THE SIX O'CLOCK NEWS, WITH THE PBC.

Good evening, and this is Huw Welshman, with the Six o'clock news from the British Paedo News Corporation, with the news of another sad loss to the world of the arts, well, strictly speaking, look you, it's showbusiness, isn't it, or light entertainment as we called it when I was growing up in the Valleys, listenting to Workers Playtime, on the Light Programme, before it became Radio One, and Pick of the Pops, with Jack Jackson;  those were the days, viewers, let me tell you, we'd listen to Family Favourites with Cliff Michelmore, great tunes by proper singers, like Mario Lanza, Perry Homo, I mean Como, no, he was never a poof, Maestro Como, although Bing Crosby was a bit of a sadist towards his children,  and there was Saturday Club with Brian Matthew and most of the pop music we heard was cover versions, on the  Billy Cotton Band Show.  Billy Cotton?  Fucked if I know, he was a big, bald, fat fucker, 

with a small orcherstra and he used to shout Wakey-Wakey, 

like a cunt, he did;  it was his catch phrase; fucking awful it was. Yes, that's right, Declan McManuses dad, he played with Billy Cotton, Declan who? Yeah,  you know him as Elvis Costello, that's right, the angry little four-eyed git, the dwarf who thinks he's brilliant. Yeah, I guess we might say we can thank Billy Cotton for Elvis Costello. 

 
Watching the defectives.

And then television came along and fucked everything up, good and bloody proper look you, isn't it?   Yes, that was Billy Cotton's son, Wakey-Wakey junior, 

presided over the great Tony Blackburn-Jimmy Savile scandal, Bill Cotton junior and many others. 



Anyway, at times like these, of national tragedy, we generally hear from a colleague of the deceased, telling us how wonderful they were, even if, as they usually were, they were utter cunts,  and tonight, as a mark of special tribute to a national treasure, yes, another one, we are truly blessed in this country, aren't we, with national treasures, but tonight we have with us a man normally referred to as the Comedians' Comedian, although more recently he has been acting as the Comedians' Obituarist, yes, put your hands together at home for Mr Barry Cryer.

Thanks, Huw, and that's right, Ronnie Corbett is a great loss to the senior citizen community.

 Y'know, he really did care about old people, well, comfortably-off old people, anyway, 

And you are getting enough to eat, aren't you, darlings,
cos it's very important that you do?

old people with money to burn, he really cared that they got a good, nourishing, 

expensive, hot meal delivered to them by a cheery delivery man. 

It was like his swansong, if you like, for all the old people who had supported his vast talent.

He really did devote the last years of his life to making sure that rich pensioners didn't have to arse themselves with things like cooking but could spend their time down the hairdressers or on SAGA cruises. 

Y'know, Huw, we hear a lot these days about  celebrities doing charity work, just think, f'rinstance, of Sir Telly Wogan or Sir Tel, as I called him, and how he worked endlessly on charity shows for no more than his normal fee. But Ronnie Corbett, he really was committed to Wiltshire Farm Foods 4 The Comfortably-off Elderly, it was something he really felt deeply and genuinely about.

Ronnie Corbett

displays his staggering range

of comic gestures

involving spectacles.

And of course, Ron  - I called him Ron, because we went way back, to the days of Sir David Frost, although Sir David never stood on ceremony either, and he let me call him Sir Dave.....


That sketch, about the class thing, I think I may have written that for Sir Dave and the gang.  I've written so many. 


 .....that's how we are, in showbusiness, really quite informal, even Dame Judi M, head of MI5, lets me call her Dame Jude....

Yes, dear, dear, darling little Ronnie often used to bring me  a nice lamb hotpot, with green peas, when I was resting between awards, and one couldn't have wished for a more efficient factotum but what's not widely known about Ronnie Corbett is that he was desperate to play Lear before he died.  One can just see him, drawn-up to his full four-feet-four, ranting at the heavens, bellowing in mortal despair about such things he would do. And now, tragically, he won't. A case, really, of if he had trod the timeless boards, raging at fate, the poor, poor darling stage manager, and let's face it, darling, we'd be fucked sideways to Christmas without the stage manager,  wooda had to have come on and say It's goodnight from him, wouldn't he? Although  I'm sure he would have been brilliant, poor, poor little Ronnie, with his glasses and his frozen Chicken Kievs, everybody in showbusiness is brilliant, let's face it, and when I accept all these awards I do it only on behalf of the tragic, desperately tragic little people.  And of course to honour  the great national bard, wotsisname, yes, Shakespeare,  the spirit of Shakespeare, it haunts every frame of the James Bond films in which I appeared, 

as it does the work of my dear, dear friend, Dame Patrick Stewart, in his role as Captain Jean-Luc Picard, 

in that great, uplifting drama, Star Trek. We great Shakespearian actors, we work all our lives in order to play comic book heroes, and this is why taxpayer funding for the arts is so very, very important, yes, so that boring, clapped-out  old  luvvies like myself

 and Dame Patrick can go to Hollywood and earn millions of dollars.  

