RANCID OLD QUEEN URGES POGROMS.
Well, I'm gay.
So fucking what, Boy George is gay, Gordon Brown is gay.
And my parents were migrants.
So fucking what, go back far enough and we're all migrants, out of Africa, down from Norway, backwards and forwards from Ireland, wherever.
And I'm a historian.
No you're not, you're a tee-vee personality, trading on offence and insult, like a shrivelled, hunchback, pouting hobgoblin. All the kingsanqueens of England were gay, everybody's gay, that's your schtick. And down with Christianity.
And I simply must finish this Diane, because, you see, dear girl, it's terribly important.
No, it ain't.
You see, I'm gay and my parents were immigrants and I'm a historian so I know that all these oiks sitting around in Greater Manchester council housing estates all used to work in the cotton mills. I know because I'm a historian. And quite frankly, Diane, the cotton mills are never coming back, dear girl. So these people all have to move to where the work is.
Where's that then, Dave, Channel Four, the BBC, get 'em all on the Moral Maze, that's the thing.
Well, speaking as a gay man...
Just as well we're not all gay men, otherwise there'd soon be no need for wanky telly historians, like you. And as for millions of people upsticking and looking for work, after successive govaments have run-down industry in favour of usury, where do you suppose they go? London, where the pogroms have already commenced; Paris, Stuttgart, New South Wales, Peking.....? Silly little soundbiting cocksucker.
Mercifully, no, prudently, I only watched a few minutes of this shit but it was interesting how so very WalkingOnEggShells were Portillo the GayCoward and Kennedy the GayDipso, fretting, maybe, that Starkey would out the both of them. Next time, maybe.
12 comments:
I think the BBC are quite clever, sometimes. They lull you & tranquilize through the use of Question Time when all energy has been lost in either throwing the telly out of the window or fighting the urge to do so.
I seem to remember reading an article on Herr Strakey that he's a sexual predator and actively pursued arse at every opportunity - horrible turd of a man.
We were watching, my dear mr narcolept turning a worrying shade of puce at intervals, which cannot be good for him.
I am confused. Didn't Dr Starbuck say that poor people shouldn't be allowed to live in nice parts of London (where the jobs are) but should instead be made to go and live in Oldham (where the jobs aren't)? But that also they should be forced to work, so they should not be allowed to live in Oldham either?
Yes, that is exactly what he said that's Starkey for you, a nasty idiot, must be a place for him at the cabinet table, in the Pig Society.
I thought it was all quite chilling actually, more Brown Shirt than Blue Nun.
Horrible bastard is Starkey. Nothing to be done with him save wait until he is dead. Fortunately all that Thursday night bullshit is now a closed book to me. Enough lies for one lifetime.
Mrs WoaR and myself often wander over to the Biased BBC bloggy where they do an interactive thingymyjig for QT and This Week and it does seem to help the old spleen.
He is truly Media's Creature and I think just as deleterious to the national good as Rupert Murdoch and his whoring arselickers - everybody in MediaMinster.
Just tiny doses for me, these days, mr m. Usedta be a guy at order-order, red despot spotter, gave an almost instantaneous review of all those programmes, wonder what happened to him, and mr dalai lama ding dong, and mr Jimmy the Chink.
I posted, once, on the biased beeb and was immediately deleted,mr dtp, I think that's why I started this. You know, all this comment is free shit, bollocks, isn't it?
In fact, I'd go further. If I was the father of young or teenage or otherwise impressionable children, like you, mr m, I would do a Mary Whitehouse on this wretched old fag, his bullying, his spite, his evident inter-personal cruelty, a shockingly bad influence. It would be easily done for he really is just a nasty, pushy little fairy, Brian Cox, a proper luvvie, gave him some good hard stick on QT last week and the little fuck snivelled through the rest of the programme, almost ducking under the desk and migrating towards Cox's Cleobury Mortimers, there to make amends for his vicious gobby folly. Oh Brian! I didn't mean it like that. It's just that I'm so clever that people misunderstand me, especially when I can't talk over everyone else, incessantly. Honestly! It was lovely to see. Could almost smell him sweating as he struggled, vainly, on that occasion, to reassert his horrible bastard self.
