So I was trawling through the web today while my butler, Larry Gott, the ugly gnarled one who used to be in James, spit-shined my shoes. "Larry, you pathetic dickwank, get your sorry arse in here, I need you to pick the wax out out of my belly button." As Larry came running, accidentally tripping on the floor sander and boring a hole in his stomach, I came across a pile of piss more commonly known as One of the Three.

One of the three what? Biggest fucking losers on the planet? Most psychotic dickless arseholes ever born? Transgendered confused Tim Booth butt-lickers? I mean what a fucking stinking shitpile! What sort of sad obsessed buttbooger would waste their pathetic, inspirationless time putting out the most trainspotter of all the maniacal stalker sites? What would possess even the most talentless, lifeless sack of horse manure to spend hours on end typing loads of useless facts into a computer for other even more useless ignorant dickmunchers to look at? Even worse, this sad excuse for a biped seems to have spent days on end hunched over his computer uploading song files that would make cats in heat sound like Puccini. This site is so obsessively disgusting that just looking at it made my bowels loosen and shit spew out all over the room.

"Larry!" I hollered "Get your shiny head in here and lick my floor clean!" "But Sir," he whined, "I’m trying to stuff my guts back into my stomach." "Now Larry, I’m sick of your moronic excuses! I don’t pay you to complain! And god knows you need the money I pay you after years wasted playing guitar for a bunch of indie twats who couldn’t write a decent song if would save them from being covered in honey, dipped in ants and fed to Maggie Thatcher." "Yes sir." While Larry cleaned the refuse from my floor, I stumbled into what I can only hope was a hallucination brought about by the filthy stench of my own shite mixed with Larry’s breath.

One Fucking Fan Clapping Like a Retard While Wanking Frantically Over Pictures of Saul Davies in a Dress!? I fear for the future of the planet when maniacal nutcases are allowed to run free enough to produce drivel so pointless that it actually could cause my brain to shut down, leading to my head exploding. What kind of neurotic dickcheese-stained loser would actually take the time to write bad jokes that aren’t even funny for twats who don’t think James sound like a bunch of castrated weasels on acid? And what sick cunt actually thought it would be a good idea for deranged James fans to actually interact? The sum total of negative IQ’s involved in such a meeting could lead to the reverse evolution of the species, causing the planet to be sucked back into a quagmire of shit, piss, vomit and sputum produced by yours truly, over the sickening thought of such an horrendous gathering. And whoever is responsible for this mindnumbingly evil diarrhoea of the brain actually thinks that people would want to hear about a fucking James tour. Sad fucking stalker asshole, anybody who is psychotic enough to actually go see the wank produced by those Mancunian cunts deserves to be skinned alive and soaked in a vat of hot lava. The thought alone is enough to depress me. I must go drink copious enough amounts of Goldschlager to make me forget the horror!