I WANNA BE ELECTED, MS RANTZEN, 71.
It's all quite appalling, said toothy old dog, Esther, a fierce self-publicist, I haven't been on TV for ages, despite my thong and everything, at least this way I shall be on TV all the time, again. Wanna see my teeth, big boy ? I'm a widow, y'know.
Fuck me, no, said the Luton voter, first Mags DryRot and now this brazen old minger, shouldering her way in. Next thing it'll be Wotsername, the old drunk, FagAsh Lil, Germane Greer, the female bollock, her, off the telly. It's the BNP for me, lads.
9 comments:
That is a fabulous likeness. Big laugh.
Is the pin-up a shot of Buster during a full moon? Draw the bloody blinds, man.
And by the way, Mr Ish, your blogspot does terrible things to my browser sometimes. Have the spooks been in, do you think?
...and did you see the Shaw/Scharma double-act tonight on John Donne? Sweet mother of shite, what a pair of prongs. Thine's like the dread mouthe of a fired gunne, all right.
She really does needs those claws clipping but the botox is working wonderfully.
My browser, too; didn't see Schama but trying to read one of his recent books, a future history of the USA, or somesuch, he writes as though history was all a TV script, it's awful, like the BotoxDog; I blame the television.
ps, Definitely not dog, Buster; Buster is a handsome devil, in an effeminate sort of way, and bears no resemblance to Ms Rantzen at the top of the page. The very idea, good job he can't read.
Dear Mr Ish, delighted to learn Buster has no lycanthropic tendencies. No offence intended.
The Donne Show was hilariously bad. At one point they even had Mz Shaw jogging on a beach...surely, I thought, a lead-in to the great man's desolate "I have a sinne of feare that when I have spunne my last threade I shalle perish on the shore" (which would have been the TV-poetry equivalent of the way Pan's People used to "enact" the lyrics on TOTP in the 70's) but no, not even that, it was so she could pant a bit while saying "batter my heart three-person'd God." They didn't even have the courtesy or sense to play Richard Burton's reading of "Death Be Not Proud" at the end. Instead we had embarrassing mock tutorials, Schama & Shaw on a sofa talking bollocks with occasional close-ups of underlined bits of text. Best bit was Shaw accusing Donne of a kind of exemplary clarity - the greatest exponent of wilful, mischievous double(& triple)-think in English reduced, in her reading of him, to the status of a slogan on a T-shirt. Oh well. "Leave her, and I will leave comparing thus: she, and comparisons, are odious."
Thanks Mr Verge, more later.
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