THE GROOMING OF THE NATION, CONTINUED.

	The George Michael lamentations are unbearable. I suppose we should be grateful they;re not driving his remains through Royal Wootton Bassett and that Lady Sir Elton isn't adapting something from his songbook by way of elegy. Or do I speak too soon? He was, after all, one of Princess Diana's winged attendants, George, wasn't he? Hair, teeth and stupendous vanity, all just so. It is for others to say whether his musical gifts were indeed astounding, and whether he was truly a ministering angel to the desperate (stories of his healing touch are spreading). But I suspect that here we just have another of the incontinently mourned, as sure a sign as any that we can no longer bear to look properly at ourselves. on STATUS QUO, A LIFELONG ODE TO HEADBANGING JOY. and mr mongoose:	Bungalow Bill	at 15:06
	Here in Bandit Country we have lost another soldier in George Michael - a close enough neighbour for us to have worried about the cats hearing making his warble in his bath audible. It seems to have been a statistically heavy year on the celeb death circuit. Every one of them someone's son or daughter, I guess. A bientot. The political year starts to turn too. The defeated are wiping their eyes and are staarting to dig in for a counter attack. Look now for the gambit otherwise known as let's call it something else. The LibDems maybe will become the New SDP or some such illiberal madness. Across the water The Trumpster is going to have a high old time this winter's end and spring. Have you encountered Briebart's Milo? A mad, gay, fast-witted lad to strike fear into the footsoldierly plodding faithless of the Democratic Party. And while we are on the subject, poor Nick Clegg. One's heart goes out to him, so it does. Nicola too is about to work out why she and not Wee Eck is leading.  on STATUS QUO, A LIFELONG ODE TO HEADBANGING JOY.

And after that, from the Fake News sector,  
it's the Six O'Clock Boxing Day News, 

with Huw Welshman.

Yes, and good evening viewers, and you're  joining us here at this very sad time, on a day which will surely henceforth be known, look you, isn't it,  as Gay St. George's Day.  Yes, this is the terrible, terrible news that Boy George has passed away.  Wosssat?  Not Boy George?  Sorry, viewers, I'm hearing in my earpiece that Boy George is fine - fat, ugly, earachingly camp, with no discernible talent - but still amongst us, 

 

 Love's own philosopher-poet;

the Karma Chameleon,

 himself.

still with us, here in the land of the living dead. 

 

 But the fact remains, I'm being told,  that this cruellest of showbusiness years - a year in which, startlingly, and entirely uinfairly, some old and sick people have died - has rocked us, once again, to the very fibre of our i-phones. 

And yes, this is the news, isn't it, look you,  that Sir George Michael has passed away, whilst almost still a juvenile, 

 

 Everything to live for,

the careless wanker, himself.

and despite him  having taken such good care of himself. 

 And I am joined now in the studio by Sir Gary Babyman, 

 

a highly-paid spokesman for the junk food industry

 

 Crisps, children, they're good for you;

at least, they're good for me. 

and the PBC's Mr Football. 

Sir Gary is to football what Jamie Oliver is to irritable bowel syndrome.

Sir Gary, you're a complete, irredeemable arsehole; a greedy, stupid, vain, overpaid vulgarian, fucking about with your facial hair all the time, love the snufflers' beard by the way, you could almost be  a leimotif, isn't it, for the age, no, no, no point me explaining it to you, boyo, you'd never undestand, not in a million fucking years, look you, a complete fucking ignoramus is what you are, Sir Crisps, ins't it, sitting around pretending to be sagacious, look you, with a whole fucking army of complete ignoramuses as stupid and gobby as yourself, people like this grotesque Scottish mutant, 

 Hansen, is it, 
and this Geordie guttersnipe, wotsisnname,
 the one always cheating, 

Shearer, 
but only fer m'country, like, bonny lad,
tryin' a do summin fer m'country, I were, doin' that dive,
it wunna fer me, it were fer m'country
only it didna come off. 
Thassowitgoes, in this game,
sometimes ya gerraway with the foul, like,
an' other times ya get caught.

and the whole miserable jumped-up poisonous shower of shit-eating vermin pontificating about the beautiful game as it's played in the Premier Rapists' League, fuck me Jesus, isn't it, look you, boyo, at least Jamie fucking Oliver is only the praise-singer, the herald, if you will, isn't it, of  mr ishmael's le posterieur flambee, the fiery hot, explosive diarrhoea, the shit that keeps on coming, whereas you lot endlessly champion bribery, cheating, gang rape and athletic failure, every time there's an international  tournament you can bet your arse that within a day or so there's a planeload of weeping, millionaIaire rapists flying back to Blighty, gutted, vowing to do better with another manager, another captain, another Bentley Continental, another massive snorting of cocaine, a good, healthy spitroasting of a teenager. The players union, FIFA, the FA, the PBC, skymadeupnewsandfilth, that cuntish newly-wed, Murdoch, all like one great festering anus, the beautiful game, yes, right. 
So  what's your take, Sir Gary Lineker, on this latest celebrity death, the loss of some burbling wanker, drugging or fucking himself to death, because nobody understood him and his art. I expect you'll think it's a fucking tragedy, won't you, isn't it? You're bound to, aren't you? Go on, tell us.

