Last Sunday night for whatever reason – it was bitter out, I was trying to follow my new year’s resolution of being a better person, I was full of ale – the reason’s not important, don’t try and pin me down on the reason but I saw a freezing soul on the street and decided to buy a copy of the Big Issue. I homed in on the vendor and was checking my pocket for £2 when everything went fuzzy…

I                     SAW                 THE             COVER

nooooo…     could not process…      why?         that looming inbred face…      it was wrong…        did not compute…   my head was swimming…    flustered… sorry mate, an’t got ‘ny change…     the vendor had seen my distress and knew this was a lie.  They’re used to the no change lie… but he also knew that I’d been jostling coins in my pocket and had made a beeline for him. Momentary mutual confusion ensued.  Coming out of it, I couldn’t say I’m not buying that with that on the front. He didn’t ask what had stopped me so abruptly. He didn’t want to ask. Or he didn’t need to ask. Perhaps he knew. I think he knew. He either knew or he didn’t know. Only he knows whether he knew or didn’t know. Or maybe he wasn’t sure if he knew. Only he will know whether he thought he knew or knew that he didn’t know. But I reckon he knew. Because he didn’t bat a crusty eyelid.

Ewwww that sickening smug multi-millionaire yucky-faced prince leering out from the cover of the Big Issue when he could give a bed to every single one of the Britain’s homeless if he felt like it. He owns whole counties for fucks sake. Is he trying to be the new Phil Collins? Phil Collins earnestly singing that song imploring us to care for the homeless then whining like a baby about paying his taxes, taxes that contribute to caring for the less fortunate in society. I bet you don’t step over many homeless in your Swiss tax haven you bald bastard(*).

Maybe William thinks that he is so devastatingly attractive and/ or interesting that sales of the Big Issue will rocket to such an extent that every seller will become rich enough to buy swanky pads overnight and his princely magical dust will solve whatever problems led them to become homeless in the first place. That’s the homeless sorted, now I’m going to give a pair of my old shoes to the spina bifida shop – I am a clever prince. He might have been told he’s clever by one of his lackies. Or maybe Jennie Bond. And don’t get me started on her.

Back in 1994 The Stone Roses had been self-imposed exile for a number of years, refusing to give interviews to the music press. It was part of the perpetuating the myth policy that worked very well (at least until people heard the Second Coming). When they decided to emerge they granted their first interview to The Big Issue (here, if you’re interested) creating an unprecedented demand, at least among skinny white boys. They knew that someone would be making money on the back of their comeback, so why not choose who it was – two-fingers to the industry that had ripped them off and a helping hand to those who needed it. Even now Big Issue sellers of the day thank Ian Brown on what was a bumper payout for them. But just as people made a point of buying that issue, people will make a point of not buying this one. Because William makes people nauseous. When I say people I mean me. I am a person. Of sorts.

In 2010 a group of Chilean miners survived 69 days underground after the Copiapó accident. But what is often overlooked is that ten years earlier a group of minors in Chile had to endure William on his gap year, mucking in around the camp for an astonishing 10 weeks. That’s 70 days. One whole day more. Seventy days with some grinning ninny slumming it during the day and guest DJ-ing at night. Ten weeks of him making shite bridges out of logs and rope when he could buy properly made ones out of his loose change. Ten weeks of him banging out Tom Jones and making embarrassing gang-signs to the hip-hop hits of the day. In contrast, the miners had the relatively simple task of trying to stay alive in appalling conditions and convince themselves that rescue would arrive before they had to eat each other.

Double-Agent Middleton, act now (her plan is mentioned here). April is too far away.

While on the theme of William and muppets, here’s a video of William, It Was Really Nothing oddly lip-synched by the Muppets. Any excuse for a Smith song.

The government are privatising the Royal Mail and to appease the idiots who believe it’s important they have decided to sell on the basis that the buyer keeps the queen’s head on the stamps. As per usual the tories miss the point of why people object to it being sold off. Please new owners, please buy the Royal Mail, please – you don’t have to honour the worker’s pensions or retain any jobs or keep prices down or not cut services in rural areas or actually deliver any post just so long as you retain a wee picture of Elizabeth. The Queen of all spongers. Sponging away while everything and everyone else gets cut. I’m actually in favour of her head being on the stamps. Her actual head. Cut her actual head into tiny slices, chop them up as finely as possible – get a chef or a scientist or world champion cutter or someone like that to do it – and she could remain on the stamps for a long time to come.

Are you getting the idea that I’m not a monarchist? It’s possible that my hatred for the royals meant some poor geezer was two quid short of whatever he needed that night. I don’t feel good about that but what would you have done? Exactly. But I will seek out some homeless people and bung them a few quid to assuage my guilt. Maybe it will be spent on crack or skag but surely that’s better than endorsing Prince Yuckyface. That would feel dirty. Dirty and wrong.

(* Apologies to unbastardy bald people, the bald bit is uncalled for but I’m a sucker for an insulting alliteration.)