It is a battle all-but beyond the winning, Mr Ishmael. "I know what we'll do! We'll find a middle-aged, vulnerable woman who can sing a bit. Find a really Plain Jane, will you? No, get a fucking numpty. We'll put her on the telly and have her sing like almost an angel. Yeah, get a proper monster. Irony, innit. Laugh? We'll piss ourselves counting the money."
The spectrum of random stupidity and ridicule extends from the adult-aimed X-factor, The Apprentice, The Weakest Link... Need I go on? ...down now into kids' TV. My wee girls watch Hannah Montana and Miley Cyrus and other such US pre-teens stuff. It is nothing but taking the piss and saying rude stuff. "How cool is that? Like I was rude right to his face, Dude. Yo." In fact, Hannah Montana is now banned, I think on the spurious grounds of being vapid fucking horror show freakery but it was either that or launch the fucking telly through the window.
Fortunately, so savagely do I thrash them to their books and their sports that they have little time for telly. It is amusing - at least it is to me - to mooch about among the million or so channels and put on some old guff from the seventies and just watch it silently. Bullseye is a good one. The Onedin Line. On the Buses might even entertain the eldest on grounds of satire but it is unlikely. We'll not risk it. They stare open-mouthed at the gentle emptiness of it all and wander off to find a book. Missions can be accomplished in all sorts of ways. If only I could find a bit of Vision On.
I read yesterday that TV schedulers all around the world are queueing up to buy, for their countries, the format of Come Dine With me, on the grounds, as ITV Supremo, Adam Postie Crozier, says, of its cost effectiveness and flexibility, ITV is even gooing to produce a series, here, with Iranian diners, for the Iranian home audience, how Mr IAmADinnerJacket will chortle at this representation of les anglais fou.
In passing, dropping the teevee, outside, on concrete, and leaving it there, is also instructive to young minds.
I've only ever done it once and it was fun. I can see why people upgrade to this thin type TeeVees; I moved in here 5 years ago and I was a lot fitter then - hernia material written all over it.
Will attempt to have a laugh during the News Quiz - not too confident.
QT is just zoo tv for the erm, mature. Every week the audience contains a regulation number of Young People, looking baffled because they've been kidnapped, stuck in a chair and handed a card which has a question on it surrounded by the words: Read this out when you are told: /question goes here/ if you know what's good for you.
This is true: I was once coralled in to an audience by the promise of a free education and boy did I get one. We were stuck in a huge freezing hangar on the outskirts of somewhere none of knew existed. They made us record a quiz show based on 'What's My Line?' which should rightly have been called WTF? A couple of abandoned Goodies were involved but I've forgotten the other terrorists who held us captive.
The show was terminally unfunny and the mis-named 'warm up' comedian tried to make it sound witty when he said "we can't let you leave or you wouldn't come back". Too bloody right, except that we really didn't have a clue where we were and would have had to be sure to re-take the coach driver who, I notice, must have been in on the scam because he was no where to be seen. Probably in a warm control box with tea and biccies, if I know coach drivers.
Events took a surreal turn when the rebel leaders in the front row refused to clap or laugh to order and instead began to boo. The floor wrangler looked like he was losing order and the director (or what ever they call themselves) padded down in his hush puppies to tell us in school masterish tones that disruptives would be stood in the carpark to die of exposure, and it still wouldn't make any difference because we were all in this together and our best chance of getting out was to cooperate and get the recording wrapped up.
I think it was Tim Brooke-Taylor who began to look very worried as he had fluffed his lines quite a bit and the audience were beginning to hiss and indicate a willingness to take it up with him. He then became even more nervous and reluctant to try to be witty in case it caused a re-take.
I don't know why we didn't just stand up, kick over the ruddy set and advise them to re-run the Potter's Wheel twenty five times rather than waste a moment more of their precious lives on this unutterable rubbish which had never really deserved its radio popularity and wasn't making the transition to TV at all well.
It was our failure that we didn't do so; hanging on achieved nothing but waste and helped nobody.
Apologies for err..well, you know but I went to a 'ready steady cook' episode (stuffed the red tomatto, green pepper card up my jersey) and held in a fart for about 2 hours and proper did myself an injury. The leg room was atrocious and I would have farted on a dude's head. Warm up guy just occurred and we were in Wembley so there's really no excuse.
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