Rum bugger, Johnny Icon, what? How, exactly, does one become a cult figure? What’s the criterion? Well, it’s not talent, obviously, or Cerys Matthews would be the coolest pop dude on the planet and the caterwauling frog-cougher Ian Brown
would be a squeegee merchant. Or one of those ‘aggressive beggars’. Whatever, the fact is that the deceased 2Pac – the thinking wigga’s Ali G – gets more massive with every passing year. So it probably matters not a jot that this is a piece of third rate crap that manages to be both irritatingly sentimental and tediously macho. Ace bod, mind! PHWOOOOOAR!