Waking up to a breakfast of eggs benedict, wholemeal dry toast, grilled mackerel, low calorie grapefruit juice and a septic tank full of Jamaican overproof rum topped off with a single olive, I lay aside my teak breakfast tray and peruse a selection of periodicals to absorb the latest tidings in the worlds of culture and current affairs. Therein, I read that the classic rock group Led Zeppelin are set to reform.
Insert a f***ing baby shark in me, in what other world but that of “classic rock”, could the news that three 60something greying f***ing dried out prunes with f*** all to say or do about anything are going to be trundled back onstage to go through a bunch of self-parodic, geriatric motions that are supposed to remind us of their f***ing former glories? Why don’t we just reunite the f***ing Little Rascals, rounded up from their f***ing Florida nursing homes, bathchairs and colostomy bags and all, and get them to re-enact one of their old routines where they go scrumping for apples and wind up getting involved in a f***ing boxcar derby by mistake? The people who put this idea together are stupid c***s, the people onstage are stupider c***s, but the people who are the stupidest c***s of all by far are those who shell out money – actual money, not commemorative, printed up pseudo-money with Robert Plant sitting like f***ing Boadicea on the banknotes to troop along and see these f***ing dessicated arsetwats caterwaul and noodle their way through their bollocktwisting f***ing songs about f***ing elves and shit! God, people were f***ing morons in the f***ing Seventies! The decade f***ing evolution forgot! I’m surprised we didn’t all end up having f***ing tails again after that one!
Michael Parkinson has recently complained that programmers on chat shows are somewhat conservative in their selection of guests, looking only in the top 10 of the Hit Parade. By contrast, he cites his own record of having booked a “then unknown” Duke Ellington onto his own show in the early 70s “something he believes would not happen nowadays”.
Oh, for c***’s sake, Parkinson, it’s a f***ing wonder you never sounded f***ing muffled, talking and f***ing sitting down at the same f***ing time! Did that f***ing emu bludgeon all the last sense out of you or f***ing what? Duke Ellington “unknown” in the f***ing 1970s? He f***ing died in 1974 after a lifetime’s f***ing high profile achievement, dating back to the f***ing 1930s! There’s a f***ing difference between “unknown” and “Michael Parkinson not knowing about them” which is why it’ll be a solid 20 years before you and f***ing U2 become acquainted! Conceited f***ing twatlump! Parkinson? No wonder they named a f***ing disease after you! Every f***ing week, it was the same! One week you have Kirk Douglas on, for 20, feeling like 40 minutes, wending his way through some Sunday driving f***ing anecdote about how some old woman begged him for his autograph, said she was his biggest fan, then when he gave it her, said, “Thank you very much, MR STEWART!!” Cue gales of f***ing sycophantic laughter! Then the week after it’d be f***ing Jimmy Stewart on, with some similarly, arseachingly long story about some old woman begging for his autograph, says she’s his biggest fan, he gives it her and she says, “Thank you very much, MR DOUGLAS!!” Cue gales of sycophantic laughter! Northern c***!
Prince has become rather annoyed at cheap viagra the number of people filming clips of his gigs at the O2 concert hall and posting them up on YouTube. He feels his art has been stolen and violated.
Woaah, wait a f***ing second, you pepperpot sized, preening f***ing prick! You’re the one who was among the first to suck the f***ing cock of the internet when you realised there was no f***ing way you could sell records the proper f***ing way any more! And then, down the f***ing line, you were the one who rinsed your mouth out and started sucking the f***ing cock of the mobile phone companies, by going with a f***ing O2 sponsored f***ing venue for your latest, umpteenth, desperately f***ing laboured, vain, in every f***ing sense of the word attempt to resurrect your f***ing relevancy! Now you’re f***ing complaining! F*** you sideways, f***ing Mail On Sunday boy!
Jim Davidson, the popular comedian, has been ordered off the Celebrity Chef series after he made a reference to “shirtlifters” during the filming show, betraying his chirpy, cocksparrer, knees up Mother Brown, roll out the barrel, good old fashioned political incorrectness.
You know what, why the f*** don’t you slit your sagging scrotum with a f***ing rusty Stanley knife blade and slowly f***ing bleed to death, you vile, odious c***?
Finally, it seems that Menzies Campbell, the Liberal Democrat leader, inadvertently described himself as a “failure” in an interview with Sandi Tostvig regarding nerves prior to Question Time. This has only exacerbated the debate regarding his place at the helm of the party.
Yeah well, f***ing face it, you wretchedly senile, patently not up to it fool, the only reason the Lib Dems elected a f***ing Godfrey like you to lead them is because they’re f***ing subconsciously dedicated to the idea of f***ing failure! There they stretch, like a f***ing hammock of sleepy complacency between the Tories and Labour, the “left and right” who in f***ing reality are as ideologically poles apart as two competing f***ing estate agents! We need the f***ing Lib Dems like we need a f***ing third buttock!