The guardian of the nation's culture speaks.
There is a thread of shit, Mr Tiny Speaker, running through the BBC.
I mean gold, of course I do, thread of gold, mr tiny speaker, blah,blah, blah. And it is a miracle of constitutional engineering.
He means the Archers, and Just a Minute and the Today Programme and EastEnders and Terry fucking Wogan..
Fuck off, Bryant.
If the BBC. was a school it would have been shut down after the Savile, so-called revelations - Savile and the rest - and bulldozed.
If the BBC was a business, it would have been wound-up after the revelations of bungs and bribes and hush money and salaries and pensions paid to its army of incompetent bureaucrats, filth like Mark Thompson
No, you simply don't understand, I had to pay myself a million pounds a year. I am actually worth far more.
and that prat, Entwhistle, a talent so lacklustre I wouldn't pay him to mow my grass.
Well, of course we have to have the best at the Corporation, that's why we're sacking him and giving him lots of your money. Me? No, it's just one of eleven sinecures.
No, nowhere near what I'm worth.
And let us not elevate our blood pressure with mention of Lord Chris Fatso, of Hong Kong, BBC parasite supreme, nor of old garlic breath, himself, Yentob, Yentob, Yentob, Yentob, Yentob tiddle-eye-pooh.
Actually, at a million or two a year, I feel I am considerably undervalued.
There are regiments of the fuckers, poncing off us via the BBC, Nicholas Parsons was doing what he does when I was a wee boy, Bruce Forsyth, too; young parent, John Humphreys, is seventy; Tory Fatman, Hislop,
Yes, and they pay me all this money. Terrified of me, they are, politicians.
That's why they all come on here.
the Establishment's licensed Fool, is, God help us all, the BBC's God of Satire; you could fill cyber almanacs with the legions of useless presenters and interviewers who have jobs for life with the BBC and I am delighted to see John Arseingdale taking even a tiny pop at them.
One doesn't have to admire the filthy old reptile, Murdoch, to wish the BBC ill. Cut it loose, I will happily pay a subscription for what I like - not very much, some BBC 4 arts and science shows - and I am sure that, once attached to a price tag, shit like the Archers and EastEnders and Newsnight will wither and die. Contrary to Bryant's arsehole warbling, the national culture, the national critical faculty, the national discourse can, after the ending of the license fee, only flourish.
No, you simply don't understand, I had to pay myself a million pounds a year. I am actually worth far more.
and that prat, Entwhistle, a talent so lacklustre I wouldn't pay him to mow my grass.
Well, of course we have to have the best at the Corporation, that's why we're sacking him and giving him lots of your money. Me? No, it's just one of eleven sinecures.
No, nowhere near what I'm worth.
And let us not elevate our blood pressure with mention of Lord Chris Fatso, of Hong Kong, BBC parasite supreme, nor of old garlic breath, himself, Yentob, Yentob, Yentob, Yentob, Yentob tiddle-eye-pooh.
Actually, at a million or two a year, I feel I am considerably undervalued.
There are regiments of the fuckers, poncing off us via the BBC, Nicholas Parsons was doing what he does when I was a wee boy, Bruce Forsyth, too; young parent, John Humphreys, is seventy; Tory Fatman, Hislop,
That's why they all come on here.
the Establishment's licensed Fool, is, God help us all, the BBC's God of Satire; you could fill cyber almanacs with the legions of useless presenters and interviewers who have jobs for life with the BBC and I am delighted to see John Arseingdale taking even a tiny pop at them.
One doesn't have to admire the filthy old reptile, Murdoch, to wish the BBC ill. Cut it loose, I will happily pay a subscription for what I like - not very much, some BBC 4 arts and science shows - and I am sure that, once attached to a price tag, shit like the Archers and EastEnders and Newsnight will wither and die. Contrary to Bryant's arsehole warbling, the national culture, the national critical faculty, the national discourse can, after the ending of the license fee, only flourish.
6 comments:
Several decades ago my late wife worked at a nursing home, which was featured in a so called news/ documentary by the bbc, using archived video from an unrelated source,the old doctor who ran the place was so upset by their inferances ,he consulted an old schoolfriend, who was a retired barrister, who told him that the bbc had unlimited resources and they would bleed him dry!
It's a terrible close run thing, is it not, between Chris' underpants and Edwina's thighs as to which is the more appalling image on this site? I cannot pick a winner.
It’s their patronage of talentless people and risible opinion. Ester Rantzen…for example..long ago she should have been shot with a ball of her own dung and hung out to dry.
The children in need fest that has become the religion of the masses. Charity giving…where does the money go then? Eh? I don’t see any children in need having their needs met.
Ian Hislop…fuck me sideways..Bernard Manning was more politically satirical. His humour is playground…I’ve a 16 year daughter with more wit.
Look at him…fud. I’d happily take two weeks off work to spend it punching him in the face.
Mr I, I feel the same way about the BBC as Proximo (played by the excellent Oliver Reed - praise be unto him...) felt about his giraffes:
Proximo: "Those giraffes you sold me, they won't mate. They just walk around, eating, and not mating. You sold me... queer giraffes. I want my money back".
Mr Shoulders, I'll 'job share' with you on Hislop as long as we can throw Russell Brand into the bargain - assuming he hasn't already been despatched to the Caliphate on that First Class flight that someone is crowd-funding for him...
All I know about Reed, mr sg, is that my big sister took me to the Kingsway Cinema, to see The Trap, the photography and the music in which I thought were magical. Reed paddling a canoe, bellowing: when I'm a man I'll take me a wife, and she shall have diamonds and pearls, and pearls, and she shall have diamonds and pearls. Glorious.
And, of course, vile parasite filth, like Michael Free Pen Parkinson, feasting on Reed's self-destruction. I hope that when he gets to Hell, George Best and Oliver Reed give old Parky an eternal, molten lead enema, that really would he his best interview ever.
Seconded Mr I!
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