Alright. Pass the sauce. Throw our words under a medium grill for a minute or two, if you don’t mind. We’re prepared to give them a nibble at the very least.
We had made suggestions you see, since their debut hit the streets in a haze of smut, smokes and Argos catalogue chic (pay no attention to Richard E ‘Bloody’ Grant), that GLC were living on nicked time – like someone had left a window on the latch, they’d booted their way in and despite the alarm drilling away hysterically they continue to piss in drawers, clear out the fridge and watch old videos in the front room without taking their shoes off, just waiting for the old bill to turn up brandishing batons, taser guns and other cool shit. It’d all be over then, but they’d have had their fun, justice would be done and the universe would be balanced once more. Seems the force is a little stretched these days though.
‘Greatest Hits’ was only released one year ago don’t forget, almost to the day – proof positive, like it’s needed, that this is hardly rocket science. It’s barely basic woodwork. But though the artistic merit of these songs is obviously questionable, and Camilla Parker Bowles would probably pip them on microphone technique, they’ve come through with 14 tracks that leave a trail of endless pop culture references, obscenities and unashamed, unpoliticised hilarity.
These are more capers with sound effects than they are songs and should be seen as no more. Such a mischievous way with words, there are too many bullseye-couplets to list here, but it’s fairly safe to say that ‘HRT’, detailing hormone imbalances due to smoking weed, has about the grimmest turn of phrase in pop this year. ‘Bad Boy Limp’, surely (SURELY!) a future single, is so bang on the money in its satirical appraisal of the “no win no fee” compensation industry, with a fitting bounce to boot, that there are bound to be a handful of split-sides claims made before the end of the month. And ‘Your Missus Is A Nutter’ and ‘Sister’ are so exactly on message, thankfully taking no chances – smut, twisted humour and stupidity all the way to the finish line.
So who wants to start the sweepstake on whether the cops will turn up before they can muster enough of the same for a third record?