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Zane Lowe just told me that he “enjoyed being in the ring” with me. I was left with a sense of disquiet. I had only turned the radio on a few seconds before, in a moment of flippancy. I found myself considering various pugillistic scenarios involving me and the antipodean failed rapper stripped to the waist. It was pretty fucking unpleasant.
I would probably win though. Because Zane Lowe talks too much. He would be concentrating so hard on forming sentences containing active verbs that my southpaw would crush him. Zane Lowe talks so much he has unwittingly become a conscious breather. For someone who makes his livelihood disseminating music, that man talks as though he is an organic version of the bus from “Speed”, and will suffer an embolism if his word rate drops under a hundred a minute.
I’m worried about him. I don’t think he can be happy, and that his incessant rambling is a way of disguising a deep-seated existential misery of some kind. Zane Lowe has gazed into the abyss. But the abyss gazes also.
He should concentrate on other things for a change. If I was bezzy mates with Zane Lowe, we’d find a lot of things to do with our time more interesting than merely talking and “getting on board”. Things like bowling, watching Jordan get toe-frigged by Dane Bowers and believing in Jim Jones. It could be sweet. We’d get matching tattoos on our ankles.
I think someone needs to keep an eye on Zane Lowe. I think someone needs to sit him down, make him a cup of tea, and tell him, quietly, that sometimes it’s OK to lose.
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Real Cruelty in Imaginary Gardens 