‘But certainly for the present age, which prefers the sign to the thing signified, the copy to the original, representation to reality, the appearance to the essence… illusion only is sacred, truth profane. Nay, sacredness is held to be enhanced in proportion as truth decreases and illusion increases, so that the highest degree of illusion comes to be the highest degree of sacredness’

Mick Miller Jr

Standing on the Head & Shoulders of symbolic violence*

He’s back! The wait is over! Stop the clocks! William Blarnard Allgusto Gallagher, known throughout CULTURE as LIAM ©. To be known by a single moniker allegedly makes you IMPORTANT and VALUABLE a la Madonna and Prince and lest we forget Adolf, AntunDec and Wagner.

The hetero-retro man, the Manc (performing professional), the poxy moron, the intellect vacuum, the vocal puncture gasping his rasp! To mass knicker wetting and nappy filling across the lands this return is the most anticipated since Beady Eye’s ‘triumphant’ dent in the psyche (less so the tills) way back yore. Remember? You must!

In these times of despair and malevolence what this ailing globe needs is more 60s derived, piss-weak over the counter cultural rehashed grooves and studied moves allied to (oh-so) macho posturing. Yes, the last 25 years have passed and NOTHING’S changed. No lessons learned. Blokes, birds, booze, braggadocio and big coats. Another dusting down of the casting off. Well-worn clichés bandied about for the umpteenth time. The Icon of the imbecilic, the idol of the ignorant. Dark days becoming darker, sunshiiiiiiine from a black sun.

But, that’s the way the bored hordes want it, like Han Solo in carbonite, time must be locked, frozen in a moment, a calcified memory of times when being ‘madferrit’ meant you were ‘cool’ and at the top of the hip, your cultural capital at its zenith.


‘FAME! We’re gonna live foreveeeer’ Well, in aisle 14, next to the frozen spring rolls, Iceland, Goole.

The all-pervasive cult (sic) of celebrity has its genesis from this time, when LIAM ©. was cultivating his stereotype for the edification of the ‘bloids, adorning the glossies, ever hawking his wares to the hawks who would eventually turn on him.

This ambassador of ersatz echoes (appropriated underground sounds, recycled alternative attitude, recuperated rebellion ad nauseum) who was unwittingly (go figure!) on the payroll of the Neu-Labour neo-liberal project, an unpaid intern for war-monger Tony Baloney’s ascent to the polit-throne, a hypno-headrushing three years (1994 -1997) all soundtracked by a simulacra’d scene of bad copy and poor taste.

Recent PR meet and greets have found LIAM © resurrecting his old lines, safe barbs, dredged digs and jocular japery on the same topics, tired and trusted themes, like his ‘art’ it’s retrieve, repeat, recoil. Over and over.

C’mon, who hasn’t missed that constipated swagger (best get those bowels checked, maaan), the gaseous ill-wind-blag, the affected posing, the social media-headline generating fratricidal musings over Lil’ Jimmy Krankie’s own solo droppings ( a modern day Lame and Unable), all disingenuously PR driven drivel designed to coax the fossilised figures out from behind their inner sepia screens and an attempt attract some new disciples keen to sample a taste of that pre-millennial hullabaloo, back when the drugs were aplenty and the days were heady. ‘Real’ rock ‘n roll, yeah?

His re-emergence from enforced seclusion (‘those prying paps, maaan, snapping me when I’m going through me Rik Waller does Jim Morrison phase’ below) is instigating Proustian reflexes of programmed behaviour from the time-warped tribe; like moths to a flickering flame wherein the flame is a barely functioning anachronism who’s thawed like Cro-Magnon man, oozing pilt and emanating backward exhortations. Again.


‘Who ate all the piiiiieeees?’

Since 2009 this bird’s been flying solo so low without the lyrical perfections of said sibling, Manchestoh’s very own Hervé Villechaize tribute act.


Noel Laurate #1 ‘If I had a gun I’d shoot a hole in the sun’ (‘I can’t compete with that, I’m calling it a day’ Leonard Cohen’s dying words 2016) **

This last clutch for relevance is driven by the desire to keep the brood fed and watered, a long-standing inability to ‘keep it in his denim strides’ resulting in numerous siring which means the bank manager’s calling, the balance closer to red than black, debit not credit. Fortune teller Noel saw it coming on the millennium chiming  ‘Put yer money where your mouth is’: ‘Ready or not and come what may, you betcha going down on Judgement Day, so put yer money in yer mouth,  and your hands right up on the wheel’

His litter (the acknowledged and ‘vicariously alimonied’ Legal Ed.) are proving as mercantile to the system as they flit between the ‘none-more’ worthy’ worlds of modelling and thesp work. Well, with ‘Genes’ like theirs culture’s in a better state *Gielgud combusts*

In the hyper-connected virtual net-trap Matrix LG1 is the ONE, he is NEO-Man, his ‘art’ a crayon labyrinthine rabbit-hole of never ending whining and draught-tunnels. Watch that barnet, the Cherry Blossom‘s not dry.


Swill-iam at his 18th, Burnage Working Men’s Club. His ‘Kylie in Neighbours goes High School Reunion’ phase (courtesy M. Gallagher ©)

So why comeback now? Well, top-strologer profit-prophet Alan McSee asserts ‘1997 + 20 = 2017 which in Egyptian numerology translates as ££££+. Plus, his forthcoming Diana themed released ‘Queen of our heartaches’ is mighty zeitgeisty, innit?’ Sure is, Al.

The grim-pending long-player As you were (‘Oooh, the tension, I wonder what it will SOUND like?’ Berk Arkwright, Salford) gathers a ‘crack’ team of tune Doctors and version surgeons to assemble that HIT. Where once he would have decried such devolution as ‘inauthentic’ and not rock ‘n’ roll, maaan’ this is his final shot at credibility, his resorting to committee workshopped pop-rock the desperate plight of an inveterate man.

Caught between courting the consumer groups ‘tweenagers’ torn between this nostalgia fossil and nouveau pin up Harry ‘Le Style’ Styles and the historelics that cling to their ossified recollections, hours of Youtube repeats not satiating their cravings. This return is their salve, their saviour saves. This IS the Second Coming, Ian Brownbread.

The rear-guard gate-keeping taste-makers such as Minister for Britpopeganda, Steve ‘Call me Lammo’ Lamacq and Sean ‘None more Northern than me’ Keaveny are primed to utter their required mutterances, be braced for such profound adjectivising as ‘Tour de force’, ‘Plugging that plank shaped hole like no other’ and ‘Watch out Noel, Yul Brynner’s back in town’. The lackeys await their orders.


‘Fook, firing more blanks. Wish me girth did, I’d be loaded’

In the society of the spectacle fake desires are cultivated and true feelings manipulated. Autonomy replaced by blind acquiescence***. Beware the clone-drones, they will be legion.

* In the work of Pierre Bourdieu, symbolic violence denotes more than a form of violence operating symbolically. It is “the violence which is exercised upon a social agent with his or her complicity” (Bourdieu and Wacquant 2002, 167)

** Taken from 2011’s mammoth boundary demolishing single If I Had a Gun…”. Tellingly it’s B-side is titled “I’d Pick You Every Time”. Me too, Noel, me too …

*** ‘What sleeping arsehole …’ (sic)

Guy Debored 2017 ©


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