I won't be forced into marriage by the Tories, says TV's Jock Neil.
International playboy, former Murdoch lickspittle and the Ronnie Wood of political journalism, tiny Andy "Jock" Neil, has vowed that whatever the tax advantages introduced by Archbishop Cameron he will stay a gay young blade, or, as he would be called in real life, a filthy old nonce.
Famed for his stringvest relationship with fellow prostitute, Pamella Bordes, Neil now parades on his arm a succession of totties young enough to be his grand-daughters, bless.
Neil, 72, is political TV's equivalent of the unlovely gabshite, Jonafun Woss, over-rated, overpaid, over powerful and over exposed, Neil is all over the BBC, chairing lightweight daily and weekly programmes and conducting would-be searching interviews with his chums from the red and green benches as well as testing the political temperature among important commentators, such as Mr Ross Bald Kemp of skymadeupnewsandfilth and the SAS and Mr Peter Stringpenis, a fellow roue and gobby fuckwit.
Mr Peter Stringfellow conducting a vital health and safety check on one of his teenage employees.
It is tempting for me to cut my tax bill by making a decent woman of some young slag but I'm sure my accountants can sort something for me, smirked Neil, from inside a suit expensively cut to hide his diminutive stature, his paunch and his jowls; after all, you're only young once. So it's, Sorry, Dave; it's a bachelor's life for me, nightclubs and young sluts, that's what keeps me in touch with the viewers. I fully intend to continue my sybaritic existence, funded by the license payer
The BBC is nothing if not scared of its own shadow, sitting in the middle of Col. von Fawkes cosy media-political nexus, its controllers would not dare employ a proper journalist to challenge the likes of, well, any of the fucking thieving bastards; instead it deploys a phalanx of phoney HardMen, the ludicrous, preening Paxman, young parent and faux rottweiller Humphries, the hobby farmer and genial Masterminder, the Dimbleby Brothers, hereditary broadcasting nobility, prissy and precious and self-regarding I'm In Charge-ists jointly strangle any newborn dissidence which might, for a second, challenge the Archers-like conformity of their ghastly, useless progammes, their dragooned audiences clapping the rancid political riff-raff and the Brothers D when and for as long as the floor managers instruct them, as though the nation sliding into Ruin was an end of pier diversion. What a bunch of cunts.
But Neil, smirking, poisonous, shoe-horned into his poxy suit, thrilling us with a glimpse of his HardMan braces,
finger-weagging and shuffling his wee postcards of tame questions is a cunt of the first water. Like so many working class Jocks, from Billy Connolly to Andrew Marr, he is up his own arse but further up the arse of Money, the idea that this prat might ask a truly embarrassing question of the Powers which he has spent a lifetime fellating is ridiculous and this explains his "access" and his "contacts." If he was anything like a journalist the slime of Westminster would be queueing up to avoid his programmes; that the opposite is true just indicates how he is trusted by Power, not to actually rock the boat - a decent journalist would have asked the other day, Tell me, Mr McNulty, former Obediance Minister, how dare you show your rotten, thieving, bullying , insolent face in public, instead of saying, as did Neil, Tony McNulty, lovely to see you back - but to rock the boat theatrically, the Great Leader this and the Great Leader that. Safe, boring, cheesy; a lifetime of stooging. A greedy, vain, dirty, old man, our representative at the Court of Ruin. If there was a Pulitzer Prize for chewing of the rancid knob of Power, Neil's name would be all over it. What a piece of shit. Nighty-night.