Yes, and Family Guy, too,
 
Alas, poor Peter Griffin, I knew him, Stewie, a man of no wit and less wisdom...

 Dame Paddy appears in that most relevant and out-there satirical cartoon show, so brave, so very, very brave of him. One could weep for Dame Paddy's courage.  I mean, it takes literally decades of training and self-discipline and no little creative intelligence and artistry to voice-over oneself in a cartoon show.

 Dame who?  Dame Helen Mirren?  Never heard of her. Sounds like some slut. Oh, yes, is she the one who demeans our profession by  advertisisng skin fillers for old bags? 

Well, all I would say, and I don't want to be unkind, one never does, is that an eighty-five-year old dwarf flogging  cod in mornay sauce to well-heeled pensioners is one thing but for an old actor, like the slag, Mirren,  to promote expensive Fuck-Me Cream to desperate old biddies, like herself, well, that's shameful, utterly shameful, calls herself a Shakespearian actor, indeed. And they don't actually work, the creams, I know, I've tried them all.

Thanks, Dame Jude.

But no, talking of the Two Ronnies, it's all down to me, that, down to me being a comic writer;  I just saw these two blokes, working together, both called Ronnie, and so I said, why not call them the Two Ronnies?  Y'know, I still laugh at that, even today. The Two Ronnies.  Genius. If I say so myself.

Yeah, I know, simple, but it takes a writer to think of these things.  But as I was saying, about Little Ron - that's the way we in the business distinguished between them, there was Little Ron, obviously, and Sick Ron, because, y'know, he was always ill, was Ron Barker, his friends called him Sickly Ron, y'know, even to the extent that that's what killed him in the end, his being ill.  


But never mind, he left this great body of work, things like the  Four Candles sketch and... ...well, there'll be other ones, too.

Y'know, I used to work with Bob Monkhouse, 
 I've worked with all the greats, me,


and Bobby, I called him Bobby because that's how we are in this business, Bobby used to say to me,  Bazza - that's what he called me - Bazza, those two Ronnie fuckers, the sick one and the dwarf, they just keep churning-out this material, and some of it's even funny, well, a bit funny, that Four Candles thing, 

 

that was a bit funny, the first hundred-or-so times you seen it, anyway, whereas I, the greatest gagster of his generation, I have to steal jokes from all over the world, copy them out in big books 


The Great Book of Bob Jokes, Volume One.

and travel around with them, doing my act, yeah, leering, that's basically it, leering with pathos. And pouting, a bit shocked, like an oily Frankie Howerd.

I coulda played  Lear, y'know, or Hamlet, comical-historical, tragical-comical, woddever. 

 But no, he really was a great turn, was Bobby, all the young, so-called Alternative Comics, they all loved Bobby, great, innovative comedians like Lee Mack and Graham Norton, stayed away from Bobby's farewell tour in droves, they did.



New comics, like that big Oirish queen, wossisname, 


Dara O'Something, thinks he's a cross between Father Ted and Albert Einstein........

Och, away wichya, Bazza, me ould mucker, Oi'm more like a Celtic Rennaysonce Man, 

me, more loike a scoyentist-troubador-philosopher-logician-theologian koinda t'ing, sure Oi am,  me and me ould mate, 


professor Broyan Cox, doin' all dese shows, koind of a mixture a slapstick and astrophysics, 


 koinda loike Laurel and Hardy, 
wid Broyan bein' da wee, skinny goy, yes, an me being de udder one, only wid Pee Haitch Dees, 
but loike fer the workin' man, who, we  all know, Bazz, is as t'ick as shit, so he is, an wooden understand a quadratic equation if one punched him in his stupid gob, so he wouldn't, an' whoy should he, when he's got shows loike Mock the Week to enjoy?

