by Nathan Muir, aged 45
YOU’LL never know what it was like in the mid-00s. The torture we were put through. The unimaginable horror. But, as It threatens to return, I’ll try to explain.
Before then, frogs were genial, loveable characters. Kermit from the Muppets. The Budweiser Whazzap frogs. Those lovely fellas from Paul McCartney’s career low, We All Stand Together.
Then, without warning, came Crazy Frog. Devised by the CIA as part of their psyops programme for use in Guantanamo Bay, he escaped into mass consciousness like a weaponised virus from a Wuhan lab.
Picture a blue cartoon frog wearing an old-fashioned motorbike helmet, goggles, an undersized leather jacket and nothing else. His penis dangling as free as the wind. Yeah. His penis.
Then imagine him imitating a moped as he pretended to ride one. Noises irritating enough to shatter fragile minds. Then imagine the twat you work with who gets 200 calls a day downloading it as his ringtone.
Even if you hated Crazy Frog, like an estimated 100 per cent of the population did, you couldn’t escape him. He had a number one f**king single. Horror was piled on horror. Merchandise. Three albums.
In time, his star faded. Those of us who’d made it through believed he was gone. We built families, lives. But now his dreadful shadow threatens to fall on us again with a Christmas single.
Know this, millennials and Zoomers. He was the f**king worst. So whenever anyone older criticises your irritating TikTok bullshit, remind them of Crazy Frog. That’ll shut them up.