 

Well, Huw, and thank you.
And may I say what an honour it is to be appearing alongside a great star like yourself.
And if I can just refer you to my twitter account......

To your what...?

 Well, Huw, we journalists.......

We what...?

We journalists, Huw, people like you'n'I, as well as dressing and grooming ourselves to the very highest standards, we need to keep in touch with our fanbase, right? The people who buy our crisps, right?  

And that's why it's vital that we connect with ordinary people. By Tweeting. 
Oh, I know that people say you can't actually convey very much in a hundred and whatever letters-including-spaces but lessface it, most of us don't have much to convey, anyway, do we? I know I don't. Eat crisps and watch rigged football played by deviants, that'll do it 4 me.

 
Yes, but what about the ladyman, George Michael?


 Well, Huw, as I said, on my Twitter account, he was murdered, sure as eggs're eggs.


Murdered?  Who murdered him?


 It was the year, Huw, the year, it was the year that murdered him.

Gary Lineker Verified account ‏@GaryLineker

No, not George Michael as well. Another musical great leaves us this year. 2016 can just sod off. #RIPGeorge

2016 can just sod off?
What, you mean the year, the idea that  a wholly arbitrary division of time, somehow brought itself to life, got itself into a homicidal frame of mind and ran amok, slaughtering all sorts of deadbeats and tosspots, people like Ronnie Corbett and Terry Fucking Wogan just because it felt like it? 
 Is that what you mean? 

Christ, you really are fucking stupid, aren't you?

That was Gary Crisps there, for us. 
Elsewhere, slithering about in the Showbiz Sewer, Dame Esther Crow, yes, I know, viewers, the mangy old shitbag simply can't miss an opportunity to get her raddled face on the telly, pontificating. 
Here's what she had to say:

Me, me, me, me, me, poor George, me, me, me,me, me, knew nothing about Jimmy Savile, absolutely nothing, fearless, campaigning journalist, championing bullies, against weak people, I mean beasts against  children, rich people against poor people, I knew absolutely nothing about Jimmy Savile, 
 
nothing at all, how could I, I'm only a trained, investigative journalist who went to Oxford so's I could get into showbusiness despite not having any talent, yes just like Pissawful Sue Perkins,   nor about Sir Nicholas Fairbairn, how could I kinow he was a beast? I only slept with him many times becuase he was famous, knew nothing about him being a beast, why would I, me who has an unerring antennae for wrongdoers, me, me, me, me, me. Yes, poor, dear, sweet George, me, me, me, me, in my business, as a temporal saint, did a lot for victims, did George, with my guidance, and he was quiet  and self-effacing about it, only did it in private, modestly,


like me, me, me, me, me, me, me. 
Yes, what was I saying, George Michael? 
Well I probably shouldn't say this but he was a very, very  great fan of me, and of all my good works, on behalf of ordinary people. (Or any other way that I can use his death - or anyone else's - to promote myself.)


I'm sorry, Dame Esther, 
we are hearing of s disturbance from across the Thames.

Youse're all cunts, cunts is what y'are, fer votin loike dat. Don't youse know who Oi am?
 Oi hope yer woives an' children all kill demselves wid drugs, loike moine did,
or starve or some focking thing.

An dat's not focking true, Lineker, ya fockin' gobshite.
 Everyone knows it was focking Brexit, which killed poor, dear, great, sensitive George Wham.  Youse focking ignorant focking rabble, youse robbed us of the greatest ever male vocalist since moyself. He wuz moy dear, dear friend and he confoyded in me his total and utter despair at how youse focking ignoramuses had stolen the result of an election which should unequivocally and indisputably and wholly incontrovertibly expressed the will of all them people who matter, people loike moyself, the great and the focking good, the artistic and creative. It may well focking be the case that moy own family, dazzled boy me own shimmering brilliance has largely focking killed itself wid drugs in order to escape moy own endless focking sermonising on  stuff about which Oi don't have a focking clue. But that actually makes me an authority on the subject of showbiz wasters killing themselves as a result of too much focking money, or too much arse-fisting and gang-fucking, Or both. Oi mean,  wasn't it moy own good self who resurrected the career of Freddie Mercury, a man who quoyt literally fucked himself to focking death. So, it's not as though Oi don't know what Oi'm lecturing youse about. So youse must now hear this, a proclamation from me, Sir Bob Geldof.