  And not only enjoy, but be informed by, seein' as he can't barely read and fockin' wroite now, can he, the useless arsehole.  When he watches Mock the Week he thinks he's appreciatin' great satire, not that he knows what satire is, the poor stupid bastard.  It's loike Have Oi Got News For You, loike, only fer people who watch EastEnders, thinkin' it's fucking social work they're seeing.

There's me and me ould mates, Russell Cunt and 

 Hugh Cunt and  Andy Cunt


and Frankie Cunt

sometimes we have that rough, Geordie bint, Sarah Cunt, 



makin' wroy an oironic jokes about jamrags an' cystoitis and wimmin's bits.

 And we have that fuckin' evil Canadian witch, who's as funny as premature fuckin' burial. 
Loike Christmas Day in Auschwitz, she is. Y'know where all the starvin' Jews is forced to play Soilent Night on their violins, whoilst the Nazi fuckpigs stuff themselves wid turkey and stuff and loike decoide which of the fiddlers is goin' in the gas chamber on Boxing Day but look on the broight soide, at least they got to celebrate Christmas Day, even though they're fucking Jews and they didden even get a bit a turkey to fuckin' eat but just got to watch the Nazi sadist fucking bastard psychopaths stuff their fat, cruel faces. She's loike that, dis Canuck horror.

But, do you know what, after havin' just imagined all that Auschwitz at Christmas shite, you can see whoy, cancha, dat mad bitch Merkel'd wanna  have half the Middle East round her gaff for dinner, I mean, cancha?  Fuck me, Bazza, if moy ould fella'd been widdin a hundred fuckin' moiles a Auschwitz den Oi'd be like Merkel, Only not wid da Jews, obviously, they'd tell yous to go and fuck yourselves, wouldn't they? Tell yous to shove yer turkey, chipolata, cranberry an' sprouts up yer arses an' try whistlin' Soilent Noight outa them. 

But Fuck me, Bazza, if the fuckin' Canucks don't want her, what the fuck are we doin', givin' her houseroom over here. She should be fuckin' deported, so she should. Send her to amuse them geriatric wild men, wid all dem deWalt Tools, in Alaska, buildin' log fucking cabins, loike fuckin' maniacs, 

flingin' around monster beJaysus chainsaws that'd rip you to fuckin'shreds, just turn y'into a red and whoite mist, loike, crazy fuckin' bastards

an' choppin' down acres and fuckin' acres a trees to build dose stupid fuckin' houses in da wilderness dat for mosta da year y'can't even reach.

loike there was no breeze blocks in the Northern fucking hemisphere. Didya ever see that show Bazz? Fuckin' mental so it is. An' alroight, Oi know Alaska isn't, strictly speakin', in Canada.


because Oi'm  intelligent, loike,
in case you hadn't noticed.

 But it koinda is, culturally speaking, Eskimo Nell and Dangerous Dan McGroo. An dem fuckin' injuns, the mad bastards wid de Mo-fuckin-hican haircuts. Dat's as Canadian as Margaret Trudeau gangbanging the Rolling fucking' Stones, eh Bazz? But no, she should fuck off wid all her bitter, nasty so-called fuckin' humour, dat bint. Oy mean, Joan Rivers she'll never be, fuckin' baggage .



 And what happens, on  Mock the Week,  is that Oi read them all out the abbreviations of a headline and they have to pretend they don't know what they stand for, even though they do, and  pretend to spontaneously  come up with impromptu routines which they've spent all week polishing at home wid their own teamsa wroiters.  Oy mean, it is absolutely the lamest format yous could ever imagine, and yet they keep on makin' it. I mean, Bazza, Oi t'ink you'll foind dat the cuttin' edge, loike, a comedy, it's  been honed to a new,  ferocious keenness, loike a giggling fuckin' Samurai sword, so it has, boy new masters a the craft. Loike me, and all moy banda comic cunts.

Well, if you like, Dara, OK if I call you Da, is it?

But no, there was no-one quite like Ron Corbett, y'know when he was on set with the senior citizens all it would take would be for one of the hungry old gits to just ask and Ronnie'd be helped-up, into a normal person's chair 

where he'd launch into one of his side-splitting, cheeky-grin  monologues  and the whole crew would just fall fast asleep, faces in their re-heated frozen dinners. 

 A real trouper was Ron Corbett, worked until he dropped, if you can call it work, playing a slightly self-deprecating midget for sixty years.  No business like showbusiness, eh, Huw?

That's right,  Barry.  
But we gotta leave that moment of national tragedy, just for now, although I expect we'll be watching that Four Candles moment of genius for decades, here on the PBC, along with all the best bits from Monty Python, yes, and Fawlty Towers. But for now we're gonna cut away and see what's on the other channels. Let's have a look at Cruelty TeeVee.





