Oblivion

THE YEAR, dearest chums, was 1990. The beginning of a new decade, a decade away from a new millennium. It was in that year that the Genital Wart Factor reconvened after a four year hiatus, pared down to the core duo of Karl and Jon.

The first meeting was monumental. Karl was returning from a shopping expedition to Bostock's record emporium to purchase a Greek import version of The Pixie's Doolittle. Jon, who was waiting for a bus, glanced over at Karl and wondered whether he should say hello. Being Jon, he chose not to. What a knob.

Karl recovered swiftly from Jon's blanking, Jon recovered swiftly from Karl's beating and soon they were back doing what they did best; shouting offensive songs into tape recorders for the pleasure of the bedroom band community.

If the previous incarnation of the GWF was fueled by tea, biscuits and ennui, this version was powered by cider, joints of pot and break-up related bitterness. Both GWFer's had been through the relationship wringer at this point, returning to Huddersfield with stone in their hearts and dope in their tobacco tins. And they were going to abuse both.

During this period, two new cassettes of material were recorded. One of them contained a particularly billious song called "Oblivion"; a lilting ballad that told a tale of love lost and lost some more. Karl and Jon, who wrote it, proclaimed that it was the break-up song to end all break-up songs. Unfortunately the pop industry weren't listening at the time and that's why people still keep releasing new, shit songs about love gone wrong.

Fast forward 15 years. Karl is now Chairman of ICI, owner of BMW and Grand Poo Bah of the Freemasons. Jon sells his piss stained knickers to coke fiend stock brokers on the Internet.

The Genital Wart Factor got together one last time (without Jon) to re-record this seminal slice of semenal invective.

Take it away, Karl. And don't bring it back:

Oblivion