Cancel Culture

With some inevitability, cancel culture has finally caught up with our so-called columnist. What took so long? That, my friends, is a very good question

Illustration: Fat Roland

Cancel culture has gone too far. Are you telling me I can’t prance around as glam-rock Brian Eno, complete with unbuttoned motorbike jacket and feather shoulder pads, while hooting Van McCoy’s ‘The Hustle’ on the alpine horn? Apparently, we’re not allowed to do that anymore, it’s frightening the other patients. Are you really telling me I can’t pile up several thousand onions, set fire to them, then point and shout “Look, ‘Shallots Of Fire’, ha ha, ‘Shallots Of Fire’, geddit?!” without being thrown out of Vangelis’ bathroom? You literally can’t do anything anymore. 

I got chucked off the bus the other day for yodelling the synth line from ‘Just Can’t Get Enough’ while performing an especially amorous version of the floss dance. I was told it was “inappropriate” and “dangerous” and “please can you come down off the roof, the driver’s called the police”. Outrageous. Something must be done. To quote the Peter Finch rant in the 1976 film ‘Network’, I’m significantly mad and I’m going to stop taking it at some point soon thanks very much. 

At least we don’t have Mary Whitehouse anymore. She was a conservative campaigner who was in charge of cancelling things. Imagine all the Daily Mail readers had a baby with Piers Morgan, then that baby was struck by lightning while scrolling QAnon hashtags on Twitter. Now transport whatever’s left of that baby’s addled brain and insert it into the Victorian skull of Jacob Rees-Mogg dressed as Sarah Palin. That’s Mary Whitehouse. 

Imagine if we had a Mary for electronic music, keeping those synthesisers in check. Crikes. The last image of The Prodigy’s drugs and violence-soaked video for ‘Smack My Bitch Up’ would be a tutting Whitehouse writing a strongly worded letter to Ofcom or the BBC or International Rescue or whoever polices things. 

Whitehouse would become a permanent extra member of Kraftwerk, standing expressionless behind her Fisher-Price keyboard while scanning the audience for inappropriate gyrating or talking during the quiet bits. Instead of Spotify ads popping up on your electronic music playlists, imagine Whitehouse’s voice whispering in your ear “And now for something wholesome” before blasting ‘Land Of Hope And Glory’ on the kazoo. Strong lips, that Mary Whitehouse. Yeesh.

At least Electronic Sound can’t be cancelled. All this talk of knobs and waveforms sounds very naughty. It’s heady stuff, this magazine – we all know ‘Minimoog’ is slang for penis. Are you one of these loser snowflakes who reads magazines from the back? Before you proceed to the rest of the pages, the following precautions may protect you from offence. 

1) Wrap your body in cling film, or if you haven’t got any cling film, spider’s webs. This will stop any sinful content from osmosifying into your delicate skin. 

2) I want you to say ‘The Lord’s Prayer’ 17 times while simultaneously humming the melody of Chuck Berry’s ‘My Ding-a-Ling’, which as we all know is the most wholesome song ever. 

3) Replace your eyes with conkers. Then all you will see is conkers rather than rude things like oscillators and seven-inches. I hope they have someone nice and relaxing on the front cover like The Christians or a Womble.

Next time you see a washed-up indie musician whining about wearing masks because a woman played Doctor Who and why can’t we bring back scurvy like the old days, do spare them a thought. 

It’s tough being cancelled, especially if their Moog is really mini. Here is a seven-space silence in tribute to them: _______. Phwoar. Conkers. Lovely sexy conkers. Sorry, got a bit sidetracked. I do apologise. Onions. Gyrating. Gah, sorry. I’m off to blow on my horn before I cancel myself.

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