Generic pop bullshit.

"Hello to all the listeners out there! I'm DJ Twat and this is the DJ Twat power hour. All the greatest new music coming at you for 60 whole minutes! First up, another talentless bunch of middle-class student wankers playing on their regional accents and scruffy appearances!"

Ah, yes- pop music. From the bowl-haired Beatles to the skanky-looking Spice Girls, pop music has steadily progressed from one tedium to another. The new wave of pop music, or should I call it a tsunami, is that of "indie" pop/rock. If you're not quite sure what indie is, I'll give you a little insight:

Take 5 lads in their first year of university, give them some alcohol and ruffle up their hair a bit. Now, give each one an instrument; it doesn't matter which one gets which, as none of them can play anything or sing anyway. Make sure the lead vocalist is the one with the strongest accent, whether it be geordie, liverpudlian, cockney or mancunian. If he doesn't have one of these accents, the band won't be successful. Now for the guitarists: they'll have to learn 3 chords (maybe a fourth in case a difficult song-writing scenario comes up), and make sure they evenly jam the plectrum into each one. Any sort of polyrhythms or creativity here won't work; make sure they don't attempt to do so at all costs. We'll also need another person with a guitar to play the same chords but an octave higher. Got a hi-hat? Got a snare? Got a bassdrum? Great- you: hit them. Wait, what else do we need? Oh yes, we need someone to play the same thing as the guitarists but with 5 less strings and much lower. Ah, the bassist. Your lack of talent will be made up for by all the rough looking groupies you'll shag. The joy of joys.

So, we've got the band; we've got the music (well obviously- if you've written one song you've written them all), but something's missing: a name. The band puts their heads together, their scruffy little faces deep in concentration. "Alreet", says the vocalist in his meaty accent, "Ah've gots an idea, lads! 'ows abaht..", they all look up: "The Thes!" The guitarist has a look of pure elation on his face, "I can see it", he squeals, "I can see that on the posters! The Thes, live at Wembley! We can do this, guys; it could work!"

And so off they go on tour, doing coke, shagging random jail-bait groupies, droning out repetitive lyrics and bland tunes, and generally living the high-life. Their hit single, "I'm pretty certain that you have lovely tits", gets blasted out of every speaker in every HMV, and Zane Lowe sits on his magic floating sofa spouting off about how awesomely radical this new band, The Thes, really are.

5 weeks later, and no-one's heard of them. The guitarist goes back to University, and ends up getting a law degree. The bassist now has 3 kids and a retreat in Suffolk. The drummer spends his times playing Halo 2 in his bedroom, every so often venturing out to say a few words on "100 Greatest Sellotape Retailers" on Channel 4. No-one knows what happened to the other guitarist: some say he fled to Nepal, others say he lives in Cornwall. The lead singer, and his thick regional accent, has now converted to Buddhism and spends his days in a hut on a hill, hugging hares.

Every day there's a new band out like this, and every day I hate the world just that little bit more.