Diver comes out as perfectly normal, insufferable, self-publicising prick.
This is all perfectly normal, say all the papers on pages 1,2,3,4,5,6, and editorials. There is no story here, says skymadeupnewsandfilth, the PBC, al Jazeera, Fox News and the rest of them, every hour on the hour. All perfectly normal.
For how being gay will improve Tom's jumping into the water, check out our sports section. In our health supplement, Dr Raj Persaud, famous telly psychiatrist and crook will explain how this is all perfectly normal, as straightforward, says Raj, as stealing another writer's work and publishing it as one's own.
And our showbiz editor will learn from national treasure, Lady Sir Elton John, the best places to buy children, should Tom and his partner wish to become perfectly normal young parents, in their sixties. In young, normal Tom's honour, Lady Elton and his husband, Mrs David Furnish, are considering re-writing their most famous song, Candle In The Arse and calling it Candle In The Water.
In Downing Street, unelected prime minister, David Cameron, said that he, himself, would be delighted to marry young Tom and his partner in a normal same sex marriage on the lawn of Bummer Ten, I mean Number Ten. Let's be clear, scowled the Old Etonian fuckwit, this sends out a clear message that people, news people, especially, should concentrate on rubbish like this, instead of scrutinising my govament proply. Not that they do.
Readers with photographs of normal Tom and his normal partner may wish to submit them to the Editor. Preferably with their cocks out. Top money paid, no questions asked
My favourite bit was him saying "of course I still fancy girls." So he's dreaming of pussy while gorging on cock. Thanks for clearing that up, Tom.
As for the "LGBT community" he's now, apparently, a hero to, what the fuck is that, really? (I would have thought an ordinary straight bloke would have more in common with an ordinary gay bloke than either would have with a hormone-shooting, scalpel-hungry basket-case.)
My favourite bit was him saying "of course I still fancy girls."
Did he? That makes him bisexual I believe. Either that or cynical beyond his years. Knowing, as he must, that his popularity and marketability depends on keeping screaming hordes of hormone ravaged, sexually frustrated 13, 14 and 15 year old girls guessing.
I thought that like most young budgies, he was in love primarily with himself?
I miss Dr Raj Persaud – he’s was awesome – he gave hope to thousands of stoopid kids that they too, if they don’t study hard enough and fail every exam, that 1 day, with a bit of theft and good fortune, they too could perhaps grace the nation with their banal gibberish and masquerade it as theory which hadn’t obviously been made up on the spot.
There’s a ‘criminologist’ Professor David Wilson (Birmingham City University – geez, it’s like Tony Robinson getting a knighthood but..) who’s available on Channel 5 with such golden nuggets as ‘he wanted to kill them’ – ‘thanks Dave, thanks for that – and is that what the corpse is there for?’ – ‘Yes, yes that’s right. Look, if you see the way the body’s laid out, there, there on the floor, you can see the killer did in fact kill them, just there or was it over there, but look, we can clearly see that the corpse is in fact dead, dead as a dodo in fact. In my long experience of teaching Criminology both in Birmingham and well, in my kitchen, I’ve discovered that in most murders, and I say this after arduous research and as a Doctor you know, that in most murders there is a corpse’. ‘Thanks Dave, thank you for filling up those 10 seconds with pointless banality, pseudo erudite cockwaffle and generally diminishing the works of Conan-Doyle, Agatha Christie and Raymond Chandler to the gutterish musings of a demented egomaniac – and here’s Tracey with a gun to test your theory out, yes, yes, there’s fine – just to the left a bit – on top of the polythene would be great’.
Back on topic though, there’s a headline in the Daily Mail – presumably from his gran ‘but he seemed to like girls’ – hmm..a bit off message there, Gran, some would suspect there’s a whiff of something distinctly un-lavender about the whole err… whatever this bit of ruinous 21st century trivia is – ‘news’ seems far too egregious – dressing cats up in stupid Christmas jumpers is news compared to this. In fact, it’s probably one of those nuggets that crowds out a proper bit of trivia – like the winner of Masterchef 1993 or something. It diminishes us all, really.
What chance did he have?
People are nowadays indoctrinated from birth (witness today's 'news') that buggery is lovely, depravity normal.
He has suffered the same indoctrination, chuck in a whole dollop of luvvies and their luvvieness during the Olympics and for years previous, a dead dad and an overbearing mother, then a bit of the insane theory of 'as long as he's happy', which he won't be) and voila! One brown-hatter.
I'd feel sorry for him, if he were not so smug, arrogant and self-humanrighteous about it.
Privare Eye couldn't invent this kind of news coverage; it may already be there but one can easily imagine Mrs Andy'sMum Murray offereing to take this little shit under her scaly festering wing.
Dave Wilson was one of thise Cambridge, fast-track prison governors, doing a great job in rehabilitation right up until the second he arrived at the conclusion that he should resign and enter MediaAcademe and spend his time damning his fellow governors.. I have known some of his students and they can't tell their arse from a hole in the ground, criminolgically speaking.
A saucerful of scalpels, it is a grim thought, that, mr verge. I, for my part, am a rich man born into a poor man's life, might I have some money re-assignment, please, on the NHS?
And what, anyway, is so good about jumping into water? All it takes is practice. And gravity.
I can polish a piece of furniture, or a floor or a door or a staircase until it dazzles, the light bouncing off its profiles as though it was made from diamonds, people have said to me, is that made of glass, how the fuck d'you do that?
Lots of people become good at what they do with their hands, this is only what you would expect of us. I watched a bricklayer, one day, fag in his mouth, he knocked down a Victorian wall, cleaned each brick of mortar, put his line down a foot further back and rebuilt the wall, nice as you like; poetry in motion. No gold medal for him.
What is it about athletetics, who gives a fuck about it, I played rugby at grammar school and I could run like the wind, if I got the ball there would be a try, nobody could get near to me, so what? It was kids stuff. How is it that TeeVee has fascinated us with the mediocre, with grown-up people running, skipping and jumping and now with this horrid little shit and his arsehole?
If Tom Wotsit performs a dive all that will remain will be nothing, splashed water; if I sell you a polished corner cupboard your children will be fighting over it before and after your death.
I don't like it but I get, as they say, ballet; I don't like it but I get cricket - I was listening, one day, a bit stoned, to the cricket on the long wave, there wasn't any play happening, just a bunch of blokes talking about the Headingley pitch, about a particulat little hummock, in such and such a place, as they continued it seemed that they each knew every fucking blade of grass in this ground, as though they knew the biochemistry of every blade of grass, what the weather meant to the grass, how the grass would effect the peformance of the ball, how it would effect the ball itself, heat, moisture, the cellular composition of leather; it was only filler but it was a joy to listen to. It didn't convert me to cricket but it helped me understand why people would go and sit for a couple of days at Edgbaston, the Jamaicans meditatin', mon, in a cloud of Ganja smoke, the Brits with champagne or tea or beer, just doodling the day away in this tapestry of trivia. I don't like opera, I find most of it vulgar and extreme and noisy, I saw some outdoor Mozart, here and there, and I enjoyed that but that was Mozart, all that Italian shit sounds like Ice Cream Man's theme tunes and apart from a couple of overtures I cannae abide Wagner, but I get it, I get opera, it's nearly proper music, but not quite, it's tarts'n'vicars' stuff.
Diving, though, must be something wrong with people who're into that. As young Tom demonstrates.
Any fool can plummet.
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