West-Ends

Men at C&A

D'you think the members of Westlife are actually ashamed of themselves for churning out such ear-blistering shite that self-decapitation is the only antidote to their warblings? And yeah, I know that they've split up - easily their greatest ever contribution to music - but I still just saw one of their videos on telly and wept openly and violently at the banality of it all.
God, imagine having made an entire career out of producing such soppy bollocks that you've become the very definition of a Mother's Day present. If Westlife's work was my reward for the fact that childbirth was the equivalent of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse galloping through my love tunnel, my celebration of said event would involve a blender and Kraken Junior's fingers.
Anyway, back to the blarney...Not only have Messrs Byrne at al happily agreed to churn out what also passes for funeral durgery but they've also spent the greater part of their careers staring into any approaching camera as if they've found a lump in their collective knackersack. On the days when they had to make videos by gawping achingly into a lens I wonder if they actually felt a small part of their souls being bludgeoned. No wonder Louie Walsh, their ex-manager, looks as if he's been drinking from the fountain of youth. What he's really been doing is drinking the tears of these bewildered Irishmen as, yet again, they burble through turgid lyrics.
No wonder the boy Walsh was accused of making up stories about the lads for the delectation of the media because in reality the pop-throttlers look about as exciting as a set of taps. Fair play though, he stuck to tales of them being eaten by lions or violently injured rather than claiming more ludicrous assertions such as them producing groundbreaking mash-ups.
Now that they've called it quits - oh thank fuck, thank fuck, thank fuck - all that's left to do is erase their back catalogue in a global implosion that forms a black hole for any song that requires said singers to fawn like castrated pups. Failing that I'd be happy to administer my own kick to the group's biffins. All in the name of good music, of course.