Because of streaming I have heard all this year's 'best' albums and they are shit

By music fan Tom Logan

ONCE, I would read of the albums of the year and take careful note, cross-referencing lists and rewarding the most appealing albums with a purchase. 

Now, though, that process is redundant. Because, thanks to Spotify, I have heard all the albums of the year, and they are a right load of shit.

The Kendrick Lamar album everyone’s rating so highly? Shit. That SZA album where the vocalist redefines confessional R&B? Shit. The epic sonic soundscapes of that War On Drugs album? Double shit.

Once I could say “The critics have reached consensus on the excellence of this,” as I smilingly bought Tame Impala from HMV, take my CD home and try to believe it. Sometimes it even worked.

But now, listening to each new album the day it is released, the scales have fallen from my eyes. “Heard it,” I think, as the Guardian counts down Thundercat and The Horrors and Father John Misty. “Heard it, heard it, heard it, bollocks.”

The old world was a better world. I wish I could still believe in Lorde and LCD Soundsystem and Kelala when I see them in these top tens, instead of bearing the sad knowledge that they’re a pile of wank.

You might say I’m old and bitter, but why should I be bitter? I get all my music for free and my meals too, because I still live with my mum, which is actually a very convenient arrangement for a 46-year-old man. Anyway have you heard Lana Del Rey’s Lust for Life? It’s brilliant.

Just kidding. It’s SHIT.

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I don't need religion to be horribly sanctimonious about Christmas

by Emma Bradford

THIS year I will be giving money to charity instead of sending Christmas cards, and making sure everyone knows about it.

As a committed atheist I spend most of the year mocking people for believing stories that were made up in the olden days as a form of social control, yet when December rolls around I nonetheless feel what I can only describe as a sense of holiness creeping over me. It’s almost erotic.

I lecture my children on the ways in which rampant capitalism has killed the spirit of Christmas as I drive them home from school in my new white Mitsubishi Shogun.

On the way we stop at Waitrose and spend a moment feeling sorry for the man who is begging outside, but we don’t give him any money because he’ll just spend it on drugs.

I enjoy making my friends feel like selfish bastards by talking about how seriously I am considering inviting some homeless people to share our Christmas dinner.

Of course, I don’t do it because they’d probably steal the television, but, as I’m always telling the children, it’s the thought that counts.

In many ways, I am like Jesus. But he wasn’t real, so I am actually better than Jesus. Blessings on you all.