Dealing with estate agents is a traumatic experience (the one who is currently harassing me with daily inane phone calls seems to have the IQ of a pot of creme fraiche) but it can be made more fun by taking some of the most cliched phrases they use as boob-related double entendres. Look below to see what I mean.

It is rare that I, Paul Morley, find myself as enraptured with a recording artist as I find myself now enraptured by one K Koke, a rapper hailing from north-west London’s forsaken Stonebridge Estate. Life here is a Hogarthian nightmare and the progress of our modern-day rake, Mr. Koke, is fascinating to witness. His stand out seven-inch single, ‘Are You Alone Fam?’, is a three-minute slice of vicious revenge laced with an emotional depth that is present in the work of few other lyricists working today. The song tells the story of ‘Spider’, known to Her Majesty’s government as Darren Mathurin and to some of his less charitably minded fellow estate dwellers as ‘rabbit dick’. Spider ‘turned grass’ on some of Mr. Koke’s posse in a bid to curry favour with the boys in blue. Well, that shit wasn’t going to fly on Stonebridge. Spider’s evidence led to no convictions, but as far as Mr. Koke was concerned his former friend was a ‘jake prick’ who needed to be torn apart through the medium of popular song. It’s nothing new of course. After all, Buddy Holly himself laid down a series of (unreleased) albums dedicated to barracking his enemies and you don’t need me to tell you that in the world of ‘urban’ music the ‘diss track’ is as old as the form itself (Bambaataa, Smalls, Dogg et al). So when Mr. Koke’s song landed in my inbox you won’t be surprised to know that I let out a big old yawn. Really? I thought. Another song about street characters turning snitch… please… But then, well, then I gave it a listen and the layers of meaning that came through broke their way past my Mission of Burma t-shirt into my formerly cold heart. Allow me to move in for a closer reading of some of the lyrics.

Illustrator Alexis Economou has spent a number of months carrying out complex scientific studies to unravel the DNA of some of the most enigmatic pop stars of recent times (and Tinchy Stryder). Here are the results.

Last night was, as my close friends in the grime scene say, “A LOT” (shout out to Tinie!). Ya boy Ed was on a wave like I was riding on the crest of a Japanese tsunami (no offence intended to my fans if you or anyone you know has ever been affected by a tsunami). I bagged a couple gongs, sang a little song, wrestled my way through the press throng, went home and smoked a bong – nothing long.

Do you see that ominous, fleshy shadow on the horizon, bulging like an elephantine balloon full of half-digested cheesy-chips and flat Coca-Cola? That, my friends, is something called obesity, and one day soon it’s going to kill us all. We have one chance to avert this impending, chocolate-milkshake flavoured disaster. His name is Jamie Oliver, and he alone can hold back the tidal wave of mayonnaise that’s about to engulf the world.

This isn’t true. The reality of the situation is that some people are fat because they eat too much and then don’t run anywhere. This is pretty straight-forward. Do we really need a faux-Cockney to tell us this in a condescending tone? No, we really don’t. Here are some more things about the fat-tongued bore that annoy me.

If you are planning to throw a party, I strongly advise you to follow the below instructions to guarantee a good time is had by all.

When I look in the mirror – which, contrary to what many of may believe, doesn’t happen all that often – I no longer see Lizzie Grant, daddy’s little girl. No, I see Lana Del Rey, a cross between Tupac Shakur and Zsa Zsa Gabor. The baddest bitch – but also a very sensitive soul. A delicate flower that is wilting under the unforgiving spotlight of unwanted attention. A scared newborn kitten drowning in the fame drain where it tumbled forth from its mother’s womb.

The 16th of October, 1980. That was the first day that word was thrust in my face. I remember it clearly because it was the day after Gentleman Jim Callaghan, my then idol (and also the name of my first pet gerbil), was ousted as leader of the Labour Party. I was ten years old – or should I say ten years young, since I certainly wasn’t old, considering I was only ten – and, unable to suppress my anguish any longer, I sobbed uncontrollably throughout a 55-minute afterschool recorder lesson at Primrose Hill Primary School. Griselda Thirion was the culprit. “You look incredibly ugly, Edward,” she spat, as tears dripped down onto the sheet music for “Mary Had a Little Lamb”. David, standing by my side, didn’t prevent himself from chuckling at me, as he so often did back then, leading others to follow. Who’s laughing now, Dave?

We’ve just been passed the front cover image for Lana Del Rey’s debut album. Check it out!!!

Topping off Yep’s comprehensive review of the year, here is 2011 summed up in lookalikes. You’re welcome.