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How to gaze down at the ruins of your own blasted genitalia, by BBC chairman Richard Sharp

by BBC chairman Richard Sharp

VERY few people know what it’s like to look down and see your own genitals in irrevocable ruin. Largely it’s men at war and, after this weekend, me. 

Up until last week? I was cocky about what I had down there. I had swagger in my walk as I strutted around Broadcasting House, hiring and firing, cancelling shows on whim.

Why wouldn’t I be? My dad’s a baron. I spent 30 years as king of the investment banking world then became chairman of the motherf**king Beeb. Did I have any relevant experience? Hell no. But I wanted it. So I got it.

Sure, there was a minor kerfuffle about my recommending Boris Johnson for a loan, but it was all a bit arcane, he’s no longer prime minister, and it would all soon be forgotten. Or so I, and my frontal fruitbowl, believed.

A mere tweet from a mere sports presenter? I delegated that. The director general, a good lad who firmly backs impartiality in the Tories’ favour, could handle it. If the presenter in question refuses to apologise? He will discover the consequences.

Such was my belief when I still had a cock. But now, fewer than 72 hours later, it seems I was entirely wrong and my private parts are as rubble.

I won’t recover. No more will I be the swinging dick of state-owned media. The scrutiny of my shattered scrotum will end only with my resignation. A bunch of ex-footballers and 5 Live presenters have absconded, laughing, with my meat and veg tucked beneath their arms.

Appointed to control the news, I have become it. Emasculated before my peers and the nation, Johnson has done for me and my johnson. There’s nothing left but shreds.

Let this be a warning. For there, but for lifelong privilege, being awarded a job without any experience or expertise, and f**king up mightily due to arrogance and hubris, go we all.

Five brilliant parody songs you've sung to and about your cat

SOMETIMES your profound feelings towards your cat can only be captured in musical form, which is why you’ve updated these classics with new, feline lyrics: 

I Heard It Through The Catflap

Marvin Gaye’s tune about an unfaithful partner fits perfectly with your strained relationship with your cat, who you have long suspected is playing you for a fool and being fed multiple dinners by the neighbours on both sides. Though you didn’t actually hear anything, it’s just that the cat is fat as f**k.

I Gotta Dreamie

The Black-Eyed Peas’ hit I Gotta Feeling vastly improved by turning it into a tribute to Fluffy’s all-time favourite snack. Sure, they’re overpriced and smell vile, but when they’re around you know she’s thinking ‘tonight’s gonna be a good night’. It just doesn’t show on her face.

We Found Food

Much of your parody oeuvre is food-related, reflecting the transactional nature of your relationship. But nobody can deny your dramatisation of the time you found an extra pouch of Felix under the sink to the tune of Rihanna’s We Found Love is a stunning piece of art and more than Rihanna’s done in the last seven years.

I Want To Hold Your Paw

This jolly rewrite doesn’t reflect an actual event, because you’re not prepared for the lacerations. However, the Beatles’ early songs about longing and courting reflect your desperation to feel your deep love for your feline companion reflected back in any capacity.

Cat! I Feel Like A Kitten!

Sometimes the impulse to serenade your cat is more powerful than your wordsmithery, and that’s what happened with this Shania Twain tribute. The verses descend into the word ‘Meow’ repeated over and over again, but your cat doesn’t mind. She’s glaring at you in fathomless contempt regardless.

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