Goths

Tonight’s hymn of hate is:

The Goths.

Please turn to page 155 and sing along.

Let me get one thing clear before we start. I’m not talking about the Visigoths. They fucking rocked. In fact, they’re one of my all-time favourite rampaging armies. Just typing the name got me a little wet.

No…

The topic of tonight’s lecture is the pasty-faced, middle-classed, clumpy boot-wearing bane of shopping centres and life in general.

If I get round to making a picture of a goth it will be right above this line. It’s a goth, not a mime, although the two are similar in their hellish bastardry.

While our first lecture covered hippies let me make it clear that, while not quite as prevalent, the Goths are just as bad.

They are so bad, in fact, that fucking Word keeps automatically capitalising them when I personally would rather cut off my left testicle than give them that kind of credibility.

Origins

I can’t place my finger on the exact genesis of the goth. I will also not look it up. I’ll just assume it’s probably the fault of The Cure and Joy Division. I will also blame homo-erotic vampire movies.

If you look at old vampire movies you’ll find that the vampires, while a bit camp, at least had the decency to be a little hardcore. The décor of their creepy castles were the result of laziness and personal choice rather than a conscious design decision. Dracula never sat down with an Ikea catalogue and chose a lot of purple. No, he took what was already there from the 13 th century and just let it get covered in cobwebs.

Also… The hair… Look at the early vampire movies again… Dracula had a tasteful little widow’s peak that reminded one of Bruce Willis pre-deceiving himself-shave. It was really rather natty. It also reaffirmed the fact that a cape can only be combined with sensible hair. Flowing satin capes and floppy hair make you look as dangerous as a quilted tea-cosy. I want my vampires to look like they’ll rip your spine out, not advise you on Feng Shue.

Nosferatu… That guy nailed it… You knew he wasn’t wasting time trying to pick the right “product” to make himself look menacing. That guy scored an extra fifty virgins while the fops were conditioning.

Skipping forward, although pausing briefly to fondly recollect Vampyros Lesbos, we start to reach a worrying trend in blood-sucking fun.

The Lost Boys was not the best sign of things to come. The 80’s was an apocalyptic wasteland that still clung to the idea that wearing a leather jacket made you look cool. It doesn’t… It makes you look like an elderly Fonz hanging around by a children’s playground. Add stupid, impractical hair to the equation and the stew begins to smell bad.

Opinions may be relatively positive regarding the movie… However, I would like to point out that the moment vampires start taking five hours to get ready it all becomes stupid. Imagine, if you will, the middle of summer… You get about five or six hours of darkness… How the fuck are you going to get up, strap on your leathers, and empty three tins of hairspray in that time? It’s stupid, it’s insulting, and it’s impractical.

Things only got worse as the Eighties progressed. A rancorous decade all round… yet… painful and depressing things began creeping in that made even colourful braces seem bearable.

I’ve seen at least two other vampire movies from that period and they all sucked.

Now… we reach the 90’s…

Ugly Times My Friends…

It hit with a horrible rush. Like that first line off the hooker’s back. The one where you realise it’s been cut with something so mean and ugly that you know the night’s going to end in carnage.

Floppy… fucking… hair…

I refuse to check the dates but I distinctly remember Bram Stoker’s Dracula being one of the first and worst offenders. Coppola, spiralling rapidly downwards since Apocalypse Now, brought us Gary Oldman with flowing, impractical locks.

He also brought us a chick making out with a giant furry bat-dog-thing… that rocked…

But yes… Something horrible was at work and it only got worse.

Soon all vampires were basically impotent gay serial killers. Crap ones. They all looked like their main choice of entertainment was chamber music and waxing.

I want to ask what’s the point in impotent gay serial killers?

If you’re going to go that way… Just go the extra yard and having some heaving, sweating man-arse. Quit fucking about.

While I take no pleasure from the sight of a hairy rump pounding away, I can’t help but think that I’d prefer it too “ambiguous sexual tension”. Look… I don’t care if it upsets little Tabitha who dreams about a sophisticated bloke with armpit-length hair in a cape… Let the delusional little fuckwit face sweating, grunting, reality… The thought of any more internet journal postings regarding non-threatening fictional men-women is enough to make me headbutt a nailgun.

