Without doubt, the best & most accurate album review I've ever read. http://thequietus.com/articles/15274-coldplay-ghost-stories-review EDIT: Two years in the making, alternative rock band Coldplay’s new album, essentially a concept piece about Chris Martin’s break-up with Gwyneth Paltrow, has certainly garnered a number of extremely favourable reviews. In today’s harsh critical climate when major groups can expect to be torn to pieces by a fearless music press regardless of the consequences, that’s remarkable indeed. It’s all the more remarkable given that all things considered, Ghost Stories is from its arse to its f***ing elbow, one, long stagnant f***ing pool of premium grade f***ing cockwash! I would rather chew off my f***ing scrotum than ever listen again to this boneless f***ing melange of morose f***ing piss-****! I would rather eat an entire f***ing yurt, washed down with f***ing beige paint recently shat out of an incontinent yak’s anus! Put it this way; so remorselessly insubstantial is this album that if it were submitted to the f***ing British Homeopathic Association as a f***ing potential remedy, they’d f***ing knock it back, saying: “No good, mate. You’ve over-diluted it, you silly twat!” Never in human f***ing history, since fish first slithered onto the f***ing land and sprouted limbs has there been a more nondescript f***ing decade than the f***ing Noughties and never has there been a more nondescript f***ing group than those gelatinous c***lords Coldplay! They made Dido sound like Bessie f***ing Smith! They filled the giant f***ing void in pop culture in the early 21st century because they are a giant f***ing void! Somehow, Martin’s knack for trudging up and down a keyboard like a middle aged man in f***ing chinos strolling to the f***ing corner shop to buy the f***ing Daily Express while singing like he’d just been kneed in the f***ing bollocks caught the zeitgeist of the dullest, do-nothing, think-wishfully generation of all f***ing time! In the rock & roll hall of fame they sit near the f***ing exit like a f***ing birch veneer occasional f***ing table! Getting excited about f***ing Coldplay is like getting excited about the f***ing Liberal Democrat Spring conference! Anyway, Martin got married to f***ing Gwyneth Paltrow, that ghastly, gulping, giraffe-necked, sick-making long drink of carb-averse goop, they created their own f***ing hole in the f***ing ozone layer flying around the world with Martin warbling about how concerned they were about the f***ing environment, spawned a couple of sprogs and saddled them with life-ruining names, promoted every f***ing vapid strain of spiritual, anti-materialist New Age nonsense while raking in the f***ing ackers like whorehounds and then finally “consciously uncoupled”, though it’s a f***ing wonder either of them could stay f***ing conscious in each other’s company at all, given that they’re the two most testicle-achingly f***ing tedious people on earth! And now Chris is sad. He feels like ****. And he’s perfectly conveyed that unremittingly f***ing excremental condition on f***ing Ghost Stories! So, track one 'Always In My Head' sets the f***ing dolorous tone. “I think of you/I haven’t slept.”, whines Martin, while f***ing George, Ringo and Ringo or whoever the f*** the other three are try not to fall asleep at their f***ing instruments. Next up, 'Magic'. No, sorry, it’s not about actual magic. Tommy f***ing Cooper retrieving the f***ing ace of spades from a pack using a f***ing blindfolded wooden duck, not that. Nothing remotely entertaining. No, as f***ing ever, Chris Martin’s here to suck all the f***ing joy out of the room like a giant f***ing Happiness Hoover! A wan swirl of keyboards, like that pink water you get at the f***ing dentist’s swilling down a f***ing metal hole, and Chris is all about how he f***ing “can’t get over” you know who. At which point you have to say: For f***’s sake, why, man? Gwyneth Paltrow no longer being in your life is like having a 14 inch long celery stick that’s been stuck up your arse for years surgically removed! You should be f***ing delirious! This album should be a series of f***ing honky-tonk piano-driven upbeat bangers with titles like 'Wahoo!' and 'Thank F*** Almighty, Free At Last!' and 'I Don’t Have To Knit My Breakfast No More!', all accompanied to the sound of six-shooters fired into the f***ing ceiling with both hands! All your f***ing friends hated her, were you not aware of that? But no, Chris is sad, so on we f***ing crawl through the cesspools of f***ing self-pity. “All I know is I love you/so much it hurts.” (yep, that stench coming from Stratford-Upon-Avon isn’t the drains, it’s f***ing Shakespeare ****ting himself in his grave). I’d suggest you drown your f***ing sorrows, Chris, but it’d probably be best all round if you f***ing drowned yourself! Next up; 'True Love', to a tune akin to watered down elephant smegma slowly dripping into a f***ing plastic bucket. “I wish you could have let me know/What’s really going on below.” No, kids, he doesn’t mean genitalia. Martin and Paltrow are like 1930s Disney nymphs, they don’t f***ing have genitalia. He means f***ing feelings, the c***. Cue also the worst, truncated f***ing guitar solo in f***ing history - like a dying kitten mewing for help, then remembering that this is a world with f***ing Coldplay in it and deciding not to f***ing bother. Now “Midnight” - and guess what? Chris is alone, alone. I’m not f***ing surprised. Any evening out with him’s gonna be a f***ing brief one, with mates making their excuses and back home in time for f***ing Channel 4 News! 'Another’s Arms' begins with an androgynous, anaemic yelp that is quite possibly the whitest moment in all of popular f***ing culture. Shirley f***ing Temple serenading the f***ing Ku Klux Klan with 'White Christmas' during a f***ing snowstorm could scarcely be any f***ing whiter. Next 'Oceans'. Seriously, just f*** off, you insufferable f***ing streak of twatrot! 'A Sky Full Of Stars' breaks into a disco house groove but it’s funkless like a f***ing HSBC staff party - “wave your arms in the air, finish your f***ing mineral water and be back at your desks at 7.15 sharp tomorrow morning!” And so the album wends on - imagine Christ, instead of having to carry the f***ing cross to f***ing Calvary having to carry a giant, ten foot long flaccid penis instead - that’s how listening to this f***ing album feels by this stage! Finally, the f***ing title track itself. Chris wonders if he himself is “just a ghost”. Tell you what, Martin, you woeful f***ing waste of a snail’s time, here’s one way of f***ing finding out - why not run into that f***ing brick wall head first? Twenty times, just to be f***ing sure? There was another track but the f***ing CD physically f***ing evaporated before I could play it. Coldplay? C***grey, more like! There’s only one f***ing substance on this earth more colourless and full of f***ing nothing than Ghost Stories and that’s f***ing Gwyneth Paltrow’s urine!
Nearly. Swap the word 'hate' with 'wanna bum' and you're bang on. I can't believe how childish I can be at times. No but seriously that is what it said.
He could've just put "It sounds like Coldplay", it would've meant the same thing, and saved him a lot of time.
Zane Lowe had one of their new tracks as his "Hottest Track in the World" this week, and I swear it was just a little electronic drumbeat with the odd twinkly noise on it, and Chris Martin singing in his irritating way over it. It was utterly dire, very pretentious and very self-indulgent. They've become a parody of themselves.
The worst thing is, that he's inflicted that sickly pile of ****e on the World and then has got back with the nut eating, boring bitch.
That's looking like a crop top to me. Takes a certain type of man to pull that off without looking a bit metro. As seen here... please log in to view this image
OMG, or should that be OLM? The one on the right looks remarkably like Lambo. In fact it is him. It would therefore appear he has a collection of crop tops. Good on him, it is 2014 after all. I'm sure you can all guess who the leather joy boy is?
Saw them on Jools the other week. Embarrassing beyond ****ing belief. They've gone ****ing Eurovision. "You're a sky full of stars..." - **** me, Chris, you're a lyrical ****ing genius you are. ****.
Coldplay are ****ing gash, and always have been ! Look at the stars,see how they shine for you, in that weedy whingey whiney pathetic voice. Chris Martins is a deluded, charmed life ****, and that review is genius
