With or without you, preferably without

Ahhh Sir Bono. Where would the world be without you, Mr Paul Hewson? Who else, apart possibly from Princess Di, could fill your leather trousers as they roam the world combating global hunger with such finesse, and such big sunglasses? While you claim that you wear them because of an eye condition, we all know the truth: It is to conserve the beneficent glare of your luminosity, which you save for African villages and meetings of the World Economic Forum. But luckily for the rest of us, your share your light with us verbally, and we are all richer for the wisdom you send down to us.

Take for example the following gem, in which you are asked to describe a concert which changed your life:

The Clash
Trinity College, Dublin, 1977

Bono: Can’t remember the set list, can’t remember much about the music, to be honest. I just know that everything changed that night, and I’m sure it was not just for me. Year zero. The shock of the new, where everything reconfigured. The venue was the exam hall of Trinity College, founded by Bishop Berkeley 300 odd years previously … the man who spent his entire existence trying to prove the existence of existence. I’m not kidding. He also had a corner of San Francisco named after him. Other reconfigurations, other revolts.
It wasn’t so much a musical event. It was more like the Red Army had arrived, on a cold October night, to force feed a new cultural revolution, punk rock. Marching boots and the smell of sulphur. Not weed or speed but fear, fear of the future, no future. And the delight, so much delight. All kinds of symbols pinned on jackets, some ridiculous swastikas, Red Brigade t-shirts, hand made knock-offs of extremely expensive Seditionaries threads from London. But as there was a war going on 100 miles from here, in a strange way, the Clash made more sense in Dublin than anywhere.
As I sat in the box room and stared out the window the next day, it was very clear. The world is more malleable than you think; reality is what you can get away with.

Delight indeed.

Sulphur is of course the smell of flatulence, but we all know that you meant the smell of revolution. You have of course acquired the patent for this smell – which was created by Bolivian farmers using extant samples of Che Guevara’s sweat – and you will be bottling it under the name Twat pour homme. All proceeds will of course go to charity.

Clerics are currently preparing an official interpretation of your comment “the world is more malleable than you think; reality is what you can get away with” in order to counter the stone hearted individuals who accuse you of being a pseud and claim that this statement is in reality an oblique acknowledgement by Your Eminence that one can get away with the most pompous pretentious nonsense as long as it’s for charity. Achtung baby.

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