It pains me to side with an artist as innocuous as Ed Sheeran. I’ve never listened to an entire song, but the 15 seconds I have heard have been enough to indicate that he’s far from being my cup of tea.

However, a sold out tour, triple platinum album and a handful of Brit nominations would indicate that he does have a few fans. And that’s fine for most of us, but not for the NME’s online editor Luke Lewis, who last week decided that his disdain for Mr Sheeran had reached a zenith.

I can understand it must be frustrating being Luke Lewis. When us plebs hear an artist we dislike, we avert our gaze. Whereas Luke has to not only endure the streams of tepid piss that come shooting through the NME letterbox, but he’s often asked to write favourably about it.

Not content with fulfilling his role of informing 14 year olds who they should listen to, Luke felt that his contempt toward Ed Sheeran needed galvanising via a Twitter and Facebook campaign. The campaign of hate was imaginatively titled ‘How Shit Is Ed Sheeran?’, and came with a corresponding hashtag that would allow Luke to compile his results into a in-depth report due today. The campaign garnered some truly gut-busting responses, the best of which were retweeted on the NME’s twitter page. Sadly, they’ve since been deleted. Indicative of a guilty conscience? Or backtracking for fear of alienating quite a hefty number of their readership? Both?

Now matter how you feel about Ed Sheeran, you have to admit that what Luke Lewis did was somewhat churlish. Not content with rating Ed Sheeran’s debut album and moving on, Luke and the NME retweeted bile without getting their own hands dirty. Their actions were tantamount to cyberbullying, despite Lewis’s protestations that his #HowShitIsEdSheeran campaign was, ‘Just a bit of Twitterfun’ (spoken like a true bully).

I viewed the activities of Luke and the NME as a desperate attempt to jump on a bandwagon of hatred; an effort to claw back some credibility in a climate of music, abundant with blogs and message boards. But it doesn’t work like that when the musicians you chastise one week, you venerate the next. Furthermore, when that chastising is done on a national scale, the ginger-bashing’s quite pathetic, and wholly irresponsible.

Besides, having a publication as tired and irrelevant as the NME branding something as ‘shit’ is like the ocean calling rain ‘wet’. Lest we forget that the NME once trumpeted Viva Brother as ‘the future of guitar music’.

Update: Luke Lewis has since issued an apology on his Facebook page.

Scientists at CERN have announced that they’re to begin using oblivious phone walkers as projectiles for their latest Large Hadron Collider tests.

With interest dwindling, and faced with boring and confusing test results, physicists at the CERN laboratories near Geneva, Switzerland, have been examining ways to rekindle a public curiosity driven senseless with X Factor, Strictly and Piers Morgan.

The state of the art lab, which cost £6.19bn and spans the Franco-Swiss border, was constructed to address the most fundamental mysteries of science. However, when it became apparent that the tests would not yield pioneering results such as hoverboards, functioning Lightsabers or children that can sit still and shut the fuck up in restaurants, public interest in the activities at CERN diminished.

‘Ever since people stopped thinking the world would end when we switched this thing on, we’ve had huge problems trying to drum up interest in what we do here,’ said a CERN spokesman. ‘Introducing figures of utter derision into our tests will hopefully change this.’

‘Text-walkers’, ‘moron trekkers’ or ‘ambling twats’ as they’re known, are seen as ideal projectiles, owing to their low intelligence and disregard for the safety of themselves and others. The latest tests will find those who place finishing a text messages above safety flown to the LHC, whereupon they’ll be accelerated round the 27-kilometre tunnel, and collided at a velocity just shy of the speed of light.

While the tests will work to reignite public interest in the esoteric goings on at CERN, the physicists were cynical about uncovering any ground-breaking discoveries. ‘To be honest, we’re pretty bored of what’s happening here. We’re just tired of these vapid morons clogging up the pavement. Even blind people have the etiquette to use a dog and stick.’

‘They’ve only gone and done it again!’ went hoards of clunking dolts as John Lewis’ Christmas ad went viral. What many viewers have failed to address is the highly sinister undertones manifest throughout this Crimbo cry-fest.

Watch again and note how it conveys an air of ChildLine, with the parents of the protagonist seemingly unable to grace their little bundles of joy with even the slightest bit of affection.

The scene is set amid sleepy suburbia. There could have been a murder. Here’s where we meet our Kevin. His frequent sighing indicates he’s depressed. He sits like a prisoner on the cold landing, throwing a ball against the wall like McQueen in the cooler. He’s then seen tapping manically on the table like a bear gone mental at a Russian zoo.

‘Can make a good man turn bad’

Not content subscribing to the old adage that a watched pot never boils, our boy attempts to speed up time by revolving in his father’s chair at a terrifying, unnatural pace. His sister looks on, petrified. These scenes are interspersed with frequent sighing. I hate people that sigh.

