Category Archives: Singles

California

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Sure, the singer is from Montreal by way of Paris, but I defy you to tell me that she didn’t absolutely nail SoCal with this song. This video, by the way, cost three-quarters of a million dollars to make, and was directed by the relatively insane Abel Ferrara, whose habits may perhaps explain why so much of that money ultimately ended up in Columbia.

Lyrics and translation are after the jump.

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Donnie Davies responds to the h8erz

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The right reverend Donnie Davies responds to the bitter apostates who’ve stuffed his email and his comments sections with so much haterade over the past few days. There’s only one punchline in this video, but it’s golden, trust me.

For the original video, click here. For updates, click here and here.

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Too. Much. Information.

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heartlessly stolen from Pharyngula along with the title.

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Donnie Davies performs God Hates a Fag: the infamous video

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Yes doubters, it’s the real thing! Now that every single one of the Right Reverend Donnie Davies‘ websites has had the plug pulled on it, the entire Internet, apparently, experiencing the online equivalent of a Coyote Morning, the banned video is hotter than Helmand heroin. 

Naturally from the very first we at the ol’ raincoaster blog have been on this like santorum on a rentboy. The video file was lovingly ripped at great pain and uncountable expense from a ripped copy of a ripped copy of a MySpace video which had been smuggled out of Celebrities in the bottom of a converted Boblbee, and God, who hates a fag by the way, only knows what the quality is like on this poor bugger. Sod’s law.

Yes, people, it is a joke. You may climb down from the ceiling now.

Latest UPDATE HERE: what MTV doesn’t want you to see!

Lyrics over the hump…I mean JUMP!
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I married a spy…and all I got was this lousy cottage in Essex

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Works great on bloodstains...also gunpowder residueWell I, personally, didn’t marry a spy, although there’s still time (interested parties leave contact details in comments section, plz). No indeed, this is a piece from the Guardian, interviews with three wives of, all of whom are well past their “tempt the Russian delegation with your best meatballs, won’t you dear?” stage, and only some of whom have recovered. Fascinating reading, if only for the satisfaction of thinking to yourself Well, I’d at least have shot someone for fuck’s sake! Might as well stay in the playgroup, you lot of wankers.

Special bonus pointlessly salacious and juvenile tidbit: the interviewer’s name is Fanny.

In 1939, 18-year-old Betty Farmer was being wooed by a man who was not only good-looking and charismatic, but also, apparently, had a job “in the film business”. When he whisked her off for a few days holiday in Jersey, she was surprised by the two rather shady looking men who accompanied them, but kept her concerns to herself.

On their second day away, over Sunday lunch, with the sunshine dancing on the sea outside, Betty‘s paramour kissed her briefly, before hurling himself through a closed window and running down the beach, chased by the police. Betty had no choice but to rely on his repeated promise: “I shall go, but I shall always come back.”

With a lede like that, how can you not finish the piece?
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