Amanda Palmer vs the Sidebar of Shame (NSFW. You have been warned)

The musician is not a fan of the Daily Mail, it seems.

Amanda Palmer, the former lead singer of the Dresden Dolls whose crowdfunded album made kickstarter history, performed this delightful little number at the Roundhouse in Camden last night. It's called "Dear Daily Mail. Sincerely, Amanda Palmer", and is, er, very not-safe-for-work. You have been warned.

If you have neither the permissive environment nor audio equipment to listen to the video, the lyrics are below. The point isn't quite as forceful, but it still comes across clearly enough:

 

Dear Daily Mail,
It has come to my recent attention,
That my recent appearance at Glastonbury Festival's
Kindly received a mention,
I was doing a number of things on that stage
Up to and including singing songs - like you do!
But you chose to ignore that and instead you published
A feature review of my boob
 
Dear Daily Mail,
There's a thing called a search engine - use it
If you Googled my tits in advance you'd have found
That your photos are hardly exclusive,
In addition you state that my breast had escaped
From my bra like a thief on the run,
How do you know that it wasn't attempting
To just take in the rare British sun?
 
Dear Daily Mail,
It's so sad what you tabloids are doing,
Your focus on debasing womens' appearances
Devolves our species of humans,
But a rag is a rag, and far be it from me,
To go censoring anyone-- oh no,
It appears that my entire body is currently
Trying to escape this kimono!
 
Dear Daily Mail,
You misogynist pile of twats,
I'm tired of these baby bumps, vag flashes, muffintops,
Where are the news-worthy cocks?
When Iggy, or Jagger, or Bowie, go shirtless
The news barely causes a ripple,
Blah blah blah feminist, blah blah blah gender shit,
Blah blah blah OH MY GOD NIPPLE
 
Dear Daily Mail,
You will never write about this night,
I know that because I've addressed you directly
I've made myself no fun to fight,
But thanks to the internet people all over the world
Can enjoy this discourse,
And commune with a roomful of people in London
Who aren't drinking Kool-Aid like yours
 
And though there be millions of people who accept
The cultural bar where you have it at it,
There are plenty of others who are perfectly willing
To see breasts in their natural habitat
I keenly anticipate your highly literate
Coverage of upcoming tours
Dear Daily Mail,
Up Yours.
 

Alex Hern is a technology reporter for the Guardian. He was formerly staff writer at the New Statesman. You should follow Alex on Twitter.

John Waterman/Fox Photos/Getty Images
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“Driving Through the Pit Town”: a poem by Rory Waterman

Then – surprise – a pale sun picks at a slit / in the paper sky.”

There’s not much round here now, you say,
just huddled brick or pebbledash terraces,
and tiny new-builds where the pitheads were
.

Bare hills fly up beyond the town you left,
with clasps of scree, caps of sodden green,
pitched above the neat slate pitches

but your eyes stay on the road. The side streets jut
left and right, so many of them, like ribs.
You jab a finger: We lived up top of that one.

Then – surprise – a pale sun picks at a slit
in the paper sky. Yellow slaps down
momently, and slides along the valley,

and the half-a-pit-wheel trenched in the roundabout
shimmers, red as gut. We won’t stop here
and most of the shops (Kebabland, USA Nail’s,

Milan Fashions) are shut or boarded anyway.
The four lads pincering fags outside the Co-op,
gobbing and shoving, repulse for what they are.

It’s no use knowing better, more, you say.
And in blue spray paint, the back of the village sign
cries “DING DONG!!”. Like we’re waiting at a door.

 

Rory Waterman lives in Nottingham. His debut collection, Tonight the Summer’s Over, is a PBS Recommendation and was shortlisted for the Seamus Heaney Prize.

This article first appeared in the 28 April 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The new fascism