. How do those fucking things stay on?

We need a closer look.

Right, see that loose collection of blackish material at the top? That’s his underpants. You can tell they’re his underpants because you could see the crack of his arse as he walked.

See the bit below? That’s his jeans. Skinny girl jeans. Jeans that are made for skinny, no, not skinny, anorexic girls. He’s wearing jeans that were designed to be worn by a person that had no cock and lived on laxatives and warm water. I think that says a lot.

Anyway at what point did The Youth™ start wanting to dress like this? When did I become so out of it that I didn’t notice this seismic shift towards ill-fitting clothes and a desire to let people see your baggy gruts?

What happened to lads wanting to look like men? I doubt highly that 300 would have been quite as exciting if it concerned the story of men that dressed like this plum, flopping around, foppish fringes blowing in the breeze, whining on about how life was unfair and nobody understood them. Tossers.

Bring back National Service!

Actually while I’m at it on the ‘fashion’ thing, why does every girl in Britain under 21 wear the same combo of hair band, smock, footless tights and flat shoes? Ok, they all mix up the colours from a pallete of around nine retina-searing, eye-fuckingly-bright shades, but essentially they all wear the same clothes, right? Why?

If Crayola did a set of crayons for the ridiculous miserabalist in your life this is what they’d look like.

Oh, you know it’s true.

Witness the most pointless two minutes and forty six seconds on YouTube. How to have Scene hair.

If you didn’t manage to make it to the end you will have missed the stunning message from the site this was created for, it goes a little something like this.

Our small community you’re welcomed to join :]

Well done for using the contraction of you are but I’m going to have to strip you of the award for the all out weird phrasing of that sentence. I mean honestly, it doesn’t make sense does it?

It’s also interesting to note that the young lady in charge of the hairspray remains remarkably mute throughout the entire demonstration. She might as well just have mimed the whole thing.

While I’m at it, does the ironing board in the background have any signifigance?

Ladies and gentlemen welcome to the one and only Emo Arse!

Hopefully I’ll get a few more posts on here soon but until then relish the awesome colour scheme.