FAG FASCISM

HETEROPHOBES ON THE MARCH, AGAIN.

BUY THIS TEA, I DON'T.

Steven Fry of Tesco and Direct Line and Twinings Tea is an obnoxious bully who enchants his limited, grubby audience with tales of sodomy, paedophilia and gay blowjobs; just, next time he's on, count the seconds until he, chucklingly, alludes to one or other or all of them.

Fry is famous, also, for being such a poor proper actor that at his first stage gig he ran away, crying, like the lardy Momma's Boy he remains, to the Low Countries. Fry is also famously a sycophant of Charlie Windsor, the celebrated, good for fuck all playboy and Fry's usual TV retinue consists of not very funny comedians such as Sean Locke and the curiously popular choirboy-like, Mr Alan Davies, a producers' favourite little minx, fawning over him, as though he were Royalty, which in a sense he is, the degenerate old queen. The repellent Fat Phil Jupitus and the guy who used to be John Sessions also add a little but not very much to Fry's tedious, know-it-all TV personna. If Fry is a national treasure we really are fucked; such, though, is how the ghastly old Widow Twanky casts himself, teams of researchers trawling through bits of arcane trivia to boost Fry's self-image as polymath extraordinaire and, pathetically, as the Oscar Wilde of our times, or, tellingly, as the shallow, trivial confection which Fry imagines Wilde to be - aren't we sick of TV fags, re-inventing Wilde as some 1890s Lily Savage ?

So vanishingly small are Steve's acting talents that the fat old cunt also self-produces dismal telly dramas starring himself as someone indistinguishable from himself, no need for acting, y'see; Oh, go on Steven, they love to watch you, being witty, even just reading the 'paper, go on, do make another series, as long as you're in it, it can be a load of old shite. And it is.

The BBC was always a license for tyrannical Oxbridgians like the revolting John Cleese and David Frost to print money. Every fucking year they tell us that Monty Python is just the funniest thing ever. And every year, side-splittingly, we agree, differing, obediently, like connoisseurs, only as to whether Dead Parrot or Funny Walks marks the unassailable heights of comedic endeavour, and the royalties keep rolling in the right direction. Every year Oxbridge throws up more tossers like Marcus Bogstick and Sue Dyke-Perkins, like Fry, entitled to a stipend however dull and slow their invention, however feeble their comedic industry, generally little more than a dirty word and a raised eyebrow.

So battered are we by the Establishment Heterophobes that even as we wrinkle our noses in disgust at the old queen, Fry, and his visions of juvenile male fellatio, we hate ourselves for daring to criticise a loathsome, talentless, narcissistic, fat old poof like Elton John

Mr & Mrs Sir Elton John-Dwight, cunts.

and now, when some simpering, whining member of a frighteningly awful so- (and revealingly) called boy-band, some assembly of anxious rentboy wannabees, collated by a gushing, spiteful fag impresario, now, when one of these fallen angel freaks croaks, luxuriating in some holiday shithole, the nation is supposed to be respectfully grief stricken, dragooned by drug addled celebrity tossers into the suspension of all judgement.

"Hail, hail Rock'n'Roll, Kill all the boy bands" would be my cry; stomp their airbrushed, girly faces in the dirt, let them blow their gelled heads off with amyl nitrate, blast their empty, feeble brains with skunkweed, rot their shitty livers with hundred per cent proof cocktails, fill their veins with the best heroin their pimping managers can buy for them, on commission; let them perish in a lengthy daisy chain of unnatural practices and throw them all in a glorious pit of dead celebrities and burn their poxed-up arses and let us all dance around, singing Karma-Karma=Karma-Karma-Karma-Chameleon, You-Come-And-Go-And-Now-You've-Gone. Hallelujah, one of the warbling, whiny, pouty little cocksuckers is dead, roll on the other hundred, or is it a thousand of these wretches which the nations' mums idolise?. And fuck Steven Fry and Darren Brown, whoever the fuck he is. Or she.

There is a fearful, tragic, Sudden Adult Death Syndrome which affects, especially, Irishmen of Steven Gately's age, a sudden, unpredictable heart failure bereaves others less gobby than Gately's fans and co-workers at the coalface of light entertainment and it may have been this complaint which has seen off the wee treasure, Gately and not, as Ms Jan Moir conjectures, the customary cocktail of drugs, self-indulgent stupidity and avoidable mishap of the airhead celebrity of monstroua ego - Hendrix, Joplin, Jones et al - and maybe Gately just did drop dead whilst his partner was in the other room with another young man, maybe in his evening's drinking he had only consumed Ribena, humming, to himself, the 23rd Psalm; maybe God so loved the wee angel that he just, you know, called him Home. But even if that - entirely natural causes - is the case, Elton John and his ghastly boy, Mrs David and Steven Fry and the rest, themselves talentless creations of the Celebrity sausage machine, cannot demand Ms Moir's silence, much less her agreement to the PR statements of Boyzone Inc - isn't it that wretched little turd, Louis-something, whose investment is being protected here ? - cannot insist upon a national airbrushing of a dead celebrity tosser. Sorry, great, great man.

Moir is perfectly entitled to differ from others, perfectly at liberty, indeed, it is her job to question the orthodoxy, she said nothing which Fleet Street doesn't say several times daily and the bullyboys of FagsRUS need a good straight punch in the mouth for trying to strangle her, merely, one suspects, for not being an unquestioning faghag.

Strident queers have long begged to be treated just the same as others, strange, isn't it, how when they are, as in this case - a dead celebrity getting the tabloid treatment - they cry Hatecrime, when, without their hysteria, this, Jan Moir, entertaining HER audienc, would just be showbiz gossip, my dear. Fry is a nasty nazi. If you see him, kick him hello from me. Hard.

"....a nobody, working on a programme that nobody watches...".