James Cunt

James Blunt should be shot. Repeatedly. With a bow and arrow so that he suffers before he dies. If I hear that stupid "Beautiful" song one more time, I'll do it.

I wrote this in my old (now defunct) blog while I was in London, and no one back home had any idea who I was talking about.

A week into my six-month stint in London, “You're Beautiful” by James Blunt hit number one and stayed there…for a very long time. I immediately assumed that James Blunt was American because in above mentioned song, he refers to the “subway.” Anyone who has been to England knows that there is no “subway” in London, but rather, a nifty little watered-down version of it, called the Tube. (There actually are “subways” in London, but they refer to underpasses. They also have Subway sandwich shops, which should be called Tube sandwich shops. I mean, they call Axe deodorant Lynx deodorant there, so why wouldn't they change Subway also? I’ll stop now before I go completely off on a tangent…) So, “You're Beautiful” hit number one and everywhere I went, it was playing on repeat over and over and over and over…

I twitch just thinking about it.

I mean, if it was a good song that wasn’t about some loser seeing a hot chick on the “bloody tube” with her boyfriend and falling madly in love with her and deciding that he’s going to get her at all costs (read: jerk-off to memory of her, write terrible song in attempt to woo her, make music video in which facial expressions suggest that jagged stick has been inserted into anus without aid of lubrication, pretty much be as creepy as humanly possible about it), then maybe I wouldn’t have minded so much. But everyone seemed to think this was the best, most sweetest song written in history, ever. These are the same people who choose “Every Breath You Take” by the Police as their wedding song.

I hated it the first time I heard it and I sure as hell hated it after months of hearing it fifteen times a day. Thankfully, after five months, it began its steady fall from the charts only to be replaced, to my absolute horror, by another, equally God-awful song by him, “High.”

Six months after I landed in London, I returned home to New York to discover the most ecstasy-inducing piece of information of 2006—that James Blunt was not American and was not popular in the states (insert L skipping and jumping through JFK). The joy I felt to be freed of his whiney voice, his gag-worthy lyrics, his anus-puckered lips was comparable to the day I ripped off Donald Trump’s toupee and ran through the streets of New York waving it in the air while he covered his face and sobbed, “you’re fired” (it’s possible I just dreamt that).

Then it happened. I flipped on the radio, and there he was, belting it out in all his talentless glory

You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, you’re beautiful, it’s true…

Panic set in. Was it a fluke? Was it a nightmare? Was I somehow on a British music station? Was it his attempt (and ultimate failure) at American success?

But weeks passed and sure enough, there he was…everywhere I fucking went. Radio, television, blasting through the streets of Manhattan, declaring his love for me and any woman that might have accidentally smiled at a stranger because he had a snot string hanging out of his nose—James Cunt.

-L