Guest Blog: Noel Gallagher

THE Olympics – what the fuck was that all about? Every morning, right, that Scottish bird off the telly would sit on a sofa telling us that we’d won a bronze medal in the women’s catapult and that everyone could now go to work with a big smile on their face – in retrospect I think she somehow mistook me for somebody who gives a fuck.

There are things in life that are absolute guarantees, right: number one, you’re born, number two, you die, and number three, anyone who ever bought a Kaiser Chiefs album will wake up one morning and hate themselves, forever. Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, life’s guarantees – okay, here’s another one, right – it doesn’t matter how many times you watch the film version of Tommy, the only good bits are a) Ann Margaret swimming in a sea of fucking baked beans and b) there are no other fucking decent bits.

Here’s another thing, right. Where the fuck do all these people get off having a go at me for those I things I allegedly said about Jay-Z? Actually whilst we’re on the subject, here’s another thing that’s bugging me – we’re in Britain, right, so when we’re in our country we call him Jay-Zed, because that’s how you pronounce the fucking letter properly. And another thing, why do we, right, have to pronounce ‘Col-in’ as in the beginning of ‘col-on’ when it comes to Colin Powell – however, when it comes to pronouncing our names they can’t be arsed. For instance, they still say ‘Ber-nard’ with a big, fuck-off ‘errrr’ in at the beginning, and an ‘ard’ as in ‘ard’ like Franny Lee when he battered Norman Hunter – when in fact they should say ‘Bernard. Twats.

Talking of twats, a journalist recently asked me if I watch shows such as Britain’s Got Talent and Pop Idol – ‘the answer’, I said, ‘is simple – whenever one of those shows comes on TV, I think you’ll find me doing something more pleasurable, such as shoving red hot fucking needles down me Japs-eye’. Then there’s the fucking judges  – well… getting Piers Morgan to judge a talent contest is like asking our kid to interpret the lifetime work of Stephen Hawking… not a fucking clue. Anyway, thank fuck the football season has started – at least that’s one reason to pay me fucking TV licence. Saying that, City are having a few problems at the minute, not so much on the pitch, but the fact my mate Pol Pot’s holding the fucking purse strings – still, at least we’re not quite as bad as KGB United in the ‘being run by a total fucking lunatic’ stakes.

Here’s a couple of thoughts for all those people who rang up the BBC to complain about my ‘lewd behaviour’ on the Chris Moyles Show the other week. Firstly, there’s only one Ronson in the world of rock and roll, and he was called Mick, not fucking Mark. Secondly (and this is totally random) I’m gonna write a letter to Gordon Brown promising him a large donation if he passes a new law which will see anyone who buys a Scouting For Girls album branded with the word ‘COCK’ on their forehead – that way we’ll know exactly who we’re fucking dealing with.

As told to Matt Owen