Godlike Gobshites

To bring the farce that is the NME’s renewed support of Manic Street Preachers to a close, they were awarded the title of Godlike Genius at the Brats last night. I’m showing my age now, aren’t I? I don’t think it’s been called the Brats for about 15 years. Still, I like the name and they only changed it to please some corporation or summink so yeah anarchy lolz etc moving on.

Dave and I flicked over to the coverage because he was channel surfing in the bedroom and saw the presenters taking the mick out of the ever ridiculous Simon Price. Knowing how much I despise the silly little man, Dave came barrelling into the living room to tell me to turn over and about thirty seconds later the Manics retrospective began.

It was a tedious piece of film to say the least. Talking heads extraordinaire like Jo ‘I haven’t been relevant for 14 years’ Whiley and Halibut Jones from New Order wanked on about the fact the Manics once wore white jeans and looked a bit like girls back in the day, apart from James, who looked like a hamster with a dicky tummy most of the time (as an aside, if there was ever a film made about the Manics I hope to BEJESUS they cast Michael Cera as Bradders, ignoring the tiny fact of Cera being 40ft tall and James regularly making hobbits feel lofty. If you tell me it’s not perfect, I’ll tell you you’re an idiot).

Meanwhile, Steve ‘Single Peanut’ Lamacq somehow managed to contain himself and not remind the world for the seventeen billionth time that he was instrumental in the whole 4Real shindig. He always looks so delighted to tell that tale. Granted, it has become one of rock n’ roll’s most iconic moments, but he essentially goaded an utter nutter to the point of violent lunacy in order to prove a point. Lamaqc’s cheery punchline of ‘But you’re getting blood all over the carpet HAR HAR’ has never sat well with me. Still, at least he ditched Whiley, which puts him one step up from all the others.

Once the dreary retrospective was over, the Manics themselves came up on stage to accept their dubious award. Nicky Wire looked so delighted that his mammoth ego had somehow been justified I was shocked he didn’t whip out little Nicky and congratulate himself right there. James Dean Bradfield stood where he always does at these occasions – several feet away, looking embarrassed while Nicky burbled into the mic. I feel for James. He’s genuinely very musically talented and by all accounts an alright bloke, but he always looks at Nicky with an expression that reads, ‘You’re practically family, and I love you to death, but for all our sakes just hush.’ Sean Moore was invisible, as always. Sensible Sean, he always has the right idea. I sometimes wonder if he applies the T-Rex rule to being in the Manics, the one we all learned from watching Jurassic Park: if you stay still, the gangly monster with the big gob won’t see you. Whatever his strategy, it works. Stay hidden, Moorus, it’s for the best.

Then came the exhibition of what has made them so great over the years: the music. They rattled through Motorcycle Emptiness with just enough gusto to make it worthwhile before bringing a dead-eyed Cerys Matthews on stage to duet on Your Love Alone Is Not Enough. She looked like she wanted to cry the entire time. E4 went to ads mid-song. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

Despite this rather sarcastic post, I really have nothing but love for the Manics, and Nicky Wire is certainly no more or no less arrogant than your average gangly transvestite bassist. But there’s something that just makes me cringe about them these days. It’s always been there, but it’s only during the last few years that watching them talk makes me want to look away, turn over, point out a car wreck… just do something that doesn’t involve paying any attention whatsoever.

It takes me back to a night working at the Hog’s Head pub in Uxbridge. After closing, we did a cursory toilet check and found a girl passed out in a cubicle, curled around the toilet. Her trousers were around her ankles and behind her lay a perfectly formed turd which had obviously just plopped out of its own volition.

Growing up with the Manics was a wonderful experience, but now they’re just that drunken girl with the loosened bowels. You want to have a little giggle, but it’s cruel. And you’re not just going to abandon her, because that’s crueller still. Meanwhile, she’s so blasted she can’t even comprehend building up a good head of shame at what’s just happened. So all that’s left for you is to be embarrassed on her behalf. Cringe good and cringe hard at the idea of her being so pissed she ended up having a little public poo.

You’ll never forget her and her fantastic faecal fuck-up, but you’re glad you can walk away as soon as it’s all over and take no responsibility for the whole dreadful situation.