Yes, in another lifetime she might have been Eleanor of Aquitaine, bedding a succession of warrior nobles and spawning their heirs; statecrafting, bewitching, bothering and bewildering the crowned heads of mediaeval Europe, the prelates of a torturing Church, advancing her husbands and sons, pieces on Power's chessboard. Might've been Nefertiti, Hecuba, might have been Queen Victoria, a squat and ugly reprobate.  And he, he might have been Socrates, languidly discoursing with gilded youth on the purity, the nobility of predatory Sodomy; he might have been Marshal Zukhov, repelling the cruel, filthy Nazi horde from Mother Russia, he might've been anybody.  Anybody might have been anybody.

Now, though, the gene pool has rippled him onto this rank waterside and his political masters have left him useless, tattooed and ignorant, unschooled and uncouth, he and she, joined together in holy deadlock, mocked, derided and bullied on the Jeremy Kyle Show,

 
 by a creature much less worthy, much less noble  even than they for whom, at least, there is some excuse, for whom there should be some charity.


Yes, my love, we'll have you on my show, cos your teeth are fucking horrible, my love, and people'll laugh at you.
I do it because I care.


Kyle, in pimpcoat,  and his family,
 what a trio of cheap sluts.

I saw a couple in their fifties, today, sitting in  the airport, he was just making her laugh;  I couldn't hear it but it was lovely to see, it was their own, personal laughter fund, he was topping it up and she was spending it, with tears running down her cheeks. Jeremy Kyle would've hated it, people being in love.

What would happen in a decent society is that this worthless piece of shit, his producers and his inspiration, the grotesque Jerry Springer, would  be lined against Motherfuckers' Wall, given a moment to feel the shock of their situation, long enough for the shit to run down their legs and then shot to pieces with big, hot, fuck-off low-velocity bullets, but not too quickly.  That'd be proper Cruelty TeeVee. 




But guess what, viewers, I've only been interviewing the most powerful man in the world.



And, exclusively for the PBC, the greatest news gathering organisation in the world,  here's a flavour of what he said to me.


My fellow Limey motherfuckers. Before I start tellin' y'all like it is, I just wanna take a little moment to kinda question what Harry here, just said.



Actually, it's Huw, your worship, Huw, Haitch-You-DoubleYou.



Yeah, right, Harry; you say potayto an' I say potahtoe, y'get where I'm comin' from? But anyway, your folks done come from Wales, ain't it, Wales or some shit like that;  is that like a Limey Mexico, Wales?  You a greaser, Harry?   
Some kinda wetback?


Shucks, no, boss, Wales is more like a plantation, only instead of niggers, begging your worship's leave, pickin' cotton  (moves to keyboard and sings,)

tote dat barge, lift dat bale, get a liddle drunk, an' you land in jay-al, Ole Man River, dat Ole Man River.....

 
I ain't likin' that shit, Harry......I got me lotsa queues, an' you're headin' to the back of all them sonsafuckinbitches.....

But your holiness, if you'd allow me to finish, I was going to say that where the niggers, as it were,  were pickin' cotton, we, in Wales, or my ancestors, rather, like yours, I imagine, were enslaved by the English. Only we were digging coal. Sings again.


Men of Harlech, unto glory, 
this will ever be our story.....
you load sixteen tons
and whaddaya get   ?


OK, Harry, I'm gonna make this real simple for you. You said at the top of the bulletin that y'all was the greatest news gathering show in town, right?


That's correct, your excellency.

Then how comes you had, here, in this Goddamned building,  the biggest child molester, lady molester, genullman molester, cadaver molester in recent Limey history, and he was molestifying people that your BBC served up to him,  that he  was right-hand man to the heir to the fuckin' throne,  that he was he was probly bangin' the arse offa that screwball, Maggie Thatcher, come Christmastime,  her wrapped in the Union fucking jack with her arse sticking out, while her old man watched; that some old whore in you health  department 

give him his own fucking hospital to run around in, molesting patients and even corpses in the Goddamned mortuary?
How come you had a monster criminal roaming these very corridors and none of you investigative journalists ever smelled a rat?  And then when push comes to shove, y'all  set-up that crooked, mangy old, moneygrubbin' bitch of a  judge  to blame some poor shitkicker like Tony Blackburn, for him  to be the villain of the fuckin' piece?  I mean, Harry, how come you fuckers can show your faces in fucking public, never mind boast on the fucking television about how good y'all are. I mean, Harry, ain't you Limey sonsafuckinbitches got no shame?


