This is the Six o'clock news from the PBC. And I'm Huw Welshman. Good evening, look you. And in breaking news, our current unelected prime minister, Mrs Askey, has announced the appointment to the Foreign Office of young parent, Lady Sir Elton John, music lovers will be disappointed but the cheery, former cocaine-addicted pianist's role will not be in govament to perform his three songs over and over again, for decades - the slow one, the mid-tempo one and the fast one - but instead will be engaged in supporting the head of Mr Askey's foreign service, Mr BoJo, as he travels the world apologising for his history of insulting foreign leaders, but only in the spirit of a high-spirited public school fourth former, least said, soonest mended, what, jolly good show. No...sorry....wossat? Not Sir Elton? Some other old queen? Right, gottit. Yes. On-air correction? Right.
- and apologies, too, to Sir Reg, who's probably, as we speak, dressing his much sought-after, expensively-purchased designer children.
No, it's not to be Sir Reg, at the foreign office, although I understand that he does stand ready to re-write and re-record his tuneless, I mean timeless classic, Candle Up The Arse, on behalf of either the EuroLeavers or the EuroQuitters. You can just hear it, can't you, viewers, Goodbye, Donald Tusk, though I never knew you at all......and so on, I'm sure Sir Reg would do justice to the topic of a misguided nation being allowed to vote on a subject most of them didn't understand. Although I believe, being something of a musicologist myself,
isn't it, look you, that SIr Reg doesn't actually write the words to his timeless classics, things like Benny and the Jets and.......some other tunes, too; no, he has a lyricist, writes them for him, and then all Sir Reg has to do is decide whether to use his slow, mid-tempo or fast arrangement, and of course, what to wear, which is where his wife, David, comes in, she handles that sort of thing.....Is she his wife or is she his husband, fucked if I know. Wossat?
Both of them are husbands?
Fuck me sideways, bach, how does that work? No. no, never mind, I don't wanna know. Y'know, viewers, when I was a cub reporter on the Merthyr Tydfil Weekly Herald - which is where I learned everything I know about journalism - if I ever heard about that sort of carry-on, y'know, two blokes, being each others husbands, like, isn't it, it was in the local magistrates' court, where the offenders, as they then were, were being committed to the Assizes. Wossat? Yes, for hanging, I expect.
But we've moved-on some way since then and if two blokes want to buy a bunch of children off some poor third world bitch, set-up home together and then insist that they're quite normal, just like Mr and Mrs Jones, in fact not only normal but better than normal - yes, that is the word, abnormal - I mean, nobody back then would've believed a word of it. Progress, y'see, something in which all the NancyBoys at the PBC have played such a part. I say NancyBoys but what we mean, here at the Corporation, is Trannies....wossat? No, no, very different to Sir Reg and his Mrs or Mr.
No, Trannies is where a man says he's a woman and you have to agree with him, on pain of being exiled to Northern, where they shouldn't be allowed to vote, although I understand there's more than a few Trannies up there, too. Over now to the sport, with Claire Balding, wresting some babes to the ground and then to that hideously smug quiz show, QI, is it, with Sandi Tuskface,
cackling at her own dismal jokes.
But at least she's not a Tranny.
At least I don't think she is.
I never did get that QI, viewers, did you?
Stevie and his husband.
Just an opportunity for Sir Steven Fag to show-off to a bunch of wankers.......well, come on, Phil Jupitus?
The man's a cunt, take it from me. Bill Bailey?
He stopped being funny fifteen years ago. once he'd played all his instruments. Jo Brand? Do me a fucking favour, isn't it, look you. The KnobJoke Queen, isn't she, cerainly alternative, a sneery, dishevelled, fat old lady telling knobjokes.
Still, mighta been worse than Sandi, on QI, mighta been that dreadful Sue Perkins, off the cake show, the one with that old corpsey confectioner.
yes, her with all the nightmare make-up on.
Christ Al-fucking-mighty, if she doesn't give you the horrors then nothing will, isn't it, look you.
But no, it's not Lady Sir Elton going to the Foreign Office, or Foreign and Commonwealth Office, I should say, so's not to offend all those dusky folks who we'll need to come here and do vital nannying jobs for rich slags.
I mean, why should rich and successful Londoners raise their own children, when they can get Polish and Bulgarian birds to do it for a pittance, and a room in the attic?
But leaving that aside - the inconvenience caused to wealth creators by poor, angry people having a vote - the big appointments continue to come from Mrs Askey's dressing room and the one about which there can now be no confusion is that of a distinguished Tory public servant, to whom, unlike Mr Corbyn, absolutely no scandal attaches.
Here's the new appointee, talking to my colleagues, Ian Hislop and Paul Merton. yes, I know, viewers, talk about a job for life with the PBC, that show's been going for - what is it - twenty-six fucking years; that smirking little fat fuck, Hislop, and Paul Merton doing his absurdist schtick, twenty-six fucking years of it, I mean, viewers, how can they call this satire, after twenty-six years? It's for dribbling old people, stinking of piss, and all they want is something familiar. to make them feel secure for a moment or two.
If you ask me they're fucking bone idle, upstairs, at the PBC. Marcus Bogstick, Steve Punt and Hugh Dennis, and HIGNFYfor fuck's sake, and that't the PBC's satire. Oh, I was forgetting, I think that Sue Perkins has her guests baking satirical chocolate eclairs,
her and that big Scouse fairy, the one with the goatee; how the fuck did the PBC come to this pass?
Anyway, enough of me. And the pretend news. Here's another one of Mrs Askey's Top team. Satire? Alan Duncan? Alan fucking Duncan? In government again? You're having what the young people call a fucking laugh, isn't it, look you?
Unavoidably, I saw a few minutes of Prime Ministers Questions; no, it was just a few dreadful seconds, and I swear, that Mrs Askey, she's really David Flashman, in drag. Poison.