Oi'm a modest man, me, only wearing my medals and honours to show-off, not really believing in a class system in which some are elevated above others, because that leads to some people havin' more than they can ever possible eat or wear and to others literally starvin' to focking death.  Or it did, before Oi eradicated it. Oi'm just a rock'n'roller at heart, me, an' Oi love nothin' more than sittin' on me estate, composing great works of art,  knowing' dat moi security men're keeping all the ordinary people to fuck outta moy  exalted way. But anyway, Now Hear This:  George Moykul, he was a great talant, not, as Oi cannot overstate, as great as moyself, he never, for instance, wrote Oi Don't Loyk Mondays or saved the whole focking world  from itself, but he was pretty, for a time, and he sold a lot of records, an he was queer as arseholoes, so what, in showbiz terms, is  not to loike? And that someone loike George should take his own loife over Brexit is just a damnable state of affairs. An' if only youse'll send me all your focking money Oi'll use it so's that we don't leave Europe. I fed the focking world, eradicated hunger, Oi'm sure I can overturn Brexit, Yes and get Spunky Bill back where he belongs, him and his old lady.

Oi don't suppose y'know nothin' about these Sweet Little Sixteenies Sex Island Sluts, do you, Bill?
More like Sweet Little Thirteenies Sluts,  Bob. 

Sure I do.

So, Spunky Bill and me back addressing the issues dat matter an' dat Brexit bollocks reversed.
And that's exactly what George would've wanted.


That was Bob Geldof there, graciously sharing  his views with we ordinary people. And now this from wotsisname. Yes, from CallHimDave, Mr Fuck-It-Up.


Thanks Huw, anthassright, as my foredecessor, Winston said, Give Us The Job And We'll Break The Tools. 
And we so did, didn't we?


But what about the tragic news, you must have a view, he was your generation, after all, wasn't he?


Well yes, tragic news, indeed, and lessbeclear,  
I simply must say that George Osborne was the soundtrack to my teenage years, at Eton and Oxford, and to Samantha's, too, to her teenage years, wherever she was then. 
AnallIcansay is that our fawts'n'prayers are with his family and friends and fans, now that he's dead. I mean, bad enough, his brother being struck-off but now this, him OD-ing, as I believe they call it, on drugs. We always did think he did too much of that white powder. I mean, fancy standing up at the despatch box, off your face, like he usually did,  these things catch up on you.

 
Twenty-five joints a day? Kids' stuff.


Wossat?  
Not Junky  George, the Chancellor? 
But Junky George, the bloke from Wham!? 
Well, that's even better isn't it? 
No, lessbeclear, it's tragic when someone rich dies, no, yes it is, because they have so much more to live for than, say, ordinary people.  

Wossat?  
Living on a minimum wage that isn't a living wage, yes, I see what you mean but on the bright side, I know that he was very keen on my Gay Marriage Act, George Wham was, yes, thassright, the one that says homosexual marriage is just the same as heterosexual marriage. Except  only moreso,  obviously. I mean, just ask Dr Liam Foxx.

Or the Earl Hague, Lord of Miscarriages.

Love and marriage, eh?


 And even though he never actually married, himself, Mr Wham, he could of have done, probly, and  therefore the people flash-mourning him now -  yes the NewPeople, as that chap ishmael calls them, yes, the stupid ones - all wetting themselves simply  because they're fed-up with Christmas, the New People  will at least agree that thanks to me he died much happier than he otherwise would of have.  Would of have been.
An' quite proply, too, in my judgement.


But no, yes, Sir Bob is right. 
And that's the last time I'll give the people a referendum on anything.
 Populism, it's a worse epidemic than AIDS.
Much worser.

mr mongoose is right to say that we are all someone's brother or friend or sister or mother: that no man is an island thought bears  constant repetition; if only it was in the minds of the flashmourning mob, mr tdg's death cultists, the New People, who only find Life in Death, be it in Tinseltown or, as mr bungalow bill reprises, in Wootton Fucking Bassett, there are millions mourning people they never knew, people who gave them nothing, but sold them miserly, parcelled-out product. Their friends and neighbours will have done far more for them than ever did George Michael, Victoria Wood or Leonard Cohen, all of whom have shoved, hissed  and elbowed their way, front and centre, into the charmed circle of celebrity, there to charge us for their insignificant mewlings and pukings, Alan Rickman, according to his friends, his foulest burps and farts were  as a heavenly descant.

I never tire of repeating George Steiner's observation that the Holocaust happened because the Berlin intelligentsia was too enraptured by the string quartet in the salon to hear the cry in the street. 

Whatever befalls us, shortly, as Ruin marshals its forces against the Insurrection, it will happen all the swifter and more potently as a result of grown men and women screeching  their way through the streets of cyberspace, lamenting the fact that Death takes us all, whenever he chooses;  that, to Him, all men are equal, even pop-singers. 

Funny, there's been none of this hysteria  from Russians mourning the 'plane crash dead - whom they actually knew and were related to; instead, we have seen distress, regret, affection, loss and love but also an acceptance that shit happens and life goes on.  I saw them, once, the Red Army Ensemble, they were great.