Louis Walsh

When god was handing out the cuntitude, the switch got flicked in the On position and he filled up Louis’ flaccid little carcass with it like a hose in a water balloon. Frankly, it’s a miracle he can function as a sentient being as there can be little room in his wizened leprechaun husk for anything else.

In the age-old conflict between music as an art form and as a commodity to be bought and sold, Louis spearheads the case for the latter with aplomb. Over the years he’s created an entire Who’s Who of innocuous musical pond life, churned out with sweatshop precision, destroying originality, sapping the strength and diluting the impact of real musicians. He’s the monster responsible for Boyzone, Westlife and JLS which is more than enough to hang himself with. 

  

He’ll say anything, and I mean fucking anything if it’s worth his while and ensures that the stars of his charges burn brightly for just long enough for him to make a heap of cash. He’s the sort of man who would desperately scramble monkey-like across the twisted discarded bodies of a hundred ex-boy-band members in order to get to the one who can make him a few quid. On arriving at his quarry, standing knee-deep in the rank and putrid remains of his previous acts, his spangly suit flecked with unmentionable and fetid decay, he’d brandish a shit-eating smile, a pronouncement along the lines of “You’re a future star, we’ll still be hearing you in twenty years!”, a toilet-paper contract and a pre-clicked ballpoint pen.

These promises of stardom exist only as they are financially viable, rendering him a duplicitous menace who can simultaneously tell someone they are the next big thing while simultaneously planning to drop them on a scrapheap of shit as soon as the public gets fucked off with them. And in the meantime, destroying music for everyone.