Monday, 21 May 2012


Good evening, this is NightTime with Huw Welshman  and we have  an hour of filler for you about some singer or other.

The world of entertainment was rocked to it's foundations this morning by the news that   a strange looking man with a squeaky voice had passed away. One of the remaining members of the rock group Pinky and Perky has died in a US hospital.

Mr Barry Pinky, of the Pnky and Perky brothers.
Or is it Robin?

The BBC's resident smart-aleck, the deeply unfunny, wisecracking arsehole, Mr Clive Anderson, quipped  That'll teach him to walk out in my show, when all I was doing was my usual dreary act of being nasty. Only it's not an act of course, I really am an utter cunt, detestable and vile, that's me, can't imagine why they give me so much work, smirk, smirk.

No-no, I didn't mean it...well, I did really
 The late BeeGees, storm off Mr Anderson's grisly little show.

Lord and Lady Mr Sir Elton  John , holidaying on the Cap de Cocaine, said they were totally and utterly gutted;
Mum's the word.

 Barry or was it Robin was a towering genius and  a star has gone out of the great firmament of rock'n'roll heaven, not that I'd know anything about  rock'n'roll,  my wife, Sir David and  I, as a mark  of showbiz respect are going to change the name of our delightful little son, from Levon - whose namesake too has passed away - to Robin, or is it Maurice . Well, I know people might raise an eyebrow or two but he's ours, we bought and paid for him with our own money, I mean my own money, and we can do what we want with him.  I am too upset to think about issuing a tribute version of my great melancholy anthem Cancer  In The Wind, but if I can wipe away the tears I might manage it. First Princess Diana, then Elizabeth Taylor and now this ugly screeching bloke. My life is just all tragedy. And the feeling's gone. And I can't go on.
Fell down the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way.
 Smile an everlasting smile... second thoughts, best not.

 And we're joined now in the studio by Lady Sir Tom Jones;  Lady Sir Tom, growing up in the valleys, in the 'thirties, what did the BeeGees mean to you?

 Wretched old phony.

Well, of course I'm a blues man, meself, isn't it. Jones the Blues, they used to call me, back in the valleys, It's Not Unusual , that was a real blues tune. And What's New Pussycat? A dyed in the wool blues number, that. Thunderball, Funny Familiar Forgotten Feelings, all great blues numbers. Gotta have soul, look you, to sing the blues. And that's what he had, wossisname, the freaky-looking one, although, mind you, boyo, they were all a bit freaky.  Not saying that they fished from the other bank or anything but great, great bluesmen, all the same; we'll not look on their teeth again. I mean their like.  What? Write songs?  Meself, you mean? Fuck, no, can't even barely write me own name, me. But if I had any advice to young bluesmen starting out in showbusiness,  it would be to cultivate one of these snufflers beards, like I 'ave. All the best bluesmen 'ave, you know. Worth nearly a quarter of a billion pounds I am, you know. I know, mad, innit.

Was my good friend, Elvis, a paedo?

 Love me, tender.

Well, it's true that when he was in the army, in Germany like, look you, isn't it, he was the most famous star in the world, like, and could of had any woman he wanted, he was dating a thirteen-year old, Priscilla, and paying-off her parents, just like he was a catholic priest.  That doesn't necessarily mean that he was noncing her, know what I mean.  But he probly was.  Them good ole Southern boys like that sort of thing; Jerry Lee Lewis, Chuck Berry and so on. My old mate, Engelbert Numperdinck, win the Eurovision Song contest ?  Yeah, course he will, he'll piss it. Proper singer Engel, like me,  a real blues singer.  Please Release Me, Let Me Go, real blues number, that.

And joining us from her TennesseMountain Home is the Queen of Country Music, songthrush Dolly Tits'n'Wigs, Miss Dolly, what did Pinky and Perky mean to you.

 Ms Tits, Travellin' on for Jesus.

Aw shucks, them boys was just the nicest boys, warble-warble, an' I know, friends, that right now, they'll be up there in Heaven, serenadin' our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, warble-warble, with that fine harmony screeching they done and just havin' themselves a high old time.  An' it's true that country music owes them BeeGees a great debt for all them tunes they wrote, warble-warble which made us all so much money.  I don't need no money fer myself, y'unnerstand, it's just so's I can do the Lord's work for my many nieces and nephews and to maintain my li'l ole country music palace, DollyWorld, here in Tennessee, where sick people can come and get theirselves cured, an' only fer a few dollars, warble-warble. (Sings) Inbreds in the stream, that is what we are, no-one in between, how can we go wrong, sail away with me, warble-warble......

Thank you Dolly Parton.  That was country legend, Dolly Parton, there, with some of her memories of Robin or Barry or Maurice Chevalier, who died today.  And we are joined now by  Professor Sir Brian Earnest Hair and Trainers, guitarist with Queen and Astronomer Royal, who is in the Sky at Night Studios with Sir Patrick High-Trousers BrownShirt.

Well Brian,  'spect you saw quite a lot of Mr Wotsisname, the both of you being in music hall...

That's right, Patrick, often we'd gaze at the heavens together looking at distant galaxies and thinking how much we owed it all to you....

Too kind, too kind, and when you were first growing your hair and trainers, back in the 'seventies, how much of an influence was he on you and the other queens?

None at all, Patrick, none at all ...

Quite so. And I understand that you've played for the real Queen, on the roof of her own house...??

