J. Lo's new album will be ska-tinged, according to an interview in Harper's Bazaar.
No it bloody won't. It will sound a bit like Gwen Stefani. Now, sorry if I turn into Mark Lamarr for a moment, but how fucking dare this ludicrous woman presume that the corporate schlock she foists on her simpleton fanbase will have even the vaguest sniff of ska. She cannot sing; she cannot act; she wears more makeup than a Pattaya ladyboy; her sole contribution to human happiness is the suggestion that women with big arses can be attractive, and Carl Malcolm could have told her that already. She has no idea of the quivering joy that people like John Holt, Desmond Dekker, Jackie Mittoo, Toots Hibbert, Jerry Dammers or Pauline Black have brought to so many; she is a witless parasite, not fit to buff up the band on Prince Buster's trilby.
I will now calm down with some virtual bubblewrap, kindly provided by Grammar Puss; chortle merrily at a crazed slab of art history from First Nations, flagged up by the ever-fruitful Patroclus; and attempt to rearrange the words "John", "sex" and "Prescott" to create a phrase that doesn't provoke uncontrollable vomiting.