Bloody hell people. I go away for an evening and I come back and which post has a flood of comments? Which post? Is it the works of the lovely Little Name? Or the splendid White Rabbits? Or the podcast for which I sacrificed both my liver and my dignity? No it fucking isn’t, goddamn it, it’s the flailing spastic Britney eunuch, squealing and yelping his way through ten minutes of car crash humiliation. This website has fucking pretensions, dammit; grandiose, sweeping, enormously vainglorious pretensions, and being an online version of Heat magazine isn’t one of them. Think the wit of Bill Hicks, the passion of Richard Dawkins, the encyclopedic knowledge of John Peel, the swagger of Eric Cantona, the compassion of Margaret Thatcher and the incisive analytical skills of William Dembski. That is what this website aspires to be, curse you illiterate, flibbertigibbet tittle-tattle mongers.

And to make matters worse, who should link to the very same post? The bloody Guardian Music Blog. Bastards. I probably spend more time writing this blog than I do wanking, drinking gin and snorting coke off the bare buttocks of cut-price Central Asian prostitutes with excessive and not particularly attractive inner-thigh beards combined and what do the uber-blog of all uber-blogs deem worthy of their notice? The ‘mock the spastic’ post. Marvellous.

I give up. It’s The View and The Klaxons and Lilly Allen and Kate Nash and Pete Doherty and lolcats and pictures of girls with large breasts and amusing YouTube videos of someone’s mate getting a bit pissed and being sick down himself at this cool party last week and gossip about whether or not Fall Out Boy might actually spend all day weeing down the inside of their own trouser legs because they’re just that fucking spineless and anything else I can find of as little artistic merit as has ever been excreted by the intellectual dregs of the human race from this point onwards.

How am I ever going to win a Pulitzer Prize like this, people? Think of my aspirations. It’s enough to make me write another post criticising Rilo Kiley. Actually no, that was way too scary, I’m not going near that one again. It’s time we upped the quality of intellectual discourse around here people, we need to drag the Whole Internet up from the gutter whence it has fallen and I think this website is perfectly poised to galvanise this crucial revolution in the behavioural patterns of the human race as a species.

As an exercise, in 7 words or less (but don’t risk being superficial, now), I ask you all to attempt to resolve the following philosophical conundrum for this evening’s homework:

Either:

1. Intelligent Design Theory is a superficially plausible theory that unfortunately conflicts with virtually all known facts about the origins and development of life on this planet and must unfortunately be discarded as being unscientific…

…or, alternatively…

2. Intelligent Design Theory is an intellectually vacant argument from ignorance and personal incredulity that explains absolutely nothing and indeed makes no meaningful statements at all, and is only intended to dupe the weak, the fearful and the ignorant into rejecting rational thought and thus becoming more easily manipulated by cynical, dishonest theocratic lunatics who profit from the blind loyalty of their criminally misled flock.

Answers on a postcard please. And now, some songs that reflect both the newfound emotional maturity and the improved level of intellectual content on the utterly reformed Song, by Toad:

Doug Anthony AllStars – I Fuck Dogs
Doug Anthony AllStars – Sailor’s Arms
Doug Anthony AllStars – The Sun