Appetite for Destruction is the debut studio album by American hard rock band Guns N' Roses. Released in 1987 (see 1987 in music), it was well-received by critics and topped the American Billboard 200 chart. As of September 2008, the album has been certified diamond (plus 18x platinum) by the RIAA,[3] accumulating worldwide sales in excess of twenty-eight million as of October 2008.[4] The album still remains the fastest-selling debut album in history.

WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE
"Welcome to the Jungle" was the first song co-written by lead vocalist Axl Rose and lead guitarist Slash. According to an interview published by Hit Parader in March 1988, "[Axl] wrote the words in Seattle. It's a big city, but at the same time it's still a small city compared to [Los Angeles] and the things that you're gonna learn. It seemed a lot more rural up there. [Axl] just wrote how it looked to [him]. If someone comes to town and they want to find something, they can find whatever they want."[5] Hit Parader also quoted rhythm guitarist Izzy Stradlin as summarising the song as "about Hollywood streets; true to life."[6]

Slash describes the development of the music of "Welcome to the Jungle" in his self-titled autobiography. As the band was trying to write new material, Axl remembered a riff Slash had played while he was living in the basement of Slash's mother's house. He played it and the band quickly laid down the foundations for the song, as Slash kept on coming up with new guitar parts for it. He credits Duff McKagan as coming up with the breakdown. According to Slash, the song was written in approximately three hours.[7]

Did any of you watch that fucking shite last night? I am of course referring to Britain's Got Retards.

Since, Blackburns very own, Susan Boyle graced our screens 8 weeks ago and belted out I dreamed a dream I have been hooked on this freak show of a program. The format of this show is annoying the life out of me. It is the modern day version of the Circus side show. All over the UK there are parents angrily slapping their kids until the either writhe in pain in a way that looks like a dance or they yelp in a way that sounds like decent singing in the hope that they can go in-front of Piers, Amanda and Square tits.

Like I said, I am hooked though. Last night however I was so angry at the show and I am angry now at the British public. When 10 year old Hollie starting singing her wee song in her wee pink dress I am sure the majority of parents all over the country were either spitting at the telly because their own children, at that point, were probably out shagging each other or out drinking cider and yet here was this wee "angel". Then when the wee thing shat it and got her words mixed up and cried I actually laughed. I thought it was the highlight of an average show. Then the pushy mother of this wee girl came to the stage and asked if she could start again. The wee girl, seeing her mother ask this then asked the Geordie Twats Ant n Dec if she could start again. When Ant said that the producers in his ear said no the wee thing threw a tantrum.

For a show llke Britains Got Retards to allow a 10 year old girl to scream and scream and cry like that on television and then give her what she wanted sums up alot of parenting in the UK. As a parent myself, I know how easy it can be at times to just give in to these unwelcome midgets by giving them what they want but for fuck sake. This wee girl threw a wobbler in front of, if you believe the Square tits propaganda, 12 billion people and she got what she wanted. Absolutely ridiculous.

If that show had been filmed in Glasgow, the wee girl was from Glasgow and her mother was like my mother when I was growing up then when the tantrum happened she would have had her arse leathered in front of Ant and Dec, she would have then been told: "Just you wait tae ah git you up that road." That would have been the end of it. But NO! These ratings chasing fuckers at ITV must have thought - "BRILLIANT, LET HER SING AGAIN AND THE PUBLICITY TOMORROW WILL GIVE US ALL MASSIVE HARD-ONS."

The thing is, when the wee cunt sang again, she was still shite. I do not care about the wee girls feelings or confidence - her life will be fucked when she is 14 and has 3 kids of her own and looks back at a tape of the show.

This management of childrens tantrums seems to be the same with parents who think they are middle class and above the poisoned and unwashed which is me and my peers. After spending yesterday in the West End of town in Ashton Lane, I watched a wee boy who was maybe 3 or 4 years old with his father. The wee boy spotted a dog in Ashton Lane as he was lying in his Dads arms being baked by the sun. He wanted to pet the dog. His Dad told him no and then all hell broke loose. The dog was just wanting to be left alone as the last time the sun was as hot in Glasgow the dog was just a twinkle in a cross breeds eye. The wee boy screamed and screamed until his cock-less father went over to the owner of the dog and asked if his son could pet the dog. The owner clearly did not give a fuck and allowed the wee lad to do everything but shag the dog. The father looked like he had just been let off with downloading child porn.

