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Monday, 30 January 2012

Faking It
Me, when I get up in the morning
What the frig is all the vitriolic fuss over hot pop warbler Lana Del Ray? If the ranting on the t'web is anything to go by you'd think she'd spent her life kidnapping children to feed to her whippets. But no, she hasn't. Instead she had a failed pop career under her real name of Lizzie Grant before rebranding herself as Lana Del Ray. This, though, has turned her fans against her to the point that they're this close to holding a witch hunt. What, may I ask, the fuck?
So she found herself a new image, new name, savvy record company and banged out some new and improved songs. Amazingly that's set t'internet afire with the rage of fans who claim to have been duped. Excuse me? Duped? Oh, do you mean duped in the same way that Lady Gaga fooled the nation by not really being hatched from a giant egg when she was Born This Way? Or perhaps you mean duped in the way that Michael Jackson wasn't really a white man? Or duped, perchance, in the way that the Spice Girls presented themselves as singers?
So do these distressed fans think that Del Ray is the first popstrel to ever fake it for the fame? Oh spare me, you indignant, goon-eared fools. Who the fuck do you think fills the charts at the moment? Mustachioed, overweight, wart-sprinkled women or lythe, golden-skinned and clear-eyed beauties? And where, pray, do these beauties come from? Well, they sure as shit don't crawl out of local talent shows looking like that. They - get this - fake it. They change their images with diets, cosmetic surgery, furious gym habits and armies of stylists. Every one of their moves is decreed in the meeting rooms of record companies and the media dictates everything else, from what they say to who they shag.
In fact, you'd need a skull crammed with hamster droppings to even imagine that the usual MTV fodder hadn't been manufactured in some way. 
Del Ray has hardly dragged the music industry to a new low by cranking up her image. For frig's sake, we're talking about an industry that's accepting of the toss that's turned out by the X Factor, where desperados sell their souls just to get a walk on part in a Cheeky Girls video. Is Del Ray really more conniving and cynical than that? Unless she's Harold Shipman without the beard and scary stethoscope, I doubt it.
Which means these duped fans need to get what is commonly known as a grip. It's pop music for Christ's sake. Pop music. We're not talking about perverts parading as paediatric consultants, here, or Syria's Bashar al-Assad opening a HR consultancy. We're talking about the bollocks that Fearne Cotton knocks out on Radio 1 of a morning. 
So as we say on a Saturday night out, leave it, mate, she's not worth it. No, really. Leave. It.



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