Another Ripe Old Fruit Bites The Dust

 Gosh my Golly, Crumbs and Jings, it's turning out to be a great year for incredibly old bastards popping their clogs, dropping off the twig, cashing in their chips and calling it a day. Will 2023 be remembered for the year that God swept out the cupboards and said,  Ahh there you are, out you come, time to go home, now?

Can't keep up with all this obituary writing, but editor verge insisted that I couldn't let the demise of Saint Michael of Arsekinson pass without remembering what a special place mr ishmael had for him in his heart.

THURSDAY, 26 SEPTEMBER 2013

NO BUSINESS LIKE SHOWBUSINESS

Good evening and welcome to this, a very sad Parkinson Show with me, Michael Parkinson.

And it is my very sad duty on this, the Parkinson Show, with me, Michael Parkinson, to tell you that one of our very greatest living entertainers, -  well, for the time being, anyway, living, that is - Sir Billy Connolly, a man who we are proud to say we brought to the world back in the days of the early Parkinson Shows with me, Michael Parkinson, has arse cancer.  Now, I know, I know, that many will say, in my view unkindly, that this is what happens when you have your head stuck up your own arse for most of your life, blethering  on about your wife and your girrrls, and your friendship with the Duke and Duchess of Pork, and your estate in Scotland and all your luvvie friends but that would be, as I say, unkind, most unkind.

I often  get asked: what's my favourite  interview? Tough question.

But I would like to say, perhaps to people suffering from prostate cancer that if they want to leave their loved ones more than happy memories they should consider the SunLife Over Fifties Plan.  You can't get cover cheaper than this.  So, Billy, if you think you might survive the qualifying period of two years then I recommend this plan to you.  You get a welcome gift for signing-up for this shit and you also get a free Parker pen, just for enquiring.

 terms and conditions apply and you might lose every penny you pay in if that's what we decide.

Hello, I'm Michael Parkinson

and I've made a fortune sticking my tongue up the arseholes of rich and famous people. I have some wonderful tromboning memories but more importantly I have shitloads of money. If you are just some poor telly-watching bastard you won't have enough to bury yourself. But don't worry, if you join this Coffin'n'Hearse plan which they're paying me to advertise, you might manage to save enough for a really cheap funeral, I say might because terms and conditions do apply and since you don't have a lawyer or an accountant you might not only be dead but right regally fucked, too. But never mind that. Just for signing-away a good chunk of your miserable income we'll send you this free biro.

I'm Sir Michael Parkinson, knighted for grovelling and you can trust me.

 In his no-teevee years he wrote for the Filth-O-Graph Sports section and he was OK if you like that kinda thing, though there are far, far superior sports journos. But on his show he was always just one of God's arselickers - That's fascinating, Mr Peck, now please tell us some other ways in which you are wonderful; Mr Niven, you are adored all over the world, especially by myself, and now you are a a wonderful writer, too, have you always been so talented? He was a nauseating, grovelling showbiz cocksucker but what I really hated about the smarmy git was the way he feasted on the decline and death of George Best, a man who gave more pleasure to the world in half an hour than this fucking shithead has in his whole shabby, poncing life. I don't like Michael Parkinson.

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So, to round off this fulsome obituary, over to another queen who, rather unsurprisingly, bit the dust some considerable time ago, to sing us out: