The Vault

Coldplay: Parachutes by Mr Agreeable

16 May 2014

Two years in the making, alternative rock band Coldplays new album, essentially a concept piece about Chris Martins break-up with Gwyneth Paltrow, has certainly garnered a number of extremely favourable reviews. In todays harsh critical climate when major groups can expect to be torn to pieces by a fearless music press regardless of the consequences, thats remarkable indeed. Its all the more remarkable given that all things considered, Ghost Stories is from its arse to its f***ing elbow, one, long stagnant f***ing pool of premium grade f***ing cockwash! I would rather chew off my f***ing scrotum than ever listen again to this boneless f***ing melange of morose f***ing piss-shit! I would rather eat an entire f***ing yurt, washed down with f***ing beige paint recently shat out of an incontinent yaks anus! Put it this way; so remorselessly insubstantial is this album that if it were submitted to the f***ing British Homeopathic Association as a f***ing potential remedy, theyd f***ing knock it back, saying: No good, mate. Youve over-diluted it, you silly twat!

Never in human f***ing history, since fish first slithered onto the f***ing land and sprouted limbs has there been a more nondescript f***ing decade than the f***ing Noughties and never has there been a more nondescript f***ing group than those gelatinous c***lords Coldplay! They made Dido sound like Bessie f***ing Smith! They filled the giant f***ing void in pop culture in the early 21st century because they are a giant f***ing void! Somehow, Martins knack for trudging up and down a keyboard like a middle aged man in f***ing chinos strolling to the f***ing corner shop to buy the f***ing Daily Express while singing like hed just been kneed in the f***ing bollocks caught the zeitgeist of the dullest, do-nothing, think-wishfully generation of all f***ing time! In the rock & roll hall of fame they sit near the f***ing exit like a f***ing birch veneer occasional f***ing table! Getting excited about f***ing Coldplay is like getting excited about the f***ing Liberal Democrat Spring conference!

Anyway, Martin got married to f***ing Gwyneth Paltrow, that ghastly, gulping, giraffe-necked, sick-making long drink of carb-averse goop, they created their own f***ing hole in the f***ing ozone layer flying around the world with Martin warbling about how concerned they were about the f***ing environment, spawned a couple of sprogs and saddled them with life-ruining names, promoted every f***ing vapid strain of spiritual, anti-materialist New Age nonsense while raking in the f***ing ackers like whorehounds and then finally consciously uncoupled, though its a f***ing wonder either of them could stay f***ing conscious in each others company at all, given that theyre the two most testicle-achingly f***ing tedious people on earth! And now Chris is sad. He feels like shit. And hes perfectly conveyed that unremittingly f***ing excremental condition on f***ing Ghost Stories!

So, track one ‘Always In My Head’ sets the f***ing dolorous tone. I think of you/I haven’t slept.”, whines Martin, while f***ing George, Ringo and Ringo or whoever the f*** the other three are try not to fall asleep at their f***ing instruments. Next up, ‘Magic’. No, sorry, its not about actual magic. Tommy f***ing Cooper retrieving the f***ing ace of spades from a pack using a f***ing blindfolded wooden duck, not that. Nothing remotely entertaining. No, as f***ing ever, Chris Martins here to suck all the f***ing joy out of the room like a giant f***ing Happiness Hoover! A wan swirl of keyboards, like that pink water you get at the f***ing dentists swilling down a f***ing metal hole, and Chris is all about how he f***ing cant get overyou know who.

At which point you have to say: For f***s sake, why, man? Gwyneth Paltrow no longer being in your life is like having a 14 inch long celery stick thats been stuck up your arse for years surgically removed! You should be f***ing delirious! This album should be a series of f***ing honky-tonk piano-driven upbeat bangers with titles like ‘Wahoo!’ and ‘Thank F*** Almighty, Free At Last!’ and ‘I Dont Have To Knit My Breakfast No More!’, all accompanied to the sound of six-shooters fired into the f***ing ceiling with both hands! All your f***ing friends hated her, were you not aware of that? But no, Chris is sad, so on we f***ing crawl through the cesspools of f***ing self-pity. All I know is I love you/so much it hurts.(yep, that stench coming from Stratford-Upon-Avon isnt the drains, its f***ing Shakespeare shitting himself in his grave). Id suggest you drown your f***ing sorrows, Chris, but itd probably be best all round if you f***ing drowned yourself!

Next up; ‘True Love’, to a tune akin to watered down elephant smegma slowly dripping into a f***ing plastic bucket. I wish you could have let me know/Whats really going on below.No, kids, he doesnt mean genitalia. Martin and Paltrow are like 1930s Disney nymphs, they dont f***ing have genitalia. He means f***ing feelings, the c***. Cue also the worst, truncated f***ing guitar solo in f***ing history – like a dying kitten mewing for help, then remembering that this is a world with f***ing Coldplay in it and deciding not to f***ing bother. Now Midnight– and guess what? Chris is alone, alone. Im not f***ing surprised. Any evening out with hims gonna be a f***ing brief one, with mates making their excuses and back home in time for f***ing Channel 4 News!

‘Anothers Arms’ begins with an androgynous, anaemic yelp that is quite possibly the whitest moment in all of popular f***ing culture. Shirley f***ing Temple serenading the f***ing Ku Klux Klan with ‘White Christmas’ during a f***ing snowstorm could scarcely be any f***ing whiter. Next ‘Oceans’. Seriously, just f*** off, you insufferable f***ing streak of twatrot! ‘A Sky Full Of Stars’ breaks into a disco house groove but its funkless like a f***ing HSBC staff party – wave your arms in the air, finish your f***ing mineral water and be back at your desks at 7.15 sharp tomorrow morning!And so the album wends on – imagine Christ, instead of having to carry the f***ing cross to f***ing Calvary having to carry a giant, ten foot long flaccid penis instead – thats how listening to this f***ing album feels by this stage!

Finally, the f***ing title track itself. Chris wonders if he himself is just a ghost. Tell you what, Martin, you woeful f***ing waste of a snails time, heres one way of f***ing finding out – why not run into that f***ing brick wall head first? Twenty times, just to be f***ing sure?

There was another track but the f***ing CD physically f***ing evaporated before I could play it. Coldplay? C***grey, more like! Theres only one f***ing substance on this earth more colourless and full of f***ing nothing than Ghost Stories and thats f***ing Gwyneth Paltrow’s urine!