Drugs are bad, m'kay?

Dear Diary,

It's an awful shame that so many of our young people are turning to drugs these days. Why just today I read a review of our latest single by a poor guy who was obviously smoking the crack.

As has been well documented, the crack makes people get very agitated and their attention span diminishes to near-zero - hence this guy's assertion that "after my first day of listening, I have tired of the U2 format". Sure of course he has! The poor fella would've tired of a roller-coaster after about 5 seconds.

Then, as if slipping further down spiral of drug-induced delirium, he went on to say, "This new single does not have the original, going-against-the-grain factor that might suggest the new U2 album will be any different from the last two decent albums".

Now I don't need to point out the flaws in his logic to you, a non-drug-fiend. But it think it goes without saying that How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb was pretty much received as the only peer of The White Album, and I personally heard numerous people saying that if John Lennon wasn't dead he'd have killed himself on the spot upon having heard All That You Can't Leave Behind knowing that he would never better it, so what he's on about with "decent albums" I've no idea.

As if to add insult to injury, the little guy goes on to bafflingly ask, "Is it time to... ask if there any need for another U2 album?". I mean, come on - is there any need for another Mandella, another Picasso, another Gandhi? You're fuckin right there is.

Don't push me, cause I'm close to...

Dear Diary,

So there I am in the studio the other day, and I'm belting out a new song I put together. And there's The Edge, and he's sittin there listenin. But I can tell by the look in his eye that the cunt's not really too pushed. So I ask him what he thinks.

"Yeah, not bad", he says.

'Not bad?!", I'm thinkin, 'is this guy for fuckin real?!'

I mean, if I went to work every day with Nelson Mandella or Martin Luther King I'd be only awe-struck on a daily basis. And them by me, I'm sure.

But there's The Edge, Not-Bad-ing out of him to his heart's content, as if I were just some pleb the fucker happened to be in a band with.

About fucking time...

Dear Diary,

So Dave finally turned up with them fuckin pastries. Impetint bastard even had the neck to ask if he could have one. I told him to fuck right off with himself. "For fuck sake, Dave", I said, "what took ye so long? Ye didn't have to get changed into that suit just to bring me the Danishes. Semi-formal woulda been grand".

And the cunt goes to say something, but I throw him a look as if to say "I dare ye", and he shuts his gob. Smart move, Fanning... or my shoe woulda been stuck in a orifice it that can't get out of.

I feel Bobby Sands' pain

Dear Diary,

So I'm sittin here trying to work on some new lyrics, but I can't, cause I'm fuckin starving. I rang Dave Fanning over an hour ago and told him to get the fuck over here with some Danishes, stat.

He kept fuckin shiteing on about "attending a funeral" or something. Don't know what the cunt was on about, cause I'd already said I was at home.

He'd want to show up quick smart or I'll be lettin it known that it was Larry Gogan who spotted us first.

Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want

Dear Diary,

I took a stroll down Grafton Street last night and I passed the statue of Philo.

I mean, what the fuck? Are they doing it simply to spite me?

Surely if Phil Lynott gets a statue like that then I should have one like the Statue of fucking Liberty. Or, they could do it like Mount Rushmore and carve my face into the Wicklow Mountains. Four times.

Another suggestion: why, on O'Connell Street, instead of the poxy Spire - which everybody hates - didn't they erect a statue of yours truly - who everybody loves?

And, if not a statue, at the very least surely on my way home I should hear, "please fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentlemen, we'll shortly be making our descent to Paul Hewson International Airport".

Fight Music

Dear Diary,

I had a fight with Larry today. He goes mental when he's pissed. Told me he'd stick his drumsticks up "one of the two holes" that I "shite out of". I know? I've no idea either.

Anyway, we were having a difference of opinion over song titles. He maintains that the song titles on the new album should be a minimun of 15 words in length, whereas I think they should be 16. I'm still well fucked off that he wouldn't agree to calling our last album, How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb In The City Of Blinding Lights Because Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own, so I told him "no way, Larry, I'm sticking to my guns".

Anyway, we came to a compromise at 15.

Original Pirate Material

Dear Diary,

I can't fucking believe it. Some little cunt is squealing that we ripped off his album cover for our new album, "No Line On The Horizon".

I can't for the life of me understand what he's on about.

Exhibit A: our album cover has a big fucking 'equals' sign on it - his has nothing.

Exhibit B: our album cover has a border around it - again, his does not.

Exhibit C: our album is by U-fucking-2 - his is by Taylor Deupree. Taylor who? Exactly.

Hit me baby, one more time

Dear Diary,

Angelina Jolie and Madonna have been pissing me right off over the past while. I mean, what the fuck is with them adopting all these babies? They're grabbing black ones, brown ones, yellow ones, strawberry-filled, chocolate-coated ones - the works!

I wouldn't mind one bit if they were being discreet about it, building up their collection away from the media spotlight, but every time they get a new one it's front page news - "Gotta Catch 'Em All: Angelina adopts new baby".

I'm at my wits end with it all. Do you know how many intensely meaningful and profound quotes from yours truly have been relegated to the middle pages of newspapers due to them two hogging the headlines? I'm seriously considering putting my own kids up for adoption, simply so I can readopt them at a later date.

Inauguration

Dear Diary,

We played the "We Are One" concert on Sunday. That bollocks Springsteen showed us up by bringing on a huge fucking choir. It was left to me, as per usual, to pull it back in the end. Luckily I had a handy quote on hand for just such an eventuality:

"Not just an American dream -- also an Irish dream, a European dream, African dream, Israeli dream, and also a Palestinian dream."

Classic, isn't it? I should've been a poet. Suppose I kind of am, really. An 'historically timeless and eternally relevant poet' would probably be the best way to describe me.

Honestly though, I don't know how I come up with this shit. If there was a camera on me I'd say that it just comes to me "via The Vibe that permeates our very existance and thus our omnipresent collective soul", but there's not. And anyway, Ali helped me.

I'm so fucking lucky that I had a contingency plan though. I doubt that a less-than-Messianic "Springsteen's a fucker" would have done the trick.

Pasteur ain't got shit on me

Dear Diary,

I think I cured AIDS this morning.

I was in the bathroom, right after emptying my bowels of my organically-grown-by-blind-children yams and Fair Trade spinach, when I decided to do an experiment. I mixed one part Head & Shoulders with two parts Listerine and a small drop of contact lens ointment. It has not been clinically tested yet, but I'm pretty sure it will do the trick.

Now for global poverty. I'm thinking Herbal Essences and Colgate?