Saturday, 25 April 2009

NASTY LITTLE FAGGOT



AND NATION SHALL SPEAK SHIT UNTO NATION.
Starkey, a sign of the times.



The TV is full of the bastards, those who peddle cruelty as entertainment, Clive Anderson is one; the unspeakable barrowboy, SugarBeard, is one; Randall, the man who, despite his fabled Estuary acumen, never saw it comimg, or if, back-pedalling, he now claims he did, he never shared it with his angry, panting, would-be pinstripe audience at SkyMadeUpNewsAndFilth, he's one, too, whoring flat-out for the diseased empires of Murdoch and the Bizarro Twins at the Telegraph, waddawewant ? flourishing feudalism, whendowewannit? as soon as possible, richman in his castle, poor man at his gate; they swarm over Radio Four and BBC's One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six and Seven, like stubble on DG Mark Thompson's impudent, million pounds-a-year jowls; Jonathan Arse, Kelvin McCunt, Piers Moron, Simon Cowell, the ghastly old boot, Ozzie Osbourne's, motormouthing groupie baggage, Sharon; Marcus Bumstick, part of the Beeb's Oxbridge quota, ubiquitous, as funny as dysentry; that gang of smirking, unpardonably ugly cunts, dragons, they call themselves, lounging, faux pensive, beady-eyed, like Ernst Stavro Blofeld, about to feed some hapless, serve-them-right-for-being-on-the-programme stooge to the pirhannas, their qualification for Cruelty-stardom being that they are entirely ignorant, uncouth and stupid, that they have some money and a hugely inflated estimate of their own worthless, wretched, grubby, unpleasant lives, as though, come their turn, Death's grim sergeants will settle for a few quid, some share options, and pass them by, let them linger, braying and snorting in an orgy of self-congratulation, too stupid to live, too rich to die; they are everywhere and in the dung-strewn, two-way thoroughfare between Media and the Westminster Trough they proliferate; plain-speaking John Prescott, the horrible, bloated, thieving, cock-waving cunt, now a broadcaster; the bumptious, truculent Portillo, slung out on his cowardly arse, now a simpering, Kiss-Me-quick broadcaster; thieving Tony McNutter, bristling throatily with rage at so-called benefit scroungers and cheats, shameless at the exposure of his own grand larceny, unembarrassed by his wife's lazy incompetence; the snivelling, whining, lying Brummie hobbit, Phil Woollass, seldom off the box; the grinning Tony and Imelda Blair, hoovering-up blood money from everywhere they have eased Murder's global path, from the Falls Road to Abu Grhaib, Guantanamo and the Gaza strip; fencing honours and passports and exemptions to international bandits, slags and pimps; NewCelebrity, all vile, studiedly obnoxious, mouthy, indifferent to Modesty and Decency, estranged from Truth and Honesty, glorying in the rise of Cruelty tee-vee, showered with license-payers' money, all are totemic of the NewLabour putsch - no good Alice Mahon whingeing, now, on her deathbed, rotten old fraud, fretful of Comrade God's fiery judgement - all demonstrate and amplify the re-writing of the BBC post-Blair mission statement, And Nation Shall Speak Shit Unto Nation, Innit?


It is only among such a morally and culturally bankrupt political-showbiz elite that the odious David Starkey, an indifferent history lecturer, could have so ascended from complete anonymity to being acclaimed keeper of his own personal professorial sewer. Like hereditary broadcaster Jon Socks, tough guy Dave is now on a lifetime stipend from the taxpayer-funded Channel Four, one of that channel's modest and self-effacing clever people. Starkey's bitch-history, his over-rehearsed, mean-mouthed whining, consign scholarship and objectivity to, well, history, and promote instead his own told-you-so spite and ugliness, his apparently endless monarchical theses voice his nasty, bitter, little view that too many historians have been what he insists on calling straight, when he means normal, that there is a whole camp-but-true tapestry of history, expertly-stitched by bum-bandits like himself, bloodied and martyred, suppressed by nasty Christian bullies, locked away in the censors' closet; that all great historical figures were really gay, just like him, the horrible little worm. Starkey's sodomite revisionism might be entertaining were it not for his over-dressed aping of stereotypical tee-vee presenters, his scowling pieces to camera, his arch cutaways, his leaden, cack-handed metaphors; his insistence that we take seriously not only the charmless, nasty little faggot himself but also his threadbare, misanthropic queen-bitching disguised as history.

