"My life is a great, to others unknown and incomprehensible suffering.Sweep me up."


There’s a school of thought that when you see something like this, like when you notice a truly horrifying amount of dog shit on a city street, that you should ignore it in the hope some starving city fox will come and hoover it up in desperation but ‘Movin’ Up’ is such a completely and utterly wretched-in-tooth-and-claw creation of the modern cult of ‘celebrity’ that I needed to share it all with you. It isn’t music in the same way the blood-drenched latterday coliseum shows weren’t entertainment, they were a perfect representation of everything the diseased moneyed marrow of Rome was at the time, as is this. At some point the cult of celebrity will fail, we’ll realise that we decide who has ‘fame’, who we pay attention to, at least I hope it will.

Normally I'd tell you not to watch it so as not to give them the traffic, but fuck it, it's too late.



For now though, it hasn’t, and we have ‘Movin’ Up’ by Alanna Thompson, inexplicably known as Honey Boo Boo. I knew practically nothing, other than the name, but when I looked into it, their cheapo show appears to just be a documentary for future alien historians to help them piece together why America eventually nuked itself during the second term of President Donald Trump; depicting the lives of the overgrown-toddler potato people who inhabit that atrocious nation. The kind of subhuman simpletons who have completely absorbed the labyrinthine hierarchy of celebrity and meaninglessness of fashion and materialism whilst barely able to speak. You’re more likely to have seen one of its imitators if you live on the civilised side of the Atlantic, but basically it’s the sort of thing that will see you renounce your life and emigrate to join Al Qaida.

Well now that the majority of the viewing public had decided that these shows are closer to heavily-documented child abuse than enriching reporting, the family (or more likely their four-legged slavering vampire agent) has decided that it’s time to launch an awful pop career by dropping into this innocent and undeserving world probably the single worst piece of media in human history. And I understand the point is to hate it; it’s bad-as-bad entertainment. We’re all supposed to share the video assuming we’re the only people who have realised how utterly repulsive it all is.

Normally in music that explores human darkness, like Sing it Back, or most modern pop, there’s something to be gleaned from sheer miserabalism; a certain ennui, to be explored in a safe environment. Movin’ Up doesn’t even have that. Coughed into the world like a mouthful of sputum by ‘viral video artist’ Adam Barta, who has a track record of this sort of thing. Thankfully, I can wake up in the morning and know that ‘viral video artist’ isn’t on my CV. I’d rather have ‘puppy strangler’ or ‘car crash illustrator’ on there.


It’s awful. It’s unforgivably bad. I had to fling open the windows in my flat and listen to the soothing sound of a concrete cutter outside. And it lasts forever, listening to it felt like I had taken a sip from the wrong grail at the end of last crusade. During one of the execrable verses, in between the ratty tin-eared singing and the appalling video which, like the images of the death camps, I couldn’t bear to watch and yet couldn’t quite look away from; amongst all this awfulness like someone launching Flak 88 shells into my brainpan, I thought: I might not make it to the end of this. The experience of this song has been so unfathomably, bottomlessly despicably awful I can’t even get angry about. I feel like a character in Lovecraft who glimpsed a fraction of the darkness the universe was capable of and went mad. I feel like I was double raped in both ear holes by men wearing XL sandpaper condoms. I feel like rubbing my eyes with a wire brush. I’ve developed a reflexive hatred of screens because this was broadcast on one. I have a burning fear of audible sound and now want to develop a weapon’s grade system for silencing sound waves. You could play this bullshit at a riot to scatter the crowd. Anyone who even feels a single gram of enjoyment crawl across their brain like a spider should report to a government centre to be shot in the back of the head by a hairless Stalinist and dumped in an unmarked mass grave. Anyone even remotely responsible, even by blood, should be put to death by scaphism. It should be played in the cockpits of B52 bombers come the apocalypse to convince the crews to go through with it. It makes the empty pointless nihilism of previously ‘bad’ records like Friday the playful graffiti of children compared to the Pinochet government’s crimes. Because some vestige of it is still in the hard drive of my computer I want to melt the fucker down into ammunition and go shoot up a hospital. I hate this song. I’m going to get up early tomorrow to get a head start on hating it. I eat to have energy to hate it. My existence is predicated on despising this song with every subatomic particle of my execrable existence. 

Written under duress by Steven.

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