Waking up with my head pounding to a Burundi rhythm, my tongue akin to a sofa left out in the desert for six weeks, I take a moment to reflect on the events of the past seven days.
I had made another of my guest appearances on a live edition of Songs Of Praise and as the credits rolled, as ever, an announcer had issued an apology for ‘any industrial-strength language spoken in the heat of the moment which might have caused offence’. I decided to call a meeting with the show’s producer.
“Mate,” I said, “Every fucking time I’m on you put out these fucking apologies. I mean, why?”
“Well, I, er – there might be those who –”
“The ratings go through the roof when I’m on and we all know why. So why don’t you save your breath and stop it with this apology?”
And so it was that I secured an undertaking that I could call a fellow man-or-woman of the cloth a cocksucking arsewipe live on telly and nobody would make a fuss. Feeling a flush of self-satisfaction, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Donald Trump intends to press ahead with plans to clear Gaza of its residents and convert the region into an attractive resort.
My dead hamster’s swollen nipples, you senile fucking child, you can say these things all you like, you’ve spent weeks saying them, like you’re an alien emperor from the planet Cunt, but not one of them’s gonna happen. None of them. You might as well issue a Presidential order abolishing gravity. When all’s said and done you’re a pelican-faced incompetent who can’t work out why when you take a shit it doesn’t come out of your elbow! All that happens every time you open your mouth is that China quietly laughs its knackers off! I mean, don’t get me wrong, you are the living death of America but the moment reality hits you’ll fucking back down like the coward you are!
Barbara Broccoli and Michael G Wilson, the British-American heirs to the film producer Albert ‘Cubby’ Broccoli and longtime stewards of the Bond films, have ceded creative control of the franchise to Amazon.
Fuck’s sake, why? I know there’s about as much life left in the whole Bond idea as there is in a three-month old lemon slice that’s been squeezed so hard and repeatedly that all that’s left is the pips but, seriously, are you so fucking hard up at Broccoli Acres that you have to sell the farm to that twat Bezos just so that you have enough bundles of billions to throw on the fire to keep warm? Amazon Presents James Bond – there’s the world fucked, right there, you utter knobjobs!
EastEnders has celebrated its 40th anniversary, having first hit our screens in 1985.
Jesus H Chronic Cockrot, 40 years of unstinting London-based bleakness? Life is awful enough so why create a TV drama, devoid of humour, joy or fun, which makes out existence is more miserable than it actually is? Sell EastEnders to fucking Amazon, if you’re gonna sell anything and have fucking done with it!
Finally, Liz Truss has declared in a speech at CPAC that ‘we look across the Atlantic in envy. We see Donald Trump signing off executive orders in the Oval office and we want some of that in Britain’.
You know, if I’d have somehow been landed the job of Prime Minister on a weird wave of giddy, unaccountable right-wing lunacy, promptly tanked the economy and persuaded the Queen it was time to turn up her toes as Britain had gone officially insane and been forced to resign after about half an hour, I think I’d have selected a large hole somewhere outside Stoke-on-Trent and buried myself in it with a sign saying Do Not Open Till 5050. But no, here she is, speaking to dwindling roomfuls of fellow gibbering hatstands, lobbying vainly for a position somewhere up the anus of Donald Trump! One good thing about the world turning far right is that even the fucking Tories are desperately irrelevant in it!
