I was enlightened by fishnetted crotch-shots in glossy magazines. I was enlightened by banana and bondage themed videos. I was enlightened by lyrics crass enough to make my Mother suffer bouts of pre-menopausal hot flushes. Well, sorry Rihanna, I know you’ve put in an awful lot of time, effort and leg splaying to help me arrive at this crystal-clear realisation… but I’m now sure my life was better without the addition of your gyrating personage assaulting my TV screen.
When Rihanna’s much-anticipated latest album, Talk That Talk, arrived in my iTunes this week, I barely recognised her. Having been gratuitously inundated with flashes of voluptuous flesh from almost exclusively under her collarbone, I’d forgotten what was a-top that glut of curvature. When you sell records so competently via the medium of your undercarriage, why bother with something as U-rated as a face, eh? Luckily for me, the thoughtful Miss RiRi was pulling what shall henceforth be known as ‘fellatio face’, which proved most useful in jolting my memory. As swathes of horny men and impressionable girls rush to part with their money for an album filled with singing that sounds like a Caribbean Kazoo, and lyrics that sound like a DVD stashed under your brother’s mattress, I have chosen instead to furiously bash at my keyboard until all Rihanna-borne hatred subsides. So possibly well into next week. With one swift tea break. Rihanna, why do I hate thee? Let me count the ways… (or at least, the top five- or we’ll be here all year, and I’ll have inadvertently written a dissertation of unbounded wrath).
5. Rihanna, your voice sounds like a goose being made into foie gras while it’s still in capacity of all its senses.
This is especially true if said goose is of Caribbean descent. The hordes of people who buy entire albums of this nasal honk-fest must either be a little deaf or partial to the sounds emitted by the M25 in rush hour. On the plus side, when your career deflates (coinciding, I should think, with the baggy deflation of your main advertising instrument: your pert Barbadian behind), you can be safe in the knowledge that a stellar career as the voice behind Britain’s Got Talent buzzers lies ahead.
4. Rihanna, your forehead is so large it shouldn’t be allowed out without a permit.
I could literally set up a Boris Bike drop off point between Rihanna’s hairline and eyebrows. Every time I switch on my TV, your vast expanse of forehead is hogging an inane amount of pixels… it’s enough to make the cast of Star Trek jealous. It’s a wanton forehead. It’s a greedy forehead. It’s a forehead belonging to Rihanna, and I just don’t like it.
The hordes of people who buy entire albums of this nasal honk-fest must either be a little deaf or partial to the sounds emitted by the M25 in rush hour.
3. Rihanna, you made my 11-year-old sister sing about S&M.
Throngs of tweeny boppers worship at the Church of RiRi, memorising her every lyric, facial expression and dance move. This, rather worryingly, has created throngs of trainee foul-mouthed lap-dancers. Nobody should suffer the fate of hearing their small sister’s sexual vocabulary stretch to ‘rude boy, get it up’ and ‘chains and whips excite me’ before her twelfth birthday. It’s like the soundtrack to Gary Glitter’s wildest dreams.
2. Rihanna, shooting your boyfriend in a video is not big, funny, or particularly clever when you suffered at the hands of domestic violence.
No man should hit a woman, ever. Not even if she sounds like a goose with sinus problems. But violence is not a tit-for-tat affair! Singing about shooting people, getting guns tattooed on you willy-nilly and generally toeing the line of acceptable violence is, in PR terms, the most baffling decision I have witnessed since George Michael claimed to think that a glory hole was merely penis ornamentation.
1. Rihanna, Amsterdam-hooker-chic went out in the late nineties.
There are only so many times in a day I can see your butt crease/groin tendons/heaving cleavage without feeling like I should set up a monthly direct debit into Whores TSB. Whether it's farmer chic, barbadian chic, rock 'n' roll chic or dominatrix-barbie chic, Rihanna always manages to look like a particularly subversive toy in sluts'r'us. It's raising the slag bar for women nationwide- no longer is a bum-skimming skirt acceptable, oh no, the new risqué is French-knicker length, and half eaten by your crack. Thanks, RiRi.
You might also like
Click here for more People stories
Click here to follow Sabotage Times on Twitter
Click here to follow Sabotage Times on Facebook