As the years passed it became standard to equip the flouncy bloodsuckers with increasingly floppy mullets. Horror movies became Pantene commercials. I swear that nowadays the vampires put on showercaps to protect their mop from splatter.

Yet there is also another grim offender. It is not a vampire movie. It’s a fairly shit movie. I am, of course, talking about The Crow.

Ask any floppy-haired black-wearer about this movie and they’ll get all teary-eyed about the death of the movie’s star Brandon Lee. They’ll proclaim the movie a masterpiece blighted by tragedy. I proclaim it a tacky 80’s action movie blighted by annoying music. He was then replaced with special-effects to make sure someone made some money out of the whole thing.

However… It’s important to remember that the movie provides a great trivia question:

What do Dumbo and The Crow have in common?

They all had animated crows at the end.

The Goths look up to a movie that features a star who, like me, couldn’t be bothered to stick with the movie until the conclusion. This is fairly telling. Also telling is the fact that they all went out and bought full-length leather trench coats afterwards. Now they all resemble big black rubber dildos.

Nowadays vampire Goths have become a bunch of bondage-gear clad “different” people who appear in shitty clubbing scenes in Hollywood blockbusters. They all have their anuses pierced and bop along to shitty grindcore. All of them have syphilis and some like to pretend to drink each other’s blood. Every single one of them has more money than me.

The Music

Even before the depressing influx of shitty movies things were turning bad. Clumpy boots, Smith’s T-shirts, and black nail-polish and lipstick began to be smeared onto pasty, pimply faces. The end result was both depressing and hilarious. Like clown Aids.

Suddenly streams of Doc Marten wearing bastards poured out like an explosion at a grumpy factory. They began purchasing stupid jewellery and claiming they were all about the Wicca. Also they wrote poetry about being a bit down and kept journals. Never, during the entire 80’s, was a single worthwhile word committed to paper by any of these people. It was like giving an infinite number of chimps type-writers but making one of them make all the others tea.

Whiney students produced music for whiney students and petulant fifteen year olds whose parents “didn’t understand them”.

Here’s what your parents didn’t understand:

“Why did my child become a complete fucktard?”

From Barbie to existential angst… From Action Man to painting your bedroom black…

Not a single worthwhile protest was ever made by any of these people. The self-centred little bitches instead chose to continue claiming their pocket money and applying further layers of Max-Factor Albino to their plump faces.

They were rightly laughed at.

Then something bad happened a few years ago…

Hollywood decided to make them cool… Hollywood decided to either make them sultry sex-pots, or deeply misunderstood wonders who taught us all not to judge by face value.

Compare the fanged seductresses you see in the movies to reality: There’s four of them… You will never meet them… You will meet:

Identify Your Goth:

Short, round, desperately hanging around a bunch of taller people?

You have spotted a GothHag. (Gothius Frumpius)

This common strain is often spotted hanging around larger groups. She will be largely ostracised but tries so very hard. She will occasionally be given a seeing-to by a sexually-frustrated…

Six-foot-five, trenchcoat, black clothing, stupid hair?

Congratulations, you have spotted the Tiresome Lanky Loner. (Gothius Lonegunmanius)

Most likely to be found machine-gunning his way through his classmates. These irritating little bastards listen to shit rap-metal, industrial, and other forms of screamy shit that really speak to their soul… A soul of 24-carat wanker.

Either a student or living with their parents, they’re just plain annoying and dream of shagging…

Very tasty, black bodice, tits you could ski down, even more pale than the frumpy one, clasping journal?

You lucky bastard… You’ve spotted The HotGoth. (Gothius Slaggius)

A rare-example of the cross-over goth. This hot piece of pasty is not only more middle-class than the other Goths, she also is a complete slapper. She will bone outside the usual goth social circle. Traditionally they will choose utter, utter, pricks who have shoulders so wide they barely fit through doors. They are the only type of goth anyone willingly admits to knowing or introduces to friends. The reason for this is that she will have spectacular tits and be filthy in bed and everyone knows it.

In rare and disturbing situations the HotGoth will be seen on the arm of:

Over thirty, stupid little beard, bigger leather jacket than everyone else?

