First Family of Hip-Hop.

Just when you thought that every scrap of pond scum had been scraped from the bottom of the reality show barrel, along comes a show about the Sugarhill Records grandkids. Want to see a bunch of talentless hacks swan around, playing dress-ups as they pretend to be ‘artists,’ ‘A&Rs” and ‘producers’? Look no further, friends. Bolstered by the blood money that continues to pour in from their grandparents robbing every artist of their publishing credits, these brats bring new meaning to the term ‘entitlement’ as they squabble over the future direction of a record label that hasn’t released any new music since Naughty By Nature’s pre-Tommy Boy outing as The New Style in 1989.

In between cringe-worthy scenes of this ‘rap royal family’ shooting videos and recording songs that no one is ever going to give two fucks about, ‘grooming’ Instagram chicks for imaginary music careers, and boasting about all the big artists that have sampled the rappers that Sylvia and Joe robbed blind, the only interesting nugget I came away with was one-time Def Jam signee Lady Luck (who the press release proclaims as a ‘platinum selling artist’ despite the fact that she only ever released one single through the house that Rush built) went to jail for robbing her own management company, which puts her in perfect company with the rest of the family. Perhaps the producers of the show could send the kids to go and hang out with Melle Mel for an afternoon and buy him dinner instead of blowing all of the royalty cheques they owe him on velour tracksuits?

I can feel it in my bones, this will be the year that Soulja Boy, Kanye West, and Lupe Fiasco finally form a supergroup and record the album I Don’t Know Karate But I Know Caraayzee! Combining the throwback nostalgia of Ringtone Rap with wild-eyed conspiracy theories about how Kim K being told to run the jewels in Paris is actually the work of ancient templars on some Da Vinci Code shit, this is the record that finally allows Kanye to unleash the ‘Stringstumental’ sound he promised in that Scratch magazine interview in the mid-00s. Just imagine: no drums, no bass, no horns – just the soothing sounds of violin, banjo and harp for their bars of def to float over.

Keen Twitter fan President Trump, having recognised the troll-tastic genius of one Curtis ’50 Cent’ Jackson, will make him the new Secretary of State in an attempt to prove that he has black friends and therefore couldn’t possibly be racist, as well as having a perfect foil for Mexican president Enrique Peña Nieto, who has been giving the Don a veritable rinsing on social media these past few weeks. Cam’Ron’s application for the role of US Foreign Secretary was sadly ignored after Bill O’Reilly called in a ‘personal favour’ from the White House.

Joey Bada$$ will finally become so overwhelmed by the positive spirituality in his music that that he will abandon all earthly pleasures to become a Buddhist monk in the mountains of Tibet for six months, before returning to the big smoke to start a new religion called Fake Deep Universal with J. Cole and Talib Kweli. Not only does this strengthen their respective brands, but it provides a handy tax exemption status for the inevitable merchandising.

A desperately bored Jay Z offers Barack Obama a milli in cash to host a Roc Nation/TIDAL mixtape, but the former POTUS politely declines, commenting that he’s always been a firm Nas supporter and it would feel disloyal. Jay immediately leaps into the next elevator that he sees Solange walking into in a futile attempt to end this ultimate humiliation, proving that money, power, respect, and the love of the baddest chick in the game just isn’t enough when you realise that you’ll never make an album as good as Illmatic.