Yes, I can earnestly say I have, and what a great earnest honour it was for me, too.  You know as I often earnestly say about Freddie Mercury blah blah blah blah...

Yes, well, right, that's enough the fuck of all that.  Here's rocking at you, Brian May, whoever the fuck you are, in my studio in your earnest hair and earnest trainers.  And here's to the next ten thousand issues of the Sky at Night, hoping all you at home can join me for them, only not the late Mr Pinky, or is it Perky.

And now Paul Gambaccini,  the BBC's official mourning diva, shares his thoughts about whatever dead musician it is. Fuck me, Jesus, you think at his age he'd have better things to do.

Paul Fluffer SmarmyGitaccini

Well, of course, Huw, he was a consumnnate musician and songwriter and all round great human being, rather a cross between Albert Schweitzer and  Judy Garland, I knew them quite well, both of them and we would often meet up together and talk pretentious fucking drivel about showbusiness tossers and how utterly magical and wonderful they all are, and we are, too, Huw, (sings)   There's no business like showbusiness, like no business I know.  In my role as cocksucker to the stars, I knew Barry or Maurice or Barry quite intimately and he once came out to me, like rock stars do. But I never told anyone he was gay. And I never would. The rock'n'roll firmament has lost one of its brightest stars and we shall not look on his teeth again. I mean his like.  At a time like this all we have is words. It's only words, and words are all I have to take your heart away, dah-da-dah-da-dah-da-dah-dah-dah.

Thanks Paul, that was Gambo there, with his take on Mr Perky's  tragic death at 62 of swine fever.  You can read more of Gambo's repellent fucking fawning drivel on the BBC website.

And we were about to go to Lulu, who was once married to one of the three little pigs

Fiery Scots one-hit wonder, Lulu McBotox with her then husband, Barry or Maurice or Robin BeeGee.
This one died from a twisted intestine. And no wonder, all that high-pitched skriking.

 but her face has fallen off and she is undergoing urgent plastic surgery at the King Edward the Seventh Hospital for old bags, here in London.

And Lulu, today, singing her one hit, You Know You Make Me Wanna Bark.

But to sum-up the remarkable life and career of this remarkable man we turn to our Arts editor, mr stanislav, a young Polish plumber.

Fuck me, Huwbloke, up here in Scotland, best part of England, can hear all sort of fucking rubbish, weep and fucking wailing, fifteen-verse song about fucking hanging three  hundred fucking year ago by redcoat bastard and nailing Jock to door of fucking crofthouse and on every street corner is band of Smirking Wee Fionas scrape fucking guts out from fiddle and fuckawful accordian, sound like fucking skeleton having Jay Arthur inside biscuit tin, scrape and fucking jangle and wheeze. Jesus, is fucking dreadful, this culture shit.  But even so, is not so bad as fucking BeeGees.  Is fucking rubbish, innit, Huw.  I mean, just because something popular is doesn't mean is fucking bad and throw in dusting bin. Take Mozart, is popular as fuck and good, too. But take skymadeupnewsandfilth of  rotten old Aussie bastard and GingerMinge and Kelvin McFuck, is popular but is fucking rubbish and whole lot of bastards rounded-up should be and  drown in fucking Thames. Anybody who read or watch, much less write skymadeupnewsandfilth should get thrown off Embankment with paving slab in gob, where teeth used to be.  No,  BeeGee music is fucking rubbish but what can expect from Mancunian criminal family transport to Australia and sneak back in under disguise of monsterteeth and hair. Is good for fuck all, anyway, BeeGee, dropping dead from this and that.  Every five fucking minute is dead fucking BeeGee on news.  Fuck me, is only one bastard left now, and then BeeGeebastards  is all fucked, gone off in showbiz purgatory and singing Gotta Get A Message To You.Only am dead as  fucking mackerel. And good job, too, fucking miserable squeaky caterwauling racket . If bloke is then should sing like bloke, and not like fucking hysterical castrati mutant bastard.  No business like showbusiness. If BeeGee was plumber would fucking starve, turn up at customer house where shit and sanitary towel and icy water flowing down stairs is   and stand on doorstep and go squeak-squeak-squeak, da-da-dah-da-da-da-da-dadada, soon would get fucking toilet seat wrap round fucking ear, BeeGee or no fucking BeeGee. No, good riddance to bad rubbish is. Light all go out in Massachusetts, thank fuck; job a good un is.


Woman on a Raft said...

Inbreds in the stream, that is what we are

I'm saving that one.

P.S. In case you haven't got it, this one of Stanislav's from 2007 turned up the other day. Digital Spy archived it and it showed up when I was comparing search engines.

Verge said...

How deep is your love, Uncle Elton?

Usually up the elbow, easy.

a young Anglo-Irish catholic said...

How amazing to see Stanislav on Broon. They were the worst of times, put the horror has faded. Very odd.

call me ishmael said...

Thanks, mrs woar, will steel myself and look at that. Dunno about you but sometimes I can't bear to see what I wrote even a half-hour ago, let alone five years back; makes me cringe, fit to jump out of my skin. I think that's, probably a good thing but very non-showbiz.

I've always scribbled stuff but as much to level my head and ease my mind as anything else, that and just the physical task of writing. hunched and crooked, over a keyboard that has most of its letters worn away. These multi-way commentaries are great but I don't consider them art or anything and stanislav was just a visitation from a voice outraged and fractured by the times. Nothin' to do with me, Guv.

Agatha said...