Oh Christ… You’ve spotted the near-ultimate goth… The CreepyGoth (Gothius Pedopus)

These men are a sight to behold. Pretending to be some kind of king vampire they feast on young, impressionable, self-harming pussy. Often they are in some form of open marriage that pretty much boils down to them cheating on their wife. They will feast upon the HotGoth and, just occasionally, toss a bone to the GothHag.

They will clearly stick out amongst a group of male Goths as they are the ones who have a beer belly straining beneath their leather trousers. They will also have a very dark one-bedroom flat with lots of soft furnishings and silver stuff bought from a catalogue.

It is impossible to misidentify this breed as they’re the ones who will make you feel like you should call social services.

Universally depressing to the point of provoking your own suicide, these people, if ever you’re unlucky enough to hear them speak, are clearly some of the worst people on earth. Try and gain solace in the fact that The Vampire King drives a Fiat Panda.

One in a thousand of these greasy bastards hangs out with:

Prominent breasts… wow…those are prominent… nice legs too… Jesus…What the fuck happened to her face?

HOLY GRAIL ALERT: You have spotted the thirty+ female GothMum. (Gothius Milfius)

Okay, you have to brace yourself, you may see one of these one day.

If viewed from the feet upwards it is likely she will resemble the HotGoth. Once you reach the neck, however, things start getting wrinkly. No matter how thick the corpse-paint gets it’ll never fill in all those wrinkles. All other makeup will be applied with all the subtlety of a fifty year-old Norfolk barmaid.

Quite what makes these women cling on to their tragic obsession has never been clearly explained. Creepy Goth is obviously in it to land the hot young tail… but Goth Mum? You get the feeling she really believes in all that shit.

Hilariously, it’s very likely she’ll actually be someone’s mum… and that kid will think their mother is retarded. Especially when the menopausal old hag starts dressing the cat in a cape.

What Actually Is So Bad About All This?

Let them be... Let them make their own choices… Other people can do what they want… They do no harm…

All of the above are horseshit.

I think it’s about time we called these people on their crap.

It’s not a valid lifestyle choice… You’re playing fucking dress-up. You’re wearing your mum’s make up… Just admit you either want to be a mime or more attractive? Grow the fuck up?

When will the stupid, whining, self-absorbed, depressing little brats learn this lesson:

You may think this is a long-term choice… That’s shit.

The world ain’t full of thirty+ Goths.

Maybe there’s a reason.

The ones you do see are either child molesters or women who want to cling on to the happy days they had sitting at home watching John Hughes movies and secretly wishing they were Molly Fucking Ringwald.

You know jackshit about the “darkness of the human soul”… You’re just bitchy because you have the social skills of a leper with the squits.

EARTH TO GOTHS… NO THIRTEEN YEAR OLD HAS GOOD SOCIAL SKILLS.

You know how you feel so different? That’s called fucking puberty that is.

You know how you think you don’t fit in? That’s called being alive.

You know how you think you look great dressed up like a cow corpse? That’s called being a twat.

You know how you think you have the respect of the goth community? It doesn’t matter… Nobody else on Earth respects what a goth has to say. If you dress up like The Crow any words out of your mouth will be automatically ignored. If you quote Joy Division even the Samaritans will wish you were dead.

Just give it a couple of fucking years and you can get on with nailing awkward guys/gals in your parent’s house. It’ll be shit sex, but at least you won’t leave smears of foundation everywhere.

Grow the fuck up.

You’ll realise you were a cock back then just like everyone else who didn’t dress up like a twat realises they were a cock back then too.

If you want to be “different” contract polio… then, just maybe, we won’t stare at you and go “dumbfuck”.

A poem about the Goths.

Dressed in black and painted white,

Spouting poems that all are shite,

Telling us how bleak it be,

Watching The Cure on MTV,

Oh the angst spills from every pore,

You pasty, dumbass, pretentious bore.

Lighten up, have a laugh,

Or at least a fucking bath,

Black lipstick does not look like a fox,

Makes you look like you have smallpox,

Quit staring at your fucking feet,

You went on holiday to fucking Crete.

You spent hundreds on that leather,

And loudly proclaim that you’ll never,

Be like all those “other drones”,

Yet you all have mobile phones.

The burden of bleakness that you carried,

Will be forgotten when you’re fat and married.