Kevin’s latent insomnia is briefly alluded to, followed by a Groundhog Day-esque montage in which his family can be seen enjoying is solitude in the background. Themes of time and the occult are touched upon. The boy is then seen locked outside, sighing, ominously toing-and-froing in the freezing conditions (note the breath condensation, a blatant homage to M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense).

The father, oblivious to his child’s boredom, nullifies his son’s incessant fidgeting with a threatening hand. At dinner, little Tommy doesn’t so much as eat, but rather shovel his food like some soulless spectre. Fleeting glances from his parents convey not the eternal love of a parent, nor concern, but rather a sort of stifled panic not seen since The Exorcist. Kevin throws himself under the covers, wishing it would all go away.

It’s Christmas, and Kevin wakes and makes his way toward his parents’ bedroom. Upon arriving he’s met with a look that says, ‘how the hell did you survive the abortion?’ rather than the glee of a young family experiencing their first Christmas together.

Kevin smiles, and moves toward the bed holding a parcel that has suspiciously similar dimension to that of a head. His sister is nowhere to be seen.

‘Guess what’s in here, you bastards?’

‘For gifts you can’t wait to give.’

It’s a style that’s been gathering momentum away from traditional fashion for some time. Only recently has it been galvanised via a number of high-profile paedo pioneers making their way into the mainstream. Today, paedophile chic devotees are popping up everywhere; appearing in the Daily Mail, shopping at Asda and Millets, and making up a large proportion of the audience on the Jeremy Kyle Show.

Despite it’s unfriendly overtones, paedo chic is a look that anyone can work. Here, we’ve compiled a handy rub-down of many paedo staples so you can try out the look behind the safety of you net curtains.

This is Iain, 29. Iain’s working a dark, techie and functional look. The jacket says, ‘let’s tussle!’, but the glasses and backpack say, ‘only after I’ve downloaded and encrypted these files!’ Iain has that sci-fi, Matrix nonce style perfected. The joyless matching of black leather to a characterless turquoise TK Maxx shirt accentuates his washed out and worn facial features. He certainly knows how to work the mob gauntlet. His furrowed brow gives him that evasive demeanour. We’re sure he just wants to get home, stick a Fray Bentos in the oven, and get down to some quality Chatroulette time.

Well hello! Who’s this cheeky chappy? Remember guys, if you’re gonna accessorise, more is more. Just ask Greg, 46. This foxy old cad’s got all the delicious ingredients for a huge nonce pie, but has zhuzhed up the recipe by adding a set of rad wheels for dessert. Nothing screams limp, ominous sex offender like an unnecessary wheelchair. There’s room for you +1 with this handy and fun little add-on. We’re giving extra credit for those gorgeous leather gloves, reverse midriff display, and velcro shoes. Go get ‘em, Greg!

Here’s Neil, 22. Muted, unassuming pastel colours are a great look for the urban paedophile, and here they’ve been matched perfectly. The blue really draws attention to Neil’s pallid complexion, with his acne and harrowing eyes creating striking, haunting contrasts. Neil’s natural features are a huge benefit here, marking him out as a simply stunning nonce. Simple, dangerous and ready for a trip to Legoland. His crooked smile, unremarkable hairdo and cold white ears give his face an asymmetry that’s crucial for pulling off this number. To achieve a complexion like Neil’s, a strict diet of microwave dinners and fizzy Ribena should be adhered to. Neil’s got the look that’ll have nervous school office workers dialling the local police station for. Brillo!

Step back gentlemen, and make way for the Karl Lagerfeld of kiddie-fiddling fashion: Ray Hewlett, 63. Unnecessary raincoat, layering up, jogging bottoms, long hair and the use of a wheelchair despite having the ability to walk mark Ray out as a paed truly at the top of his game. Hewlett’s credited with kick-starting the paedophile fashion movement during the 70s, and, having cultivated his look for a number of years, he’s a well respected face on the ring. His rumpus of wearisome Scope threads embolden the ephemeral and effortless look of a paedophile, all topped off with Ray’s signature wiry locks. We also love the handy multi tool lanyard. His look says unassuming sexual predator on the prowl. Grrr.

For paedophiles, an infinitely more harrowing variation on the wheelchair is the electric scooter. Add a basket full of torches to the mix and you have yourself a genuinely terrifying ensemble. Just imagine being stalked by David, 61, with the whir of his electric motor doing little to drown out his frenzied panting as he draws nearer down the darkened alley. David’s sporting that casual day-at-court look that says, ‘How can I be a paedo? I can’t even take a dump without running out of breath, let along chase children!’. Whatever you say, Dave. We love the tracksuit bottom/suit trouser combo, and that sallow shirt really compliments David’s bleak features. His mouth agape is a lovely touch, lest we mention the white socks. Absolutely perfect.

On set of the next X-Men movie, Stan Lee comes face to face with the realities of studio cutbacks.

Would you do the same? No, probably not, because you’re a selfish bitch. Here are some other things our man Mars is probably willing to do for ya:

• Move to Spain for ya.
• Give up his seat on a train for ya.
• Unblock a drain for ya.
• Hijack a plane for ya.
• Name his child Dwayne for ya.
• Resit sixth grade for ya.
• Nuke the Ukraine for ya.
• Douse his balls in acid rain for ya.
• Sever his jugular vein for ya.
• Launch into a drug fueled, anti-Semitic tirade for ya.
• Sodomise Alex Zane for ya.

Do you know any other man that would do that? No. Because every other man is a dick for not wanting to kill himself for ya. I wish Bruno Mars would jump in front of a train for me. *Sigh.

There’s a place reserved in hell for the creators of this baseless dross:

'What the shit have you done to the dado rail!?'

Meet Lindsey, 57. She thinks her eight year old PC is good enough. Eight years old! What is it? A Difference Engine? I didn’t know you could access Faceparty on one of those. Using Microsoft Word on an eight year old PC must be like typewriting onto a sheet of idiot.

You’d have thought Lindsey would have gone looking for a new PC had she wanted one? Well, seemingly not. Cue Microsoft going all Pimp My Living Room on her arse, and turning her living room into a bone-fide, gaudy laptop showroom. I’m speechless!

Yo, dawg, we heard you like PC showrooms...

Everyone knows that if you’ve been using the same PC for eight years, not only are you a light-weary moron, but you’ve essentially been missing out on the luxury of having a PC store in your house. How I’ve mocked my parents with their furniture and pictures as I bask in the warmth of pastel coloured walls strewn with monitors that beam lifeless reams of stock imagery upon my empty, wretched soul.

'Dad's on the phone!'

Had Lindsey torn herself away from flirting with Gavin the PC guy for one second she could have taken the call. It’s from Tony, her husband. Tony works every hour heaven sends in a job he hates so that Lindsey can sit on her fat arse all day reading Take A Shit magazine and shovelling Snack a Jacks into her pie hole.

Tony’s trying to tell her how much he loves her, and that he’s leaving his job so the two of them can finally travel around Sri Lanka. For God’s sake don’t make any unnecessary purchases on the credit card.

‘I’m busy. Looking at new computers’

Oh no.

Lindsey’s daughter slams the phone down.

‘Oh. But…I need to tell her something’ The lines goes dead. Tony holds the yellowed receiver to his ear before carefully placing it back in the cradle. He slowly opens his top drawer and reaches for the antique pistol that belonged to his father. Pressing the rusty, cold barrel into the back of his mouth, his finger tentatively rests upon the trigger.

‘It’s lighter than my handbag!’ says Lindsey excitedly, fawning over the cheap plastic, baby shit brown machine. Lighter than her handbag! No hard task, given the amount of consealer, Vagisil and dildos she insists on carrying round with her all day.

'I'm a PC, and this, is marvellous' clunks Lindsey.

As she turns back towards the ersatz glow of her newly furnished computer room, a police car wearily rolls up outside her house.

It’s the docile crime wave that’s rocking Manchester to its very core. In a series of compliant attacks, young professionals based in the Northern Quarter are having their digital toys ruthlessly snatched like candy-laden babies. They’ve fallen victim to a benign hug.

For a number of months a gang known as ‘The Hug Life Posse’ have been terrorising Manchester’s digital sector, targeting prosperous but unkempt digital types who boast high-end Apple gadgetry such as iPhones, iPads and iPods.

The Hug Life Posse wait patiently while their target gets smashed up on specialty ales such as Hobbit’s Brown Finger and Curly Wurly Edale. Stalking like tech-hungry cheetahs in the Serengeti, it’s only when their quarry has vacated the safety of its watering hole that the huggers begin their fatal attack with astute precision.

Working in pairs, one of the two huggers will distract their victim with light banter. The jovial prey is too jolly on grog to comprehend what’s happening. It’s then that the attackers deliver the fatal maneuver. Gradually, the assailant makes the, ‘give me a hug’, arms outstretched gesture. By now the victim believes he has built sufficient rapport with his attackers, and in a split second of misinterpreted camaraderie, he obliges the deadly hug.

It’s at this moment that a second assailant carefully rifles through the victim’s pockets, pilfering whatever he can find, drunk with lust like an Apple fanboy on launch day. If the prey becomes suspicious, the hugger will dazzle his victim with verses of a boozy sing-along favourites such as ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen.

Only smaller items are taken, however, a number of Hug Life victims describe the horror having woken up without keys, shoes and even limbs. One victim relives the terror having been targeted by two ferocious huggers one starless night: “It was terrifying. They took all my gizmos. One minute we’re hugging, singing ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’, the next, they’re gone. They even took my Kindle. I’m not too bothered about that, though. It’s completely shit.”

Phil Henson of Greater Manchester Police said: “This Northern Quarter iPhone robbing spate reminds me of the great Chorlton-cum-Hardy pager thievery of the early 90s. It’s a vile and heinous crime spree that affects everyone in our fair city. What kind of world are we living in where you can’t even embrace a man without having your overpriced Apple products pinched? A shit one. That’s what kind.”

The police have several leads, and are appealing for witnesses or anyone who’s been a victim of a hugging to come forward. “We recommend that any close contact with strangers be avoided. No kissing, no hugging, no love making. We’ll crack this one, even if it’s the last thing we ever do in the history of policing. Ever.”

Homeless Matt

Homeless Matt, the weird guy who does open mic at The Swan, tops the list of additions to the NeilFest line-up this summer.

The outspoken musician who attends every open mic night in the Berkshire area will make his headlining debut at NeilFest in July.

Known for adding his own brand of desperate dour balladry to hits such as ‘Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)’ by The Cheeky Girls and ‘My Humps’ by The Black Eyed Peas, this will be the singers only festival appearance, after some recent remarks regarding children landed his name in both the local newspaper and on the sex offenders register.

Neville The Cancerous Mole

Also confirmed on Friday for the three-day drink and drug binge extravaganza are Datchet rockers Neville the Cancerous Mole, Bracknell country-math band %%%, and Ascot-based Mumstep trio Smashing Shirley, who’ll appear on the Saturday night to help raise funds for more beer and nitrous oxide.

Shirley Draper of Mumstep trio Smashing Shirley

Speaking about the festival, promoter Neil Sullivan said, “Once again we’ve set a benchmark for the DIY festival. NeilFest had its humble beginnings in our back garden at uni, and now moves to the heady climbs of Leigh’s dad’s allotment.

“It’s not massive or anything. It’s just well chilled out. There’s no advertising like all the big festivals. We like to keep the everything local.”

This year’s DazFest is being supplied by Mike Chaff’s homebrew cider, with drugs food provided by local dealer Ammo.

Ammo. He loves pussy.

NeilFest takes place on Leigh’s dad’s allotment from Friday, July 8 to Sunday, July 10. Tickets are available by ringing Neil.

Smashinglad are gonna pull down your pants and dry hump you from behind with their new tepid music smell, Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! Hosted by Radio 1 button presser and serial rapist Vermin Kaye, the series will bore music fans to mental breakdown, as it features a veritable ‘oh crap, not them!’ of new and vapid music acts. Each show will have an exclusive ‘controller’, who’ll choose the acts Smashinglad have endorsed, in true Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! style. Lined up in the Alt Ctrl Del! hot seat for shows 1 to 3 is that arsehole one from the Inbetweeners, James Buckley, misfit Heather Small and high-lord of all that’s abhorent and lifeless in music, Mark Ronson.

With six insipid instalments taking place each Thursday, Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! kicks off on February 10th on Channel 49, and will air mediocre, but well lit performances from the blandest acts around, including Fuck Topman and Topshop, Topman Clothes are Probably Manufactured by Blind Seals, Brother, TOPMAN CLOTHES ARE SLIPSHOD SHIT and How Much!? For a fucking cardigan?, to name but a few. Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! paid the likes of Rod Hull, Leo Sayer and Sting to curate undersubscribed gigs in cities up and down the country. Now Smashinglad bring Alt Ctrl Del! to the small screen, giving viewers the option of moaning about modern music from the comfort of their own home. Miss out!

Vermin Kay says, “Yeah, I can’t really be arsed. Hopefully it’ll be a chance for people to see that I’m not just a rapist, but also an okay TV presenter. It’s annoying that this ‘ere telly show is a showcase for shit. There’s not a lot of live music on TV at the moment, only that slippery lizard-man Jools Holland and his awful, awful world music, so I guess it’s better than that. There’s so much great music being made; maybe one day we’ll get to hear it!”

Danielle Volkswagon, Senior Marketing Manager, Smashinglad says, ” Smashinglad Alt Ctrl Del! is about revenue. Alt Ctrl Del! means we get to feature the most commercially viable bands, dress them in our clothes, and put them out to the Channel 49 audience. It excites me thinking about how much money we’ll make – we’ll end up with huge piles of cash as these gawping, picture weary retards pile into our stores to try an emulate these marvelously named. We’ll be stinking filthy rich, all the while portraying the idea that we actually give a hoot about new music!”

Cool and wicked etc.

/Ends.