 Well, your majesty, all that is as it may be but what viewers really want to know, as do we all, especially us here, in the PBC, is how can we best serve the interests of the prime minister in his aim of us  becoming a fully integrated region of the great European Project?  I mean, as always, we at the PBC are scrupulously impartial about the issue, although it's as clear as daylight that we simply must stay in the EU. Isn't it?

 
Damn right, bitch.


That was my epoch-defining interview, there, with President Obama. Eat shit and die, Evan Davies. Yes, and Kirsty Wark. And in other news, two old friends met up in Downing Street.


Now, Dave, my hamburgerin' buddy, y'all know that Uncle Sam wants to buy up all your public services, right? Only for peanuts, right? Via that TTIP shit, or whatever it is, right? And run 'em into the ground, right?  An' y'all know that it's easier for us to do that while y'all're in Europe, shuffling nigger migrants around between y'all, like you gave a fuck?


Lessbeclear, lessbeabsolutelyclear about this; my dear friend, Barack, a man whom I respect hugely, a man of his word, by the way, lessbeclear, he said he'd close that place down, wossaname, that place, where they torture the terrorists, and quite proply, in my view, Tampa Bay, is it? Chesapeake Bay?  No? Wossat?  Guantanamo Bay?  You sure?  Well, whatever it is, he said he'd close it down and he did. Wossat? He didn't?  Well, thassasmaybe, but what he did do is promise  to solve the problem of gun crime in America............What?  It's worse than ever? Alright, then, he said that black lives matter, too, because, lessbeclear, he's kinda black himself, although, to be fair, I think we all are, these days. And, true to his word, black lives now matter so much in America, under my friend, Barack, that more black people than ever are given the chance to serve nine hundred and ninety nine year jail sentences in American prisons, yes, and as if that wasn't enough, more black people than ever are being shot dead on the streets by lawnforcement, just for being black, I think we can all agree that that is a situation of which we should all be proud.  I mean, niggers shot dead, what's not to like?



Oh, I know that the lack of convictions of criminal bankers - in fact, most of them now work in the White House, so how absolutely admirable is that?  A bit like myself, employing Mr Coulson, in Downing Street  because Mr Murdoch told me to,  that's rehabilitation of offenders writ large. I know that all those criminal money-laundering gangsters getting away Scot-free upsets some people, especially those people whom  my former friend Mr Iain Duncan-Wotsit had to deprive of their walking sticks and wheelchairs and bedrooms, those sorts of, lessbeclear, riff-raff, felt that criminals should go to jail and disabled people should not be made to pay for the crimes of others, well they are a bit annoyed but do you know what, fuck 'em, I mean, what's the point of being disabled if you don't get shit on by rich people? I mean, it's not as though they're proper people, whose parents have salted-away money for them, far from that nasty old tax man, I mean person. And I know that some people unkindly call my friend - Britain's friend - Bobama, I mean Umbaka, course I do, Bumbo Umbako, my good friend, Bumbo, some people most unkindly call him the Bankers' TeaBoy.  I mean, lessbeclear, that's exactly what he is. That's exactly what we all are.  That's what politics is all about, people come into it not for themselves but to serve the bankers, who,  lessbeclear, generate the wealth which we all spend or wisely invest abroadly. Yes, on public services, yes, which we have thus far funded with taxpayers money and are now, with Bumbo's very sound advice that we do as he tells us, gonna give away, virtually,  to some American friends of my right honourable friend, Mr Junkie George. 

 
 So, I very much think that when someone as honest and upright, as far sighted and perspicacious as my friend, Bumbo Umbaka...wossat?  Backbo Umamba? Well, however you pronounce it, if Uncle Sam tells you to do something because its in the interests of his organised criminal class, JP Morgan or the Rockefellers or Goldman Sachs or even their employees in the Congress and the Senate, yes, and the incoming President Trousers, too

If they tell you to vote to remain in Europe, 
that's how you must vote,


well, that's what the poor people call job done, innit?


That was the European Regional Manager for us there, in Downing Street.  But here's some news just in, from Evan Davis on Newsnight.


Thanks, Huw, and this is the news that on this most shocking of nights, Hilsborough Inquest Night, as it will be forever known, the PBC has decided to stand shoulder to shoulder with those most hurting. And it falls to me to assure Hilsborough's greatest victim,

Gotcha!
Sir Kelvin McFilth of Fleet Street.

that the PBC will continue to support him with license payers' money. Sir Kevin will continue to be a valued member of the PBCs Question Time panel

They're all cunts - union members, women, darkies, Scousers.

