For wages equivalent to two unkosher goy lattes (as well as a promise to finance yet another definitive remix, remake and remaindering of that infamous Twenty First Century Scherzandoid, Thing Dismal masterpiece: The Power to Be Peeved) the detail-oriented Norbert has forsaken precious moments of instrumental chastisement, to ponder the characteristic characteristics that identify the John Bulls and Bulimiae, from tediously nasal South Afrikaners, offensively polite Canadians, shrimp sucking Australians, Academy Award winning New Zealanders with their 30 odd feet of grunts, and paunchy Americans who can no longer don the marginally gay apparel of their misspent youth, and thus wax nostalgic for whirling pianos, spinning drum kits, pratty pants, lame capes, tambourine-smacking tenors in white suits and the epic profundities of 23 minute, double sided, indubitably dense, prog rock toot suites.
So far, the fiercely focused Fragg has determined that Madonna, that newly accented, fabulously fit home maker who has yet to include a Fraggish shred among her dancible odes to polymorphous maternity, is non-Britania. David Beckham, whose life, if not his wife, are too often played for kicks, appears to be of Anglish distraction, despite pretentions to "Hollywood" glamour. Posters to Norbert’s guestbook who accuse him of gratuitous self-importance, intemperate distemper and other varieties of robusto con molto vulgari ill-humor, are members of the vile and notorious English secret society, Opus Dopus, recently exposed in the best-selling Italian Renaissance cookbook, DaVinci Al la Mode.
Alas, Norbert's last judgement has been found to be so lacking in accuracy that fatuously uninformed members of the music press ( who wouldn’t know a flatted, if flatulent, fifth, from the bonny, bonny filth in the Firth of Forth), have branded our Norbert a quixotic "blight errant," an obdurate "nob twaddler" engaged in the persistent persecution of those who would exploit his loud, proud, financially under-endowed legacy.
Some among Norbert's earnest but feckless fans feel it is high (if not, low) time to rush to This Fragg’s defense.
But the quirking, not-yet-doing-his-life’s-working guitarist has spurned these offers, and has instead retired to a view-deprived accommodation in the infamous Hotel Receptacle, where he contemplates the pernicious paradoxes of perforced performance as he savagely ravishes tasty cakes, slurps the sap of a overly squeezed orange, and lets solutions arise.