PARENTS AND BRITAINS GOT RETARDS HEAR THIS:

SLAP THE SHITE OUT YOUR KIDS IF THEY GET OUT OF HAND. GIVE THEM A COMPLEX BY THE TIME THEY REACH 15. ALLOW PARENTS TO LEATHER THEIR KIDS ON TELEVISION AND SHOW THEM UP FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES. STOP THE MIDDLE CLASS MIS-LEADING BOLLOCKS ON TELEVISION AND NEWSPAPERS THAT SMACKING YOUR KIDS IS WRONG. I WAS GIVEN A RITUAL KICKING

I just read this over on brucespringsteen.net and found it to be quite the treat.

R

(Dear Friends & Fans, a little glimpse from center stage.)

I
Six Air Force Thunderbirds have just roared overhead at what felt like inches above our backstage area, giving myself and the entire E Street Band a brush cut. With 20 minutes to go, I'm sitting in my trailer trying to decide what boots to wear. I've got a nice pair of cowboy boots my feet look really good in, but I'm concerned about their stability. Two days ago we rehearsed in full rain on the field and the stage became as slick as an ice pond. It was almost impossible to stand on. It was so slick I crashed into Mike Colucci, our cameraman, coming off my knee slide, his camera the only thing that kept me from launching out onto the soggy turf. When Jerry the umpire in "Glory Days" did his bit, he came running out, couldn't stop himself and executed one of the most painfully perfect "man slips on a banana peel" falls I've ever seen. This sent Steve, myself and the entire band into one of the biggest stress-induced laughters of our lives that lasted all the way back to our trailers. (A few Advil and Jerry was okay.)

I better go with the combat boots I always carry. The round toes will give me better braking power than the pointy-toed cowboy boots when I hit the deck. I stuff my boots with two innersoles to make them as fitted as possible, zip them up snuggly around my ankles, stomp around in my trailer a bit and feel pretty grounded. Fifteen minutes…oh, by the way, I'm somewhat nervous. It's not the usual pre-show jitters, not "butterflies," it's not wardrobe malfunction anticipation anxiety, I'm talking about five minutes to beach landing, "Right Stuff" "Lord Don't Let Me Screw the Pooch in Front of 100 Million People" one of the biggest television audiences since dinosaurs first screwed on earth kind of semi-terror. It only lasts for a minute…I check my hair, spray it with something that turns it into concrete and I'm out the door.

I catch sight of Patti smiling. She's been my rock all week. I put my arm around her and away we go. They take us by golf cart to a holding tunnel right off the field. The problem is there are a thousand people there, tv cameras, media of all kinds and general chaos. Suddenly, hundreds of people rush by us in a column shouting, cheering…our fans! And tonight also our stage builders. These are "the volunteers". They've been here for two weeks on their own dime in a field day after day, putting together and pulling apart pieces of our stage over and over again, theoretically achieving military precision. Now it's for real. I hope they've got it down because as we're escorted onto the field, lights in the stadium fully up, the banshee wail of 70,000 screaming football fanatics rising in our ears, there's nothing there. Nothing…no sound, no lights, no instruments, no stage, nothing but brightly lit unwelcoming green turf. Suddenly an army of ants come from all sides of what seems like nowhere. Each rolling a piece of our lifeline, our earth onto the field. The cavalry has arrived. What takes us on a concert day 8 hours to do is done in five minutes. Unbelieveable. Everything in our world is there…we hope. We gather a few feet off the stage, form a circle of hands, I say a few words drowned out by the crowd and it's smiles all around. I've been in a lot of high stakes situations like this, though not exactly like this, with these people before. It's stressful, but our band is made for it…and it's about to begin…so happy warriors we bound up onto the stage.

II
The NFL stage manager gives me the three minute sign…two minutes…one…there's a guy jumping up and down on sections of the stage to get them to sit evenly on the grass field…30 seconds…they're still testing all the speakers and equipment…that's cutting it close! The lights in the stadium go down. The crowd erupts and Max's drumbeat opens "10th Avenue." I fee