Quicker to judge and damn and bully than a Presbyterian, Starkey peddles his bilious tripe to any who will pay him -normally us - and the wretchedness of Starkeyism, it's significance for the times is not his lame, anal anti-scholarship but that his trademark vileness was nurtured and promoted by the BBC. Radio Four's Moral Maze has lit our lives with a galaxy of mouthy, bad-tempered, bullying nonentities - Mad Melanie Phillips, anybody who disagrees with me is a Nazi; the Marxist fishwife, Clare Fox, of the bizarrely titled Institute of Ideas and the born-again Murdochite, Portillo himself, Mr Angry turned Mr Nice - all eager to condemn the lack of logic, as they see it, in the spoutings of some serve-them-right-for-going-on-the-programme vegetarian or would-be suicidee or flat-earther or homeopath or religious maniac; all, but Mad Mel epsecially, anxious to play a brutish, graceless, Runpole, showing-off to the radio audience of teachers and probation officers and embittered blind people; all remorselessly self-promoting their media careers at the expense of some poor sap who believes in something other than Israel, Money, Abortion and New-Age Marxism. As though anybody in their right mind would give a flying fuck for the Daily Mail-funded thoughts of the ghastly Phillips. Grim and forbidding as these grotesques are, their rottenness - and indeed their media stature - is eclipsed by their former fellow-freak, Starkey. It was Radio Four which, instead of throwing him off, promoted Starkey's nastiness, raised him to a septic media grandeur, made vital to our national discourse Starkey's witless bullying; it's not as though he could even claim to be a licensed fool like the Beeb's other catspaw, Hislop; though a risible figure in his blazers and suits and costume jewellery, Starkey never even attempts humour, much less satire; no, cruelty, as is now the case elsewhere in the Beeb, is Starkey's ouevre. Between he and the ghastly baggage, former Maxwell bint, Robinson, and the screeching gay cook, Ramsay, and the arse-fixated Jonathan Ross we have tee-vee role models from Hell. Add the shameless, hypocritical kleptomania of the heir to the throne, of both houses of parliament; the out of control violence of the Cops and the unaccountable ruinous greed of City spivs is it really any wonder that drunken infants knife each other in the playground? Starkey, for all his hauteur, is a grubby little bastard, part of an axis of degeneracy, an historically bad example.
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Starkey's latest wheeze was to denigrate, on Question Time, Hibernian bombast. Alex Salmond's deranged Jock-Nazi Tribesmen richly merit mockery, their construction of a mythical, fifty-five million strong, predatory Untermenschen just South of a fanciful border is their rasion d'etre, "if only it werenae fer they English bastards we wouldnae be a nation a drunken, wife-beatin', cross-dressin' heidbangers whose main export - although we tend tae drink most of it at hame, the noo, an' we're European Champion Alkies, so we are - is poison, d'ye ken" is Salmond's tub-thumping mantra, and it earns him three salaries and three pensions, God bless the wee fat fucker; makes Mrs and Mr Jacqui Schmidt-Timney of Burglarsville, Worcestershire look modest in their thievery. Burns is melancholy doggerel, English kids in Scotland are routinely bullied by their native peers, encouraged by sourfaced, embittered, inebriated, cross-dressing, patriotic parents; the Presbyterian highland and island strongholds are rife with child abuse; council corruption is breathtaking, far from scrutiny, their elites in Education, Health, Social Work and the like do just as they please. The Jock press is patronising and parochial and bent and rightly going down the toilet. Starkey's QT remarks, made stagily, self-aggrandisingly, as if by some applause-hungry pantomime dame, in themselves, therefore, are not controversial. Nor, to stanislavians, original.

It's just him. Starkey could read you the Sermon on the Mount and you'd want to go and jump in the shower afterwards; he could whistle Greensleeves and your ears would bleed, he could press large amounts of currency into your hands and they would break out in eczema. Starkey is dirty.

BBC millionaires Stephen Fry and Graham Norton cannot be on air for twenty seconds without mentioning sperm or buggery or both; it may be the temper of the times, it may be a liberation of the language, Lenny Bruce's crusade to take the sting from words like nigger by using them so much that they lose their venom, it may just be that those two queens, the one thinking - convinced - that he's Oscar Wilde, the other that he's the main attraction at a sailors' gangbang, just love talking dirty on the tee-vee; Starkey, though, humourless and bitter doesn't even do this, Starkey is emblematic of the once mediocre - Schmidt, Darling, Blears, Woollass, Ainsworth, regiments of them - relishing their ability to bully the powerless; it is a sign of our time that Media makes us celebrate such malignance as Starkey, when we should, in fact, throw stones at him in the street.
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1 comment:

dearieme said...

"Between he": where the fuck did you go to school? And what possesses you to think that "Hibernian" means Scottish? Ignorant arsewipe.