NO LAUGHING MATTER.

In dreadful news, the world of showbusiness has yet again, been rocked to its drug-abusing, child-molesting, tax-evading, vain, stupid,  greeedybastard  foundations.  
Firstly, 

 

 Ronnie Corbett of Wiltshire Farm Foods, 

then Victoria Wood of ASDA, Kellogs, McVities, Sanatogen, Iceland and Dyson both passed away 

 

 Deeply honoured at this recognition of my services to GlobaCorp, 

yes, beat me on the bottom with an FT Index, I mean a Woman's Weekly.

and while these unbearable tragedies were occurring Sir Harry Webb was being investigated by the police. 

Bachelor Boy, Sir Harry Webb.

 Said Gloria Hunniford of Sir Harry's tribulations, 

 

Well, it's just absolutely devastating for my very good friend, Sir Harry. I mean, I know countless people's homes are raided in  a blaze of publicity,  their occupants eventually either not being charged at all or being acquitted after having spent months or even years in custody. But frankly, who gives a fuck about them, Sir Harry is a special case and -  him being a devout, practicing hypocrite -

 

 it's not as though he has any faith in God or anything,  to sustain him when the scribes and the pharisees, whoever they are, gang-up on him, y'know, like that bloke Jesus did,  He bore it all with humility,  did Jesus,  but he wasn't in rock'n'roll, Oh I know Sir Harry wasn't, either, just copying Elvis and then becoming Mr Light Entertainment but it doesn't matter,  there's no business like show business, and Jesus wasn't in it. 

 Sir Harry is, though and it's not as though the poor flower can stand any unfairness, Sir Harry, 'snot as though when he walks through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, His rod'n'staff shall comfort Sir Harry; whips and scourges, crucifixion, stabbings in the liver wuith a spear, let me tell you, listeners, out there, in Listener World, they're nothing compared to what's been done to Sir Harry.  

But enough of that, this is Dame Gloria Toyboy for you,  the stupid man's Esther Rantzen, here on Wonderful Radio Two, and next up it's  Sir Harry himself, with his smash hit from the 'seventies, Congratulations. And celebrations.
And so he jolly well should.

 And now, following on all these unbearable tragedies, comes the news that one of the progenitors of Cruelty TeeVee, Mrs Merton, has passed away.

Tell me, Mr Satan, what was it first attracted you to pouring hot lead up bad people's BTMs, forever and ever?

Firebrand revolutionary socialist luvvie, Mr Ricky Tomlinson, of Acorn Insurance and Wiltshire Farm Foods 

 

 Yerr, comrades, home-deliveries of Hote Queezeen, like, for rich pensioners. Forward, to the wotsaname, like.
No, I mean it, revolution's gorra come one day, love.

said he was to'ally an' u''erly gutted by Cazza's passin', like. 

 

 Yerr, I dunno, like where the work's gonna come from now, now that she's kicked it, not that you'd  call it work, sittin' around in your underpants, fartin', like, ironically but also capcherin the essential slobbishness of working people. 
Cuz, lessbefair, waddaretheylike, eh?

An' that's, like, what the show wazallabout, the Royle Family, yerr, just like EastEnders, mocking poor people.
  A right clever title, I always thought, that, a play on the proper Royle Family, the Queen an' them lot, gerrin money off the rest of us, fer old rope, like.  
Yerr, 'swhy I'm a socialist - fat, stupid, useless, idle bastards like me, tekkin' the piss, like, only artistically

Nah, gerroff, thick lad, I only done them adverts fer the money, like. I think old people should eat proletarian food, like, beans an' that, fish fingers an' not that fancy muck, with sauces and shite like that. 'Part from those of us as is workin' in worrIlike t'call the High Arts, where good diet is the key to, well, feelin' good.

Yerr, Brookside, an' that, HighArt.  
Leader a the Labour party? Well I might, it does need someone, a socialist with some credibility, like me. Talk to me agent, willya, 'e 'andles all that side a things. I'm more the tortured artist. Yerr, exactly, just exacly like Lenny 'Enry.
Yerr, an don't forget, 

 

insure your car with Acorn, 

they're right good comrades, at Acorn.

Oh, PS, I 'xpeck there'll be loadsa fuckin' repeats like, of the Royle Family, as a tribute,  to Cazza, God bless her, I loved that lass, I really did, so I'll be alright for a few readies, for a bit, like. But them voice-overs, like, fer capitalism, and fer firms wot pay their workers fuck all, them's silly money, really; 
bring it on, eh?

I always felt she was slumming, Caroline Ahearne, a frosty beauty and a middling  intellect wasted on that ghastly Mrs Merton schtick, a proper artist would've done a single sketch of Merton and then moved on, point made, but no, not these days.
 OK, it was mainly the truly deserving, from whom she took the piss, nevertheless, hers was a significant contribution to the culture of cruelty which is now almosr de rigeur in what we are told is comedy.

This accursed Canuck mutant, for instance 

Never mind deporting radical Muslims,
left to me this cow'd be on the first plane back to fucking Saskatchewan or wherever wasteland she's from; the Canadians I'm sure would banish her to the Arctic circle; 

 or this piece of slime, 

 
the new Steven Fry, polymath and sneering, ubiquitous  arsehole, Dave Mitchell, of Barclays Bank, Innocent Fruit Smoothies and fuck knows what else, too many to count, he's a fucking infestation, all over newspapers, TeeVee and Radio, the voice of Cool  Urban Smug, the Voice of Radio Four; him and his impossibly ghastly mrs;  not a shred of genuine humour in their miserable, money grubbing lives, just a clever, hurtful sneer.


These filthy bastards, the comedic  voice-over artists, they don't want to make anyone laugh so's they'll see the stupidity of things, they want to make people desperate and unhappy, so they'll buy things.

He's a cunt, Mitchell, a marketing man in clown's drag. 
The goddess Wood, she was  a cunt, too. I'm glad she's dead, maybe she's selling HobNobs to the Devil as he stuffs flaming fifty pouhd notes up her jacksie, I hope so.  
 These people, they call themselves artists, while they murder our culture. 
Fuck 'em, I hope they all die of cancer. 

Talking of which, I read that the UK took delivery of the first of our £80,000,000 babywog killer aircraft the other day, the first of nearly two hundred which we have ordered.


The Lightning 11, it's where your wheelchairs have gone.

Maybe one of these artists will stand-up, on one of these wretched panel shows and say, 

Cure4FuckingCancer?  Here it is.  

There'll be more than thirty billion pounds spent on acquiring and maintaining these fucking things, a lot of them will fail, the IT'll be shit, the budgets'll over-run, they'll be good for fuck all, except enriching their manufacturers and procurers and  fuelling the wankdreams of psycho-vermin like Mick Fallon. 

 

Thirty, forty, fifty billion pounds, to disrupt Afghani weddings, napalm playgrounds and schools? What sort of cancer research could flow from fifty billion pounds?

He won't though, will he, what would his owners say, if Mr David  Smug, in his excruciating voice,  was to start speaking Truth unto Power. 
And anyway, the Big Society, it depends upon volunteers, doesn't it, selling tat in charity shops, for pennies, That's the way to beat cancer, at street level. Clever comedians, after all, need every minute of  their time to tell knob jokes, but ironically. 
It's no laughing matter, British  comedy.