Guy Garvey can just Feck Off

Dear Mum

I’m in a really foul mood today. Guy Garvey has been singing about me again.

What gives him the right to slip into my mind, take my thoughts, my feelings, ripping them out of my head and turning in them into lyrics for his latest songs? I could fucking kill him. Bastard.

Elbow? I’ll give him the fucking elbow, if he carries on. Every time I play the stuff, there’s a Siren like effect that takes place. It pulls me right in Mum. It’s not fair. I have to play some of them again and again, to check it’s me he’s singing about. It is. I cry. They are horror and beauty. They pull apart my insides. I think.

It’s like these two verses, Mum, from Some Riot

A friend of mine grows his very own brambles
They twist all around him ’til he can’t move
Beautiful, quivering, chivalrous shambles
What is my friend trying to prove?

The booze turns a tall, gentle boy to a terrible totem
And the kids gather round trying to see what’s inside
I think when he’s drinking he’s drowning some riot
What is my friend trying to hide?

I am all of these things and more; and less; and everything. I think.

It couldn’t be the case that I go all Chapman on him; riddiculous and excessive and futile. Besides, the ironic thing is that if he stops, then how am I supposed to know who I am? But, I think I’d like to give him a right smack in the face. I think.

Ah, I’m sorry for the rant Mum. It’s just that some things are a little close to home and I don’t know why he has to do it. And do you know what? For all his thievery of my feelings, he can’t even be bothered to follow me back on Twitter. It hurts.

Love, as always,

Your Son



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