Theophilus P London update
We’re nearly a month on from the original ILB/Theo LDN contretemps. We’ve laid our position out there. We even fired a few shots over Twitter, as apparently real motherfukkin’ g’s do in 2K10. And how as Theo responded? By hanging out with Jack Penate. It’s shit like this that makes me wonder why I ever bothered with rap music in the first place, if I’d have known the culture was going to culminate with its participants knocking back Hoegaarden with the less-manly version of Kate Nash (also the first artist to come out in favour of David Cameron in an NME article, Carmody fans).
What the hell is this picture precisely? If dude’s father had spent a little less time showing his son how to cinch his belt in an extra four notches, and a little more time using that belt to soundly smack him around the head over and over again until he developed some sense, then maybe it wouldn’t be a need for this. I mean, we’ve all bullshitted interest in a girl faffing about with vintage camera equipment in a graveyard before, but that was because we thought we were going to get laid, not because we thought Jack Penate might write “lol good pix phone me xxx” in our Facebook gallery.
I mean, a less finessed man than mesen would mention the Freudian slipperiness of calling Parisian “guys” sexy on Theo’s part. But that’s not our style. Instead, if you scoot over to the Rock the Vote webpage, you can find an interview with our man where he mentions that he went to a nurse’s school, and was the only boy in the majority of his classes for the whole year. Suddenly everything becomes a little clearer.
So, Theo. Look, originally we were going to go to the mattresses against you, ILB would unleash its readership of jaded hip-hop bloggers, overenthusiastic indie phags who wish I was still writing for DiS or Stylus or somewhere with a slightly clearer site design, Guinea motherfuckers happy to see a paisan make some progress in the world and prospective employers googling my name and deciding not to hire me due to a jovial usage of the word “faggot” on you. But let’s not do that. You need help. You’ve lacked male influence in your life, your father didn’t do his job properly, and in the playground at school you were corralled into games of pat-a-cake and having your hair put in bunches.
We’ll help you. We’ll put together a compilation DVD of old Harley Race matches. We’ll go and fill up our Nando’s card together. We’ll actually sit down and do the Jeff Stelling drinking game. ILB promises that if you let us help you help yourself, by the end of the year your testosterone levels will have doubled to, oooh, 20 millilitres. What do you say Theo? I know you’re not man enough to accept the challenge, but if you do, you eventually could be.
Alternately, here’s my man Royce Da 5’9 spitting some truth on you skinny jeans motherfuckers from his latest mixtape “The Bar Exam 3”: