Bloop-de-bloop-de-bloop goes this pointless sonic spiral in a vortex of inanity, a bit like an approximation of the Pentium Processor theme...
Big beat. What a caper. Gonzo-pop innocence in excelsis and how we all larfed and BRA – tee-hee! – were its knights in shiny boiler suits and the beach at Brighton whizzed’n’fizzed’n’threw its frozen fish fingers in the air like it just didn’t care that the whole wheeze was a transient sideshow cavalcade because, of course, it didn’t because that, of course, was the Point. And the point BRA have now forgotten, bringing us the keg-dregs of what Stormin’ [a]Norman Cook[/a] called, three years ago, the ‘gags’ of big beat and today they’re the other sort entirely. Bloop-de-bloop-de-bloop goes this pointless sonic spiral in a vortex of inanity, a bit like an approximation of the Pentium Processor theme tune while a
robot commands, supersonically, [I]”Feel the music in your gut, get up and move your butt!”[/I]. Feel the music in your butt, get up and move your gut, more like. (How disgusting. Sorry.)