On the PBC's Daily Politics

You're a cunt, you are, fucking gay vicar cunt turned MP.

At Andy Neil's Summer PissUp

We're both cunts.

On  the PBC's Any Questions show.

They're all cunts, PBC Four listeners. fucking lesbians, poofters and communists.

And even on the PBC's Daytime Telly.

They're all cunts, people who stay at home watching telly all day, dossers and slags.




So, there it is. We, at the coalface of news gathering, we can have a hard time of it.  Take myself, I do that hard-hitting pantomime show, Dragons' Den, as well as Kiddies' Newsnight, as well as a show on the radio called the Bottom Line, in which I tell some guys with businesses how much I admire them.  But few of us have been through the mill like Sir Kelvin McFilth. A liar, a cheat, a bully, a fraud, a racist, sexist pig; a Thatcherite hatchetman, a man entirely devoid of ethics or principles, a worthless lying bastard, a piece of shit, a glistening  haemorrhoid from Satan's arsehole, and yet, like it did with the late Sir James Savile, the PBC has stood beside Sir Kelvin through thick and thin.  It gives me great pleasure, on this night of all nights to assure Sir Kelvin that the PBC will continue to support him. And with your money.
Goodnight. And if you're hard-up, you can pay your license by installments. But just make sure you do. 

Well, the whole house will join with me in  expressing the nation's sorrow at the verdicts returned by these inquest juries. Yes and in assuring the nation that a full and far-reaching cover-up will naturally ensue, chaired by a distinguished judge who is a member of the same Masonic Lodge as all the still-living police officers named in these verdicts.  Yes, just like all the other cover-ups and inquiries. What, arrest the police? You must be fucking joking, they'd start arresting us then, wouldn't they?

MY GENERATION, TALKING TO THE DEAD.

You would think that a few minutes listening to  We Can Work It Out; From Me To You; Please Please Me; And I Love Her or any other of dozens of sparkling, fifty-year-old songs would be enough of a tribute to a dead ninety-year-old but no, not for the New People, the FlashMourners, the Necro-Babblers, 
they've been out and about today, messaging, tweeting the dead, thanking Sir George Martin for his life. What the fuck's the matter with them? Talking to the dead.  He can't read the Guardian, filled with messages to him, and even if he could read I'm sure he wouldn't be polluting  his everlasting life with Oh-No-ing Twitterites.

I'VE JUST SEEN A FACE

That documentary was just broadcast again, George Martin and his missus and son in their country pile, talking about this or that aspect of their own perpetual Beatlemania; Fab Macca fabbing his arse off, like he does, in reminiscence with Sir George - Hey, and do you remember when John said this and I went like that and you were just like so out there and Linda was just like being  Linda, You Kno-o-o-w, like she did. He's the proof, Sir Paul, that a fierce musical intelligence can't be transposed to the real thing, not even with a string quartet.  But why should it, if everybody was as good at what they do as Paul McCartney is at what he does then the world would be a place of very different properties.

Ringo was there, too, guffawing with Sir George, although never in the same shot as Sir Paul, clapping his hands to illustrate the miracle of his drumming, looking every inch the luckiest man alive, which he is.

He always came across as polite and benign, did George Martin, with none of the bombast and hauteur of much lesser showbusiness people but I bet that inside he's a proper Mean Mr Mustard - utterly, eternally  pissed-off that it was the Beatles and  EMI who made all the money, and he didn't, and that after his years of patient tutelage and inspiration the ghastly moptops  took the Let It Be tapes from him and gave them to junkie-murderer, Phil Spector, for him to fuck them up. I suppose it's like that for a jobbing producer, dealing with a roomful of posturing egomaniacs,  especially a quartet of pilled-up psycho-Scousers, and there's a novel, a real novel in that relationship, a proper musician, polishing a beatgroup turd into a brilliant, dazzling  global enthusiasm.  Now that he's dead, maybe his missus will spill some  Fabster beans, about how he really felt.

