Rihanna's No Bullshit Guide to Ridin' (For Kids?!)

There's something terribly wrong with music censorship in this country. I remember the big deal Phantom fm had to make out of playing the full version of Rage Against The Machine's “Killing in the Name,” because there's a fair few 'fucks' at the end of the song. And in some ways I can understand such restrictions on radio during the day as children may be listening etc etc. But riddle me this radio censorship people, do you see nothing wrong with the amount of children walking around singing the lyrics to Rihanna's “Rude Boy?” This woman and her songs are surely where the cabbage smelling widowers that I assume make up Ireland's censorship boards need to be pointing their decrepit catholic fingers. The word fuck is a no no, but when it comes to five year old's singing songs about sexual performance and 'taking it' our wonderful censors seem to be fine with the existence of a generation of children in a world that is beginning to look like it was dreamt up and designed by paedophiles. I'm going to actually print some of these lyrics here:

Come on rude boy, boy Can you get it up
Come here rude boy, boy Is you big enough
Take it, take it Baby, baby
Take it, take it Love me, love me.

And it goes on and on with some more adorable child appropriate lyrics such as:

Tonight I'mma let you be the captain
Tonight I'mma let you do your thing, yeah

Tonight I'mma let you be a rider
Giddy up

Tonight I'mma give it to you harder
Tonight I'mma turn your body out
Relax

I like the way you touch me there
I like the way you pull my hair
Babe, if I don't feel it I ain't faking
No, no

And we can't even say that at least it's beautifully romantic love-making. As you can see from the lyrics my friends, this is just pure ridin'. Whoever this captain rude boy is, he's absolutely baiting Rihanna the cowgirl out of it and she's loving it so much she's writing songs about it. The filthy bitch. It's a sad day when all I've nervously discovered about sex throughout my years is topped by a child after they listen to this album. Maybe you disagree, maybe you think I'm over-reacting about the erotic vocal stylings of kids on buses. For those of you who find yourself there, or maybe a little bit on the fence, here are some sexy kids. Take care people.

This one is so wrong I just can't begin to explain it to you.

This girl got the special edition of the CD that comes with Rihanna's face!

And don't worry, boys can do it too...

Fade Street (Irish 'The Hills') = Impending Doom.

ATTENTION! 

Word has reached my ears recently of a new TV show called Fade Street. Supposedly Ireland's answer to an unsaid prayer for our own version of MTV's The Hills. We're all familiar with the hills in one way or another. Some of us have stumbled across it unintentionally like a 3^rd world child does a landmine, others may live or date someone who watches it and some of you are those useless fleshy sacks of dullness whose questionable desire to be continually molested in the face by bad music and worse acting drives up viewing statistics and secures the next inevitable episode of make-up faced boyfriend baiting in shoe shops. If you are one of the latter, I hope something large metal and sharp finds itself severely and fatally jammed in your oesophagus. Thankfully though, the hills is no more as of April this year, but just as I'm snapping the elastic on my party hat, Fade Street lodges an expensive stiletto in my groin.

From what I can tell, working on my limited knowledge of either show, is that this is going to be predominantly about south side glamour tarts driving mini coopers and strolling from café to café to Brown Thomas to wine bar to rugby playing boyfriends home for some steroid champagne cocktail fuelled dress up sex, occasionally squeezing in the odd bitching session, followed by some clichéd advice giving sessions, then straight into badly informed and misplaced social commentaries, who then round it all up with some sort of horrible coco channel scented life philosophy over a pink west coast cooler. I am currently living in fear for the inevitable moment when one of them remarks on something “like really bad yi'know,” like, oh say, the recession. I can already hear the words, sounding something like “I mean, I like, don't forget sometimes, like, how lucky I am and stuff, yi'know. Cause it's gotta be really hard, like, and, like, difficult, for all the people who like have no jobs and stuff yi'know, and for their kids and people like that.” At which point I imagine I will have sunken my teeth deeply into my fingers, drawing blood, until I will definitely reach the bone when they decide to 'do something about it.' Cue fund-raising benefit (night out) where the money taken on the bar in Lilly Bordello's is three times that raised by their yob mates and I vomit up my remaining faith in mankind.

Am I alone in this? Is there no way to stop (possibly execute) this Vogue Wilson and Cosmopolitan Finnegan or whatever and her cohorts? Maybe I'll organise my own fund-raising benefit on Fade Street, a Kool Aid party, very much in the style of the Reverend Jim Jones. Any takers?

Here's what's coming. I'm going to go and fins a comfortable corner to die in...