PROFESSOR GERMAINE SLAG
You know, back in the 'sixties, every man in Australia was gagging to have me, and it was true that I did bang like a shithouse door in a gale but eventually I had to come over here to England, fuck every single pop star, celebrity and literary figure and become a great writer, professor and broadcaster. My legs just spread-out, I mean my heart goes out to all those hunky resuce workers and they can come over here to Greer Towers and rescue my pussy anytime. That'll be three hundred quid please. Plus VAT. I can knock you up twelve hundred words on Feminism in a time of Flood for, Oh, about a grand.
THE BEE GEE.
Y'know we wrote all our own stuff, said the unpardonably ugly, screeeching toothy fuckwit, Robin, or is it Barry, and we all learned to sing harmony. Everybody's recorded our songs, Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton and that's what's so great about us, I mean me, what' so great about me, the others being very tragically dead, that'a what's so great about me. Australia? Hated the place, couldn't wait to get back to Blighty, although Florida is best, if you're into music and cocaine. Lulu? Was I married to her? Fuck me. When was that, then? You sure it was me?
SIR ROLF HARRIS
Yknow, cobbers, when I was painting Her Maj, she did say to me, Rolfy, baby, shall one get one's royal kit off, but me being such a gentleman I just said No, thank you, Ma'am. I'm happily married, to myself and my fabulous career in the entertainment business. As for the floods well I just prayed an old aboriginal flood-rebuking prayer and played some of the old sacred tunes on my didgeridoo and the waters never came near me, here in my country home in Berkshire. Powerful mojo, that old abo shit; it's what makes everyone love me, apart from me kids, that is, who hate me fuckin' guts.
DR CLIVE JAMES.
Well with the greatest respect, Germaine is talking out of her deep fundamental. I am the greatest ever living Australian - poet, singer, lyricist, comic, critic, director, dramatist, editor, novelist, painter, sculptor, actor, journalist, broadcaster, raconteur, wit, gourmand and lover, that's me; now, what's that hairy old bag done to compare with that, said the horrid smirking arsehole, his pigface contorted in a rictus of astonishment at his own genius and wit. Why does that Steven Fag get all the work, and not me? Queensland? That's the place for him, may I say, very wittily. Geddit? Queens' land? Ah well, as we say Down Under, a prophet is without honour in his own billabong. Waltzin' Matila, Waltzin' Matilda, you'll come a-waltzin'...............
And now over to Jayne Tits in Brazil, Jayne, what can you tell us about the terrible floods in Brazil?
Well, Kirtsy, I'm afraid the bad news is that there aren't any famous Brazilians, apart from Pele and he must surely be dead by now. Many ladymen, trannies, chixwithdicks are presumed dead in the floods which may impact the Brazilian tourist business, especially among those travelling regularly from the Westminster Houses of Parliament, looking for true love and anal brutality but otherwise nobody gives a fuck. So to speak.
Thanks Jayne, now over to Rob McThing with the weather.