As to the ubiquitous Fifth Beatlehood, conferred upon anyone who knew them and then died, leaving the newspapers scratching their heads for something to say, well, Sir George was only the third- or fourth- or fifth-Fifth Beatle.  There was Stuart Sutcliffe, often referred to as the FB but who was actually an original Beatle;  there was Pete Best, the original Beatles drummer sacked by George Martin, with, it must be  said, a fervent lack of loyalty from John, George and Paul, I betcha Pete isn't tweeting fond farewells to Martin, tonight; Mal Evans and Neil Aspinall, Beatles roadies and gofers, have both been called the Fifth Beatle, as has their Hamburg friend, musician Klaus Voorman. Brian Epstein, their manager,  who quite literally made it all happen for them, when he died he was called the Fifth Beatle. And now, Sir George Beatle. Be a pretty packed studio, wouldn't it, with all those Fifth Beatles.

The true fifth Beatle, of course, is known to all, and she joins us now. When her husband was killed a quarter of a million Lennonites descended on Central Park, New York, chanting and singing and praying and weeping, until Yoko complained that they were keeping her awake and would they all just fuck off; 


Yok-ho, too, is artist, 
an' pwophet an' genius, 
like Joh', only more. 
To create new rock a' roh century
Yok-ho need sleep.

Noh-won wi' be watchi' us
Why doh we do it in de roh.

Look a' lightbulb, an' breathe, see, is art; screech-screech-screech, bang-bang-bang, see, is rock-ah-roh symphony. Yok-ho is work of art.  Joh' was quite good but Yok-ho is real McHoy. Is like Joh' say, evewybody go' somethin' to hide, cep' for me a' my mohn-key. 


Shake i' up, baby
Twiss an' shou'

Man call George? Ah so, twiddle knob an' push butto'. Is no-one.
Fifth Beatle is Yok-ho. An' first Beatle, an secon' Beatle. Beatle is all Yok-ho. An' Joh. 
But mainly Yok-ho.

Climb ladder an' see apple, is Beatle magic. Breathe. An grow beard, is Beatle art. Everyone is Beatle, come togetha an' worship Beatle Queen Yok-ho. God-Empress Yok-ho write all Beatle song, Bang-bang-bang, screech-screech-screech, 
Joh' is dead, Joh' is dead, 

 
Long live Yok-ho Ono-Beatle.
Fifth, first and always.


That was Yoko Ono for us, there, at 84 years  young; 
the original rock-chick, 
still screeching after all these years.

NOT FADE AWAY
There's a lacquer you can buy for brass, stops it tarnishing.
George Martin sprayed some such over those early Beatles songs. 
The chord structures and the harmonies are all their own, McCartney could sing - and eventually play - anything; Lennon, like Keith Richard, sang great harmony and the other two were at least adequate. 
Somehow Martin wrought a coalescence, which although produced and engineered as far as then possible, retained and retains a smiling effervescence,  complex and deceptively simple;  George Martin was, accidentally, the greatest pop record producer of his own time and in my judgement he is too modest, the Beatles were extremely fortunate to have known him.  Martin wasn't a Fifth Beatle, he was far more important than that.

BABY, YOU'RE A RICH MAN. 
Everybody did very well out of the Beatles;  their managers and publishers, their wives and staffs made fortunes, the quartet for a time were demi-gods, McCartney still is;  journalists prospered from Beatlemania and unlicensed retailers made fortunes from BeatleTrash and today I, among millions of others, still occasionally enjoy their early tracks, in between Byrd and Tallis, Handel and Beethoven. I listen up-close, on the laptop's soundbar, to sounds as fresh as morning dew. I buy the odd Anthology and rarity and in some sleepless nights, trawl youtube for filmed studio performance. New generations also buy into BeatleProduct  and most of this bonanza is owed to George Martin's toe-tapping, singalong knack and his personal dexterity in directing and assisting, for so long, a group of uncouths whose nemesis was writ large from the start.

I do wish he had jumped ship before the ghastly Sergeant Pepper destroyed rock'n'roll forever - or at least until Punk came along - but I only have to hear Hide Your Love Away  or I'm Looking Through You to joyfully forgive him that one lapse in judgement.
Seems fair, too, that he lived long, happily and prospered, dying among his family, largely untouched by showbusiness.

It only comes to about eight hours of music, the whole Beatles canon,  and both he and the surviving Fabsters have individually produced much more than that, but as far as most people are concerned they may as well not have bothered with any of that other stuff.
It was a phenomenon of the time, Beatlemania and there has been nothing approaching it since, in scale or impact; it was marketing, it was teenage hormones, it was non-deferential and pseudo-revolutionary but most of all it was the music,  the peg from which these other things hung.
  Creating them, perhaps unwittingly, George Martin was the hidden face of the Swinging Sixties; it wasn't the times which produced the music, it was the music which, for good and ill, produced the times.
NecroBabbling at George Martin  online seems such a betrayal.

PUSSY WATCH. WITH UNCLE GEORGE AND HIS WONDERHAT OF ETERNAL YOUTH.

From the Filth-O-Graph clickbait section

 Rula Lenska flipped car with grandson, three, in back after shot of vodka with builders. Actress banned for 16 months after admitting drink-driving when she hit parked car after downing spirit with Polish builders to celebrate new fence. 

(that's right, to celebrate a new fence; she'd be drunk for months should a new carpet arrive)

 

Rula Lenska!

My Pussy-Mummy! 
 

My Comrade! 

My Co-Star!

 

One of my many co-stars on the long march to Celebrity.

And Freedom, of course.

 

 Rula Lenska, and his late excellency, Mr Saddam.

 I salute your indefatigability! 

I salute your revolutionary pisshead-granny drunken driving  with a kid in the back heroism. 

 And we do, too. 
And Granny Rula is the real victim here. I mean let's face it, who hasn't,  at one time or another, got pissed and taken an unsecured infant  for a drunken spin and turned the car over. It's actually the sign of an excellent grandparent. And maybe the Metropolitan Police should be tasked with investigating the Wimbledon Magistrates Court, sounds like they've developed some very Portuguese practices down there.

Goddamn you, 
Wimbledon Magistrates Court!

 I love you, my flame-haired Polish princess! 

Goddamn you Dennis Waterman! 

Cor, take it easy, George, me ole china,

weren't me driving pissed, I carn't even see over the bleedin' steerin'wheel, can I, that's why me an' my guvnor, Jack Reagan, always 'ad drivers, in the Sweeney, like, for the chases. An' any road, she ain't achelly me trouble'n'strife no more. So you 'ave 'er, if you fink yer man enough. I know I fuckin' weren't. Mad Polack dipso.

You can't sing! You can't act. You are a worthless. unmusical hatless, beardless dwarf! 

Goddamn  you, Dennis Waterman!

I'll sue you, that's what I'll do. 

I'll sue your worthless dwarf arse.

Everybody knows I am the most artistic ex-parliamentarian, the heir to John Lennon, the revolutionary thinkers' Bob Dylan.

(sings, in guttural, hostile Glaswegian)

.........Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people living life in peace, you

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one

(the phrase: I'm not the only one, is registered as being the intellectual property of Mr George the Hat. Although he very probably is.

The only one.) 

But you, you are just shit, Dennis Waterman.

You were unfit to be married to my fiery Polish Princess and co-star.

 I would marry her myself, 

if I wasn't already several times married.

And Goddamn you, Coronation Street.

 'Ey-up, chuck, howsabout we neck a few more large vodkas, load't gran'kids in't back't motor, like, and go fer a spin, down't smoke, like, round Wimbledon, 

You people at Coronation Street, you're all women-hating homosexualists. It was you lot, Goddamn you, who led my Rula into the ways of the Infidel.  I, I, Imam George Mohamed el Hat, I  have never taken a drop of alcohol in my entire blameless life. 

And Goddamn you, David Cameron, I call on you, from here, from the true People's Parliament, here, in Studio Sputnik of the Democratic Russia Today TeeVee Network, 

 

I call on you to end these show trials, to close these kangaroo courts, and without delay, Goddamn you, to appoint me to sit as Allah's Stipendiary Magistrate with two or three of my eminent Muslim brethren.  We'll show you what true justice means.

  

And tell me, brother, are there enough stones lying around the streets of London for us to administer proper justice to the filthy adulterous whore bitches?

Fucked if I know, pal. 

I only travel by helicopter. 

London Transport's all clogged-up with nig-nogs.

SHOCK NEWS.

Good evening.

 This is the Shocking Story News,  with me, Huw Welshman, and we can reveal to PBC viewers  the shocking story that people who go looking for sex online sometimes find that the sex they were looking for isn't quite like the sex they wind up having, isn't actually interesting and fulfilling with a caring, intelligent, dynamic attractive partner, mutually resectful with a partner fully cognisant of their expectations and rights but turns out to be vicious, painful, frightening and degrading. Or rape, to give it it's proper name.  

Yes, this is the shocking news that lots of people who advertise themselves to complete strangers as lively and feisty and interesting with a gsoh and who agree to meet complete strangers can wind-up being gagged and beaten and raped. 

 

Who'da thought it, eh?