Twitter is filled with successful Marketing Gurus, those smiling self-help masters of social-networking who’ve earned so much money being successful, they’re free to spend all their guru-days, well…
That’s right, I’ve cracked the secret. Success, here I come!
Cliff Richard. Colostomy bag.
Paul McCartney. Dead.
Lady Gaga. Sausage and donut.
Marc Almond. Jizz-swelled guts.
Richard Gere. Rodent using anus as funfair.
Jimmy Savile.
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Jimmy. Savile.
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Talking one day, to the consultant in our casualty department at Leeds Infirmary (I’d not been doing voluntary work there long), he spoke briefly on a phone. ‘Come with me,’ he said, ‘I’ll show you some real tragedy.’
And so we skip the Danse Macabre.
At Stoke Mandeville hospital, when I help the lads on nights and wheel away the dead bodies from the wards of the older patients, I look down at them and wonder. What had these lovely old folks, who have just done with life, learned from it?
Let us pray they are finished learning, and these thoughts aren’t a prelude to some sort of metaphorical adult learning biology lesson at the Sir Jimmy Savile University of Post-Life.
Another case of complete misunderstanding was in a hospital mortuary.
“Now then, now then. ‘Honestly officer,’ says I, ‘as dear Jim explained the last fifty times…”
I’ve nothing against dead bodies,’ quoth the sparks, ‘it’s just that I don’t want to get inside with them.’
Quoth the (braying, cigar-stinking, straw-haired albino) raven, nevermore.
Within minutes of getting into the hospital there came a job to move a dead body from a ward to the mortuary. “I’ll do it,” says I, and set off with a colleague porter.
Rumours that he has a flashing batphone style emergency hotline straight to the mortuary admissions desk are, well, probably true.
For sure-fire confirmation of just how much Jim loves to tool around with corpses, bearing in mind how we’ve established time and again that he’d turn down a parachute on a crashing plane before he’d turn down a fuck…
To emphasize the wide variety of my happenings a husband once said he admired the work I did so much, would I like to make love to his wife of less than a year? This I declined, but at the other end of the spectrum, at a hospital I just called in at, I was asked by the short-sighted head porter if I could lay out the remains of an old man who had been burned to death and his next of kin were coming within the next hour. This job I accepted because after these years in the hospital world I am now quite good at this sort of thing.
Jimmy Savile is not a man who can do anything in half-measures, and sometimes, the Grim Reaper can’t swing that scythe quickly enough to keep up with the demand, forcing Jim to take matters into his own hands. Although the method of snuffing (Savile, in the kitchen with a libido) may be of no surprise.
To round off this, not the happiest of subjects, I once went into an old folks’ home run by the nuns. Great was the excitement and the kissing. In the middle of all this, one of the old ladies had a heart attack and took a mortal swoon in our midst. I was terribly upset and the Mother Superior, in an effort to placate me, made the quote of all time. ‘Never mind Jimmy, we were very overcrowded anyway.’
And there we have it. It’s only fitting that I leave the final words to the man himself. Dear Jim’ll, take it away.
“The House of Commons and a mortuary. In both cases I was completely innocent of any villainy but, as usual, picked up the blame.”
My mind is a dirty and untrusting place, always thinking the worst, never failing to see the bad or to assume that perverse ulterior motives lurk behind selfless acts. Whether that manifests as shouting “I’ve got a gun!” at elderly relatives approaching for a hug at a funeral, or slapping doctors for feeling me up, if you were to see the world through my eyes, it would resemble that optical illusion of a girl’s chuffer that’s actually an ordinary household lamp.
Thus, out of a sense of fair play to Mr. Savile, rather than passing comment on these next extracts, and soiling what clearly, even robbed of any context, are completely innocent statements, with my sarcastic hints of untoward intentions, the only way is to refrain from critical analysis altogether. I will instead be offering up facts from Wikipedia’s comprehensive entry on Ian Beale.
Some schoolgirls on a day trip were idling near a passageway. “Good lord, that dustman’s the spit and image of Jimmy Saville,” said one.
“Ian’s most notable feud has been with Phil Mitchell. Their long-standing rivalry began in 1995, when Phil flushed Ian’s head down the toilet and then married his mother.”
Surrounded by three armed plain-clothes men, we had just arrived, at the Aeolian Hall in London and were set upon by all the kids.
“Ian’s penchant for cooking displeased Pete so much that Ian took up boxing briefly in 1985, just to prove his masculinity.”
A small hotel I used when in London soon became a haven for young men and pop groups who wanted a word of advice or just a suggestion or a chat.
“Ian met a new romantic interest, Jane Collins, in 2004. They were initially hostile to each other, but they became friends and their friendship blossomed into attraction. When Ian acted upon this, Jane rejected him — she was married, and her husband David was terminally ill with Huntington’s disease.”
Walking across the sands with two minders, Barry and Roy, and wearing a floppy hat as a disguise, I was spotted by an eagle-eyed siren. She falls in alongside, peers under the hat and says, “Ha, it is you.” She is in a one piece swimsuit and looks good enough to eat. “Come and meet my parents over here,” she says, taking my arm.
“Ian despaired in 2007 when his daughter, Lucy, became surly and rebellious.”
A high-ranking lady police officer came in one night and showed me the picture of an attractive girl who had run away from a remand home. “Ah,” says I all serious, “If she comes in, I’ll bring her back tomorrow, but I’ll keep her all night first as my reward.”
“In early December, Beale was found crying on the floor of the Queen Vic toilets, and bleeding from the back, in scenes which culminated in the ‘Who Raped Ian?’ storyline that dominated the Christmas 1998 ratings…”
Six girls were selected and all of them given matching mini skirts and white boots, as befitting a ceremonial bodyguard. They looked good enough to eat. I duly arrived. The first thing was that the father of one of the girls arrived and hauled her off home. She protested loudly, but dad would have none of this preposterous situation.
“…In a riff on Murder on The Orient Express, it was eventually revealed (during Phil Mitchell’s engagement party) that Ian’s rape had been jointly perpetrated by every male member of the cast, as well as characters from other shows, who’d crossed over to Albert Square specifically to participate in the act. These included Zach Dingle from Emmerdale, Gladiator Saracen and GMTV’s Eamonn Holmes.”
Such actions earned me the nickname from the boys of Doctor Do-Good. Many deserving cases of all shapes and sizes did I appear with and had no trouble at all. Except the last lot. Two teenage girls they were.
Amidst all the sizzling globules of arbitrary insanity puked up by this project, one prevailing common theme cropped up again and again, like a man who constantly sits next to you on the bus and no matter if you’re talking about football scores or the X-Factor, he always steers the subject back to the smell of women’s shoes.
Here’s what we know: Jimmy likes to fuck. He loves to do the do, to hump the bump, to rhythmically move his phallus in and out of a sodden female vagina until his penile nerve endings achieve the required level of stimulation for semen to be ejected through the urethra in 6-10 progressively weaker spurts. The fact is, Jimmy Savile’s penis has done so much sex, even in its ‘resting’ state when he’s asleep, it spins like a power drill at 5,000 rpm.
Sexy books seem to get big sales, so, as there has been much crumpet in my life…
The original title for ‘Love is an Uphill Thing’ was ‘Tutankhamun’s Got More Skin Left on His Wang Than I Do, As it ‘appens’
For instance if a young lady had found me not unattractive and presented me with her all, it would not be the done thing to publish her story accompanied by her name and address and telephone number.
Really? Fuck. If only everyone was as thoughtful as Jimmy. I had to change my number when Roy Keane’s autobiography came out. Also, is “…presented me with her all” the creepiest description of sex ever put to paper? Maybe he spoke this book into a Dictaphone for someone else to type up. “…presented me with her ‘ole” makes much more sense.
For instance, at Stoke Mandeville hospital where I am honorary entertainments officer, with my own room in the nurses’ home no less.
Christ, it’s like that fantasy where I go back in time to avert a global disaster, but accidentally end up on the set of Carry On Matron, except the student nurse’s home where Barbara Windsor’s character lives is where Babs actually lives, and…well the book I write about the experience is called ‘Jimmy Savile’s Got More Skin Left on His Wang Than I Do.’
The two girls, all arms, legs and knickers were bundled out, and I dissolved with laughter.
There’s often laughter in the act of sex. Laughter, and pointing. And taking a photo to show their friends before shoving you out into the street and yelling “Your dick looks like a chimney sweep’s brush!” through the letterbox.
The local male wolves were startled to see a large poster outside my front door announcing “Saturday Night is Crumpet Night.”
Saturday Night 24/7, am I rite???
Every famous male, no matter how many ladies they’ve publicly pumped, finds themselves the subject of rumours about being gay. Check the blind item sections of celebrity gossip columns – if everyone who was rumoured to be gay actually was, then maybe horrifically ugly and tactless guys like me could finally pick up a few scraps. Except we couldn’t, because all the hot chicks would be doing it up each other. With his flamboyant outfits, love for the arts and lady’s haircut, even Fuckmaster Savile has been the subject of speculation over whether he’s Shirt & Tie or Sunday Best.
In this, the last crumpet-based entry, let’s lay the supposition to rest once and for all, as Jim speaks about a debilitating injury that momentarily prevented him from thrusting his little arse up and down like the pistons of a printing press that churns out nothing but the most vulgar of pornographic images, day and night.
The sequel was that the strain actually interfered with my love life for nearly two weeks, and girls, several, fell into two categories. Half rushed off to improve their technique and the other half were convinced I was homosexual (which I’m not, as it happens).
Onward we march, into the fires, clutching to our chests the armour of ten thousand rejected letters, postmark prison tattoos bearing 1970s and BBC Centre, as though we can find protection behind the crumpled lines and crumpled dreams. We can’t.
Jimmy Savile…
was the original Nature Boy.
Complete with dark glasses I looked the picture of this year’s playboy. Needless to say he didn’t recognise me and, when he did, was speechless with the picture of such opulence belonging to a relative. The luxury of my dance hall and office stunned him even further.
supports the armed forces.
“Would you consider opening our Air Day at Brawdy?” Thus spake the clean-cut guy in the sergeants’ mess at the Royal Marines, Lympstone training centre.
never fails to imbue a story that, in lesser hands wouldn’t even amount to half an anecdote, with a powerful Shakespearian majesty.
One knight of the road with an involuntary muscular action sent a mouthful of tea up his nose instead of down his gullet and the surprised fluid cascaded down his nostrils back into his mug. All conversations drained away to a silence.
has lived the life of a Roman Emperor.
There were several faintings and a claustrophobic hysteric, during which time I was standing on a chair, signing autographs and being fork fed by a local lovely as it was impossible to work knife, fork and pen.
is blessed.
By a drunken miracle he has scored a bull’s eye and the lighted end has gone in my mouth with no damage en route.
is at home in the company of the upper classes as he is with scum.
Amongst various cries of conjecture was a classic from one member of the House who exclaimed ‘Good Lord, he’s got her by the tits!’ All was eventually sorted out, but as it usual vastly misunderstood by most.
is frightening.
The steel corset was only needed for the odd hour and my sticks had been relegated to the hallstand.
*bursts into tears*
By now the Duchess had assumed an angle of 45 degrees, from the realization that it was all true, and Joe, normally slightly stooped, was almost bent double. Even for me it was a bit of a physical marathon.
As the Summer of Savile begins to wind down to its terrifying conclusion, things are kicking into high gear. In the days ahead lay a lot of bewildering yellow text, but as you’ve made it this far, I trust you shall stick with me to the end. I’ll be honest, I’m fucked if I’m taking this journey alone, so consider this a metaphorical handcuff snapped onto your wrist, ensuring that we ride together to the finale to receive our spiritual Jim’ll Fix It medals, with which we’ll promptly hang ourselves.
Today and tomorrow, we’ll examine the various positive qualities of the man himself, before moving on to the more in-depth entries from excerpts I that had to sort into files named ‘birds,’ ‘really sinister,’ and ‘corpses.’ Aaaaaand, begin – Jimmy Savile…
is charitable.
I’d been at Broadmoor Hospital all day, organising a forthcoming Country and Western show.
is accurate.
Heightened by the urinary success of catching my grandmother fair and square I continued in my infancy to pee on anything or anyone who unwarily came into my range, and my first recorded applauses were for direct hits on guests, fires, tea tables, priests and other such targets.
is British.
“Would you like to pull a ten-ton tram full of people steered by a Lord Mayor?”
fucks a lot.
The first effort needed was immense and I thought the veins in my neck would burst.
is creative.
And now, a confession. Listeners to Savile’s Travels on the radio went cold as they listened to the hissing of thirty-six Russell vipers. Forget it, it was me hissing in different keys after.
is at ease when conversing with the animal kingdom.
I felt it fitting to call a friendly greeting to my stable companion. “Hello, brother horse,” was my contribution to equestrian equality. It would appear, on reflection, that Isle of Man horses do not converse when about their daily ploy.
is a swingin’ hepcat, daddy-cool.
Sure enough disaster struck. My translator happened to be an eighty-year-old German lady and there appeared to be no lingual equivalent to “I’m gonna sock this one to you,” and “Hey, dig this, you cats!”
is brave.
My first effort was to advance on a herd of dozing rhinoceros.
knows that farts are hilarious.
I was, as always in Scotland, wearing the kilt. For a laugh I stood in front of the fire and hitched up the kilt at the back. ‘Aah,’ says I. ‘that feels good.’ So we had a laugh and left.
To be continued.
Here are a selection of Google searches people have been using to find this blog in the past few weeks.
Clearly I will never have success until Roberta “Roberta from Spotify” from Spotify poses with a copy of either volume of Frantic Planet in her hands. Or maybe I’ll put out one of those unauthorised biographies, “The Voice that Launched A Thousand…
GET OUT
Mr. Grimsdale!!?!
This was complicated by my cigar falling out of my mouth and on to my bare legs.
*slide whistle*
After nine hundred miles of hard road, my feet are in constant pain so a bunch of keys under my bare left sole is all I need. ‘Ooh SHITE!’ I yell, and drop the torch on his head.
*wa-wa-wah trumbone*
Now, I’ll be the first to admit I’m no expert in the matters of women and romance and all that. The line “I write a blog that serializes Jimmy Savile’s 1974 autobiography” isn’t as much of a turn-on as you’d think, and if I ever get near-fatally trampled by a circus elephant only for a kindly stranger to revive me with CPR, that poor fucker will find themselves the unwitting star of a ‘my first kiss’ anecdote. Jim on the other hand, was anything but a late starter.
At the age of twelve I had my first date with a real girl. She was about twenty and worked in the dance hall cashbox.
Using the media as my moral yardstick, this was probably harmless. It’d only be kiddy fiddling if the genders were reversed. Or if she was ugly, in which case, I am absolutely appalled!
If you are confused, Days 0-20 are lying in wait here.
You know what’s funny? Random stuff! Yeah, the students love that, on their buses and trains, being well random. Like this one time this random bloke just stood up and made a noise like a lion, it were well random and mad! Me and Fishy Shell just couldn’t stop laughing! Most of the blame must be shouldered by these three modern kings of comedy.
* Noel Fielding – Nosferatu in a wig that was styled by a blind man, Noel is the mad, crazy hipster jester of RANDOMLY coming up with crazy RANDOM things like a house made of talking apples called Ian, or a cat that farted out a baby ghost.
* Ross Noble – master of improvisation waffling on for ages and ages about “ooh, imagine if a monkey just roller-skated in here, its little legs would be all like *mimes clumsy skating monkey*” When in need of content, substitute animal references for jokes (see also Bill “weasels LOL!” Bailey).
* Russell Howard, whose entire body of work can be summed up thusly: “Imagine if Stephen Hawkings was a Transformer, how mad would that be??”
Old news, my friends. Jimmy Savile was blowing the minds of squares before you guys had even played with the Evel Knievel toy you never even had in the first place. What’s more, he didn’t need to make this wacky shit up, he was just recanting the stuff he encountered in his regular, everyday life, without batting an eyelid.
Newspaper fastened round his legs…
Up you, Fielding!
Breezing into the dining car, my tartan hair so startled one of the customers that his pre-dinner drink went down the wrong ‘ole.
Go ski down my cock, Noble!
Driving down an icy road one winter, I noticed a sports car up a tree.
Do one, Howard! And yes, I do remember Boglins, as it goes. What of it?
While clearly a keen admirer of the Rule of Three, Jimmy even understood the comedy of lists.
A roman legionaire’s outfit with the S.P.Q.R. Standard in one hand and a mike in the other; a suit of real bananas; kaftans before they were even called kaftans; hats with lights on, and pointed shoes over a foot long.
We shall soon learn that Jimmy Savile was also well versed in the art of slapstick, so think on that the next time you decide to laugh really hard at Frankie Boyle saying something shocking like “paedophile!” or “Prescott’s fat belly!” and looking really pleased with himself.
In the first of a new series, I’ve taken a bullet for all of us and trawled through the comments section of the Daily Mail website. You owe me big after this, all of you (did I mention that my latest book is currently selling at 10% off on Amazon??)
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MONKEY JUSTICE
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Odds on this guy having a Thai child-bride?
Go East, young man! Speaking of which -
Welcome, Mr. Massive Racist, from the far flung shores of the sleazy sex capital of the world, where I choose to make my home!
Of course, he’s not an immigrant, he’s an ex-pat. Probably just likes the Thai food, nothing more sinister I’m sure.
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Damn those bloody buffons!
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Now remind me, how does that song go again?
FIND OUT WHAT IT MEANS TO ME
Days 0-19 are hiding ‘neath this white, enboldened text.
Everyone wants to be famous, but for most of us poor, unfortunate unknowns who might as well climb into an unmarked grave now and be done with it, the closest we can hope for is having one of our Twitter witticisms retweeted by the host of ITV2’s Schizophrenics Do The Funniest Things. My own celebrity anecdotes are pretty thin on the ground. Aside from bumping into Brutus ‘The Barber’ Beefcake in a dream I had, I did once find myself at a urinal, standing next to supposed ‘nice guy’ Michael Palin, only to find that he’s actually very rude, refusing to shake my free hand, and getting rather cross when I pulled out my phone for a picture.
Let’s remind ourselves of the level of fame we’re dealing with.
Sitting in our super seafront flat one day she was holding forth to some of her lady pals. I was reading. One of the ladies had mentioned the Post Office Tower in London. “Oh yes,” said the Duchess, “Jimmy opened that.
Good old Duchess. Although regular Summer of Savile readers will know how adept Jimmy is at opening things.
Seeing the Duchess had seen the Pope, I decided it was about time I saw Elvis.
You may scoff at the idea of The King even knowing who Jimmy Savile was, but you’d be a fool.
For the first time in pop history, Elvis, winner of the top male vocalist section, had sent a voice tape thanking his legions of fans. “Listen to it,” said Maurice Kinn, editor of The New Music Express, “there’s a surprise for you at the end.” Sure enough, after thanking his fans, Elvis carried on “and we were very pleased to have Jimmy Saville with us in Hollywood this year.”
Let’s try and imagine that for a moment.
Elvis is one of those people that everyone does an impersonation of. Frank Spencer, Frank Bruno, Frank Lloyd Wright (“Ooh look at me, I’ve built an ‘ouse and that!”), and Elvis Presley. A curl of the lip, a wiggle of the area that houses the genitals, and there he is, easy. But amid all the “thangu mama,” and “uhu huh!” at no point, when doing the Elvis voice, has anyone ever used the words ‘Jimmy Savile.’ I’m not calling Jimmy a liar, but when I try and visualize that tape, my brain goes into a feedback loop so loud it scares the birds off of the roof.
Moving on, not only did Jim know some of the biggest superstars in the world, he also made superstars.
An executive from their record company came into the studio brandishing a photo of the group. “Have you seen these layabouts you’re championing?” says he. The picture showed five young men standing by some railings. “Sure,” says I, “we keep with them, they have a good sound.” Keep with them I did, and just as well. The group was the Rolling Stones. Nobody argued with me after that.
“Dear reader, would you believe that man I told to calm down and stop taking everything so ruddy seriously went on to become the bleedin’ Dali Lama?”
It goes without saying that he also had a run-in with The Beatles. It’s exactly as you would expect.
Paul made his escape by climbing over John and it was all a terrible melee accompanied by the continued screaming from the fan on the floor.
Occasionally Starmaker Savile’s connections would get him a sticky string of wisdom-pearls, right up his back.
As Nat King Cole told me, ‘records were made to sell and that’s that.’
And finally, some actual royalty. Although in hierarchical terms, the Duchess of Kent surely falls below Jim’s mum, The Duchess, who is the Duchess of everything, particularly in the area of having a son who creeps me the fuck out.
My high spot was while talking to the Duchess of Kent she came over all funny like nearly fainting. There was only the two of us, and she puts a hand to her head and says the Duchess equivalent of ‘Cor I don’t half feel a bit off.’
Lest we forget, Jim arose from the humblest of beginnings.
True to form and anxious to increase my income I pinned up the picture of a Rolls Royce car on the inside of my wardrobe door. None of our family had ever possessed a motorbike let alone a car, but a picture would do for a start.
Clearly some sort of proto-cosmic ordering system, there, proving once again that Noel Edmonds is just a cheap copy of Jimmy Savile, in every possible way.
I’m not one for nu-age larks, but I do have a similar thing where I write down the names of particular female celebrities I greatly admire and respect, and that I think would make nice wives. Then I fold the scrap of paper up and put it my desk drawer, in the hope that someday, somehow, it’ll actually happen, and we will end up together. Silly, I know, but one needs these little dreams to keep the suicidal impulses at bay.
I say ‘write the name,’ it’s more of a drawing. Well, a highly detailed, sexually explicit sketch of the two of us together, often in flickbook form, just so they can get a better idea of what we’d look like in motion. Also, when I say ‘put it in my desk,’ I mean stick it to others in the nest I’m making in the corner of the bathroom, where soon – yes, soon – I will incubate the seed from which will grow my future wives, and I’ll never be lonely again. It doesn’t hurt to be proactive.
Anyway, safety conscious Jimmy actually fronted a car safety ad campaign in the seventies. I especially love that his message is essentially “You are smarter than an egg, aren’t you?” Surely Jimmy, Prince of Road Safety (Dave Prowse was King, natch) was smarter than an egg?
With no disrespect to royal decree, there were eleven of us inside my vehicle.
Okay, but we don’t know what kind of vehicle Jimmy had. It could well have been a big van, or a Manson Family-style love-bus with flowers and peace signs painted on the side, and shocks that were worn to the bone from the constant rocking motion of everyone’s favourite sex-enjoyer enjoying sex.
I had once been invited by six young ladies to their holiday caravan for a late night visit. Off we went in high fun mood, all seven of us packed into my three-wheel bubble car.
So, less smart than an egg. From the outside, that bubble car must have looked like a Damien Hirst installation – just a big, concentrated mass of teenage flesh squished up against the glass, with Jimmy’s face peering through the forest of thighs like a salivating bobblehead of Worzel Gummidge. I’m sure that’s why there was formaldehyde in the trunk.
I believe this actually refers to a separate incident.
The girls were draped around the walls of the van like some female equivalent of the St Valentine’s Day massacre.
Okay, fine, but what of public transport?
I was once asked, quite illegally, if I would like to drive a full-size, main-line passenger train.
Any guesses at how many women he managed to fit inside a fully sized passenger train? Yorkshire must have been like an inverse Y The Last Man on that day, and Jim’s nob probably looked like a blacksmith’s poker, fresh from the fire. Still, as we piece together his personality over these weeks, it really makes you appreciate that there’s more to Sir James than people doing bad third-hand impressions of impressions, and pathetic Popbitch-esque speculation about the metaphorical rattling bones fermenting at the back of his closet.
I was travelling up front in the hearse…
Days 0-17 are here, you dirty pervert.
Today’s lesson from Love is An Uphill Thing is that some excerpts just need to be viewed as written, without the interrupting background chatter of a smug little hipster throwing in stuff like “ooh doesn’t Jimmy Savile look like a bad marionette of Peter Stringfellow?” or tiresome scatalogical references to the gushing, withered genitals of minor celebrities.
To blithely pass comment on the following extract would be like watching The Godfather for the very first time with the director’s commentary switched on, and listening to Coppola giggling at all the swear words and trumping into the mic during “these boring bits. What was I thinking? prrrrrrrt!” Thus, I take a sideways step from the limelight, and let Sir Jimmy Savile stand centre stage, to shriek and rattle like a broken ghost train. I trust you will cope without me.
Once, In London, I had a girl delivered to me in a sack. It was far too heavy to lift from the outside step and I got a touch of the horrors in case the body, for it was obvious to the feel, was dead. It wasn’t, but it was also unnecessarily dramatic because it was broad daylight and one doesn’t feel half as guilty during the day.
Use a moment between the tears to click here and catch up with the previous entries, then return sans innocence and we shall continue on this journey through what many have described as the only true Necronomicon.
Think of this as a grab bag, all the extracts that don’t stand easily under any one particular label, very much like the man himself, who slots into all manner of musky smelling, perpetually rocking little boxes. If you peruse Sir Jim’s wiki entry, he’s listed under the categories of British Disc Jockeys, Marathon Runners, and People Who Look Like A Simpleton’s Finger-Painting Of Rod Hull. Truly, he is the jack of all trades, master of one (powerfully unnerving body language).
Jimmy Savile, on his hard-hitting journalistic style:
…we discuss and broadcast things like – homosexuality and what it means to be one. Or there’s a jolly crowd of the deaf. Or the blind.
On old schoolfriends:
Most pupils distinguished themselves in later life. At least two got hanged.
On coping with the grief of a friend’s cremation:
Politely showing an interest in the somewhat gruesome impediments I am offered the well meant but astounding job of frying my own pal.
On travel:
Old Donald was his name and he lived by the side of Europe’s deepest lake, Loch Morar. ‘If Old Donald likes you,’ said Jim, ‘we might persuade him to play his fiddle.’
On the astounding sexual prowess of his eighty-odd-year-old dead mother:
Think not that three score years and ten were a handicap for the Duchess. She had the energy of a teenager and could pleasure all night as long as the opportunity arose.
Thanks, Jim! Feel free to never tell me anything you’re thinking ever again.
Like a rotten egg from a sick duck’s bottom, news broke today of leathery skinned fraud Derek Acorah’s latest desperate grasping attempt to scoop handfuls of money and fame out of other people’s grief by channeling the spirit of Michael Jackson in a live seance. All aboard the spectral money-train! Toot-Toot!
Most people will know Acorah from the Living TV show Most Haunted, a show that made something of a weird household name of Derek, who suddenly turned up on mainstream chatshows and proper TV, which was like tuning into This Morning and seeing Phillip Schofield burping up a sticky length of Victorian ectoplasm. Of course, Derek eventually left the show right after getting busted becoming “possessed” by ghosts that were 1) made up by the production team to catch him out, and 2) anagrams of stuff like “Derek is a lying turd,” and branched out for himself, in cheap looking series that nobody watched. He even came to my town to talk to the ghost of someone who was murdered in the old Smarts Amusements, where nobody has ever died, not even for a laugh.
There’s usually a chorus of mockery whenever I admit to even knowing what Most Haunted is, but let’s be honest, it’s often a lot of fun. The live shows are particularly great, because they’ve now done so many, they’re forced to push the boundaries further and further where we get to the point that, and I’m not making any of this up, on live television, Yvette Fielding regularly performs magickal rites to summon up the Devil, basically challenging him to come and ‘ave a go if he thinks he’s hard enough, and there’s rarely a MH Live that doesn’t involve invoking the worst demon they can find in the nearest dusty grimoire to follow them around and fuck their shit up. In the last live series, they actually burned down a church, so Christ knows how they plan to top themselves this Halloween. Don’t be surprised to flick over to Living TV and see Yvette adjusting her earpiece while calmly suckling Cthulhu at her breast. “…we’re going to take a quick break while I finish sewing this flag I’ve made from the flayed skin of the soundman. Paul Ross, it’s back to you.” While most of it is hokey old toot, occasionally, there’ll be real Blair Witch-style tension, and live TV is the perfect vehicle for these sorts of programs.
Like every paranormal show, it’s all shot in that green nightvision that makes you think every little “ghostly” noise they hear is the offscreen creak of a penis being cranked like a one-armed bandit by Paris Hilton.
Perhaps the single greatest piece of television I’ve ever seen came at the end of Derek Acorah’s final show. For context, Derek was exposed as a fraud in the Daily Mirror, by the production team. It was a really vicious expose, destroying all the credibility he never had in the first place, coincidentally, right as he was due to leave the show and do his own series on the same channel. Rumour had it that Derek was Living TV’s goldenboy, while the production company that made MH wanted him gone because his obvious like-clockwork possessions and blatant cold-reading was hogging the airtime and making them all look like twats. I’m sure that in his mind, he was finally about to break out for himself, into the solo project that would make him a superstar. The piece itself had quotes from Most Haunted’s onscreen parapsychologist, and deftly deflected criticism of the show with the angle that “well, Derek was faking stuff, but we let him go,” although in typical media fashion, Yvette and co got burned with allegations of fraudary too.
But the timing was bad. The article was printed on the day of the first of three nightly live shows. Derek’s contract was up, and everyone knew these would be his final appearances before he moved on, but still, nine hours of live TV lay ahead, where Derek and the ones who had outed him all had to perform together in front of the cameras, and as this was probably MH’s ratings peak, a massive audience. However the show must, and did go on, and there was with no real mention of the article and no obvious signs of tension until the final five minutes of the final night’s show.
It all came down to a face-off between the two stars. Yvette – the former Blue Peter presenter who’d conceived of MH and turned it into an enormous moneyspinning franchise – and Derek – the self-made star of the show, who’d metaphorically shoved her aside to become a 21st century Doris Stokes with Mr. Whippy hair.
As always, Derek was possessed by a ghost, but Yvette wasn’t having it. She asked him his name and various questions, but the usual non-committal answers (“What year did you die?” “1810!” “And who’s the king?” “Er…OH LOOK, JIMI HENDRIX IS ROUND FOR TEA, BYE!”) weren’t cutting it. This wasn’t for info to feed back to the historians in the studio, it was to trip him up, to expose him again on Live TV, in his final few minutes as part of Most Haunted, when everyone would be watching. As always when possessed, Derek pretended to have his eyes closed, but as Yvette was no longer pandering to his mad lies, she gave it the old “how many fingers am I holding up?” Ever the pro, Derek quite obviously peeked out of one eye, and told her how many. Your move. Yvette countered by furiously pointing out that he’d cheated, putting her hand behind her back, and asking again. This is where Derek flustered, for the first time, and started verbally abusing her, like he’d done before while “not in control.” FYI my personal favourite “it weren’t me, boss, it were a ghost” moment was “I SEE YOUR BREASTS, WENCH!” and having a little feel. Anyway, Derek, with his eyes still closed, and still using the generic ghost-voice he uses (they’re all from Liverpool, but half an octave deeper) just gave up and resorted to swanning about, dismissing Yvette’s questioning altogether, because as a ghost, he’s got better things to be doing, like haunting women’s changing rooms or destroying the ballroom at the Sedgwick Hotel.
Under the guise, to the viewing public anyway, of calling the spirit a liar, the final, frantic 90 seconds of the show consisted of Yvette screaming “YOU’RE A LIAR! A FUCKING LIAR! AREN’T YOU, YOU SHIT?! GO ON, ADMIT IT, YOU LIAR!” an inch from Derek’s face, while he hollered back and tried to stay in character. The air was filled with rage, 8 series’ of pent up tensions, and spittle, which most viewers probably thought were orbs. It was all hanging out for the world to see. It was like when you see a married couple having a blazing row in the supermarket about a phone with a flat battery (“It never bloody works! It’s useless!”) while knowing, as they do, they’re actually referring to the husband’s floppy, impotent cock.
Maybe it wasn’t as glorious as it seems when I play it back in my head, and you’d had to have been a nerd who knew all the underlying backstory to get what was going on, but I’d get DPed by The Bushwhackers to see that again.
There’s a pretty frequent advert for Derek’s new series running on Sky, which will be broadcast in HD.
Jesus, it’ll be like watching an old leather handbag topped with a piping of stale ejaculate.
On the subject of mediums and spiritualism, here’s a filthy old webcomic I did along those lines.
Brits may remember Howard Antony from his mid-90s stint on Eastenders where, as Alan Jackson, he cut a mighty figure in Walford, strolling into the Vic with the grace and poise of Frankenstein’s monster and asking where Bianca was, with his lone – some might say trademark – facial expression (intense confusion). Let’s take a look at his acting showreel and rest easy, because in this time of Megan Fox and the 3D CGI remake of Capturing The Friedmans, I’ve finally unearthed our new Gielgud.
* Marvel at the subtleties of his performance as a homosexual. If not for my almost superhuman gaydar, I never would have picked up on it. Although in hindsight, the netted-top, Julian & Sandy voice and pantomime level play-to-the-balcony facial mincing may have been a bit of a clue. All of us remember the kid from school who was mocked and teased for being a gay, often on such incontravertible evidence as accidentally bumping into another boy in the dinner queue, wearing those shoes that looked a bit like Cornish Pasties, or having a name like ‘Stuart.’ The above footage is almost exactly what the bullies would do to the poor swine as he passed them in the hallway.
“Ooh hello ducky, I’m a bit of a whoopsie! *bends wrist at 45 degree angle* Men’s bottoms are just fa-bu-lous!”
Howard Antony’s failed audition for the Stephen Hawking biopic, which consisted of stucking his tongue under his bottom lip and making a Joey Deacon noise, was unsuccessful.
* Howard Antony: Master of Accents! When I was five, and me and my mates would play A-Team or The Cosby Show in the playground, we did so with more convicing American accents. Who was his voice coach, Joss Stone?
* THIS IS A SHOWREEL! This wasn’t deliberately put together for some sarcastic wag like me to have an ironic laugh over, it’s – presumably – a highlight package to illustrate his extraordinary range and attract offers of work. The next time I pitch a book to publishers, I’ll do it the Howard Antony way and just send an old suicide note, or a story I wrote when I was 13 about a big flying boob that squirts out other, smaller boobs and lives in my closet.
Hopefully for all of us, the scenes that were deemed ‘not good enough’ to make the final cut are in a vault next to The Day The Clown Cried and the fabled lost episode of Parkinson where Anne Bancroft spent the entire show repeating a short, inane anecdote about a pen she’d seen on the floor, even as they carried her back to the dressing room.
* Holy shit, if the death scene that kicks in at 3:55 isn’t just a collection of every “Leave me behind, save yourself *splutter*” cliches ever put to film. There’s even a little toy solider, which the other guy surely now has to pass on to the son Howard Antony spent the whole movie talking about returning home to. “I only do it for him. Why, when I get home, I’m gonna…” This is just a guess, but I’m going to say that Howard Antony from Eastenders’s character was only one day from retirement.
* “She the one gon’ be scurrrrrred! Time to pay, PAY PAY!”
They say it’s not the destination, it’s the journey. So let’s take a look at the search terms that have been bringing people to this blog lately and see which visitors arrived like perfectly normal, well-adjusted humans by metaphorically walking or taking the bus, and who turned up in a rocketship shaped like a giant ejaculating penis.
Well that’s great. anything with the word ‘frantic’ in it is obviously not some random straggler, but someone who fired up Google specifically to find out more information about my books. Frantic = good news for Millard!
Oh.
It’s not enough to just ride the cock, it has to be frantic. It’s such a weirdly specific term for pornography too. “How am I supposed to maintain an erection over this? Her riding of the cock is clearly hectic at best! Timberrrrr!” Opponents of pornography often cite the listless, bored boob-addict whose overstimulated, seen-it-all desires invariably escalate into cracking one off over more and more extreme kinks. This search is the highbrow equivalent of a jaded man who’s watched so much porn that the only way he can raise a semi is by watching hidden camera footage of his own father sucking himself off while sat in a urinal.
And what’s the ‘tube’ part? I’m presuming this is a quick catch-all for streaming video sites like Youtube or Redtube (which I have never heard of. Is that what it’s called??) and not an actual tube that’s involved in the proceedings. If you came to this blog looking for video of a black man vigorously fucking an empty toilet roll, you’re sadly mistaken. For now anyway, who knows what the weekend might bring?
Sec? Sec?? How do you not know how to spell sex? I know Youtube has a lot of dreadful music videos – 99% of all content is badly edited clips of men and women from TV shows or movies looking at each other in slow motion set to that ghastly song by The Fray – but anyone compiling the top five frantic sec scenes probably has the username of AlmostDefinitelyARapist69.
Look, just stop it!
Ah yes, Fantastic Four, the movie about the man made of fire, the invisible woman, the guy who can stretch any part of his body to almost infinite size and mass, and the dude who’s made out of orange rocks. Who was this a biopic of again?
Please note that this is the least damaging allegation ever made about Jimmy Savile.
I literally have no idea what this could be referring to. Ian Beale (that’s his proper name, please use it) is a photographer when he’s not doing that strange high-pitched crying at Phil Mitchell’s feet, but I can find no evidence of any kind of “fuck you picture.” If anyone knows what this is about, please get in touch, as I feel I’m probably missing out the work of art that could kick-start the new spiritual Renaissance.
Yeah.
Fr? Fr-what?? French? Fragrant? Freddie Mercury’s successor?
My search stats only stretch to so many characters, so unless someone comes back and tells me, I’ll never…Oh God, it’s Fr-antic, isn’t it? “why do people think marilyn manson is frantic black cock riding sec clits.” I should have just picked the title Clit Planet and done with it, you filthy, dirty swines.
To close, since I did the blog about her, there’s been a bunch of these:
If she should ever be filmed frantically…no, I can’t sully her name like that. But if that ever does happen, you’ll know where to look.
I don’t even give out my details anymore, and I threw out my phone, as I have no need for it. If anyone asks, I just enigmatically say “You know what Google is, toots? Wherever you seek big clits and Ian Beale, there I shall be found,” before vanishing in a puff of smoke.
Don’t ask, don’t tell.
…the entire ballroom emptied, girls and all, and we stood and cheered as the lads did the grand finale of disappearing down the manhole.
When I was 18 I learned I that I was adopted.
‘Scratch its belly,’ said the safari boss.
Things move slowly, but last year I finally tracked down my real parents to an address in South London.
To climb out of that mud-coated amphitheatre took me over an hour.
Building up the courage to ring the bell, I peered through the living room window. Inside, I saw Danny Dyer fucking a sentient pile of raw sausages, its pink, mushy face contorted in ecstasy.
At the end of the speech followed by the bang, flash and two-second darkness was exactly when I did a back somersault over my empty chair.
With his free hand, Dyer scrawled the words “To my special boy” into the last of 29 identical birthday cards, before loudly and violently climaxing.
Until Kanye West and Jordan committed their latest acts of attention-seeking fuckwittery this week, the internet was busting at the seams with waffle about Derren Brown’s lottery bit, with frenzied typists everywhere either feeling ripped off, or talking up their new syndicate of idiots from work that were going to use his technique to definitely win the jackpot and buy a shitload of Robbie Williams CDs and pink cowboy hats. Brown’s biggest crime was a lackluster, dull hour of television using the pseudo-science he’s spent his career rallying against to “explain” what was little more than a puffed up variation on the trick where a magician gets someone to secretly draw a picture, before producing an identical doodle on a pad, something even that creepy tosser Uri Geller can do, when he’s not too busy tearily pretending that he didn’t fall out with Jacko and accuse him of tying prams to his cock before moonwalking away like the World’s Strongest Nonce.
But amid all the complaining, let’s be grateful for a moment that Derren didn’t go full on evil hypnotist on us and use his powers for outright badness. Witness the following anecdote from Sir Jimmy Savile, as he regales us about his own public performance as a hypnotist. This will shock you, but for context, the mentally-controlled vessel for Jim’s magical commands is an attractive female.
Passing myself off as first her mother, then father, and finally boyfriend we had a lively patter going that reduced the firelight audience to tears.
Alright, I know Jimmy’s got a bit of a rep in the Summer of Savile as someone who literally couldn’t stop fucking, even if he was in the middle of drowning, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt over pretending to be the boyfriend of a hypnotised girl who’d probably do anything he said.
I was convinced she was awake and just playing along with me.
Very wise. I don’t buy into hypnotism either. Do continue.
Taking the part of her mother…
Phew, the mother. We all thought this was headed down a very dark path, but the sexual overtones are out of the window now. Just a normal mother-daughter interaction, although the mother is a priapic middle-aged male DJ dressed like an albino Peter Kriss.
…and asking what on earth she was doing in bed with all her clothes on, sweet horror, did she not stand up and start to undress.
“Sweet horror” indeed, it must have been very embarrassing for poor Jim, the obvious victim of this awkward situation. “Lawks a lordy, if my hand ‘alf didn’t find its way into my trousers, as it ‘appens. Verily, I didn’t know where to look when the good Willy Savile (for it is he!) spat a frothing wad of stale foam betwixt her pert, warm breasts. You’ve made an awful mess, my girl, let Mother clean it up, says I!”
Tