Anything by James Fucking Brown
And all because back in the day (the 90's - ask your parents) I used to "work" for a pisspoor local radio station. Now around this time the powers that be were launching the National Lottery, and what better way to publicise it than to send out local radio DJs like me into shopping centres to explain to the bovine masses how it works, and having a few pretend goes so that everybody understands the principles. Ergo, picture if you please: me, in a too-tight yellow t-shirt with the station logo on it, manboobs straining out of the flimsy polycotton mix, speaking into a £5 microphone with feedback gaily reverberating back from the windows of the pound-stores which were the only sort of shop that thrived in the dreadful white elephant of a mall. Yes, there I am, explaining to a motley assortment of urine-reeking old grannies, urine-reeking tramps and urine-reeking drunkards just exactly how they can piss away a pound every week on something they haven't a hope of winning. All the while, James Bastard Brown is on a loop tape banging on about how "I Feel Good!". Endlessly. For six hours a day. Over three days.

And that's how I learned to hate James Brown.
(highly_defined, Mon 11 Feb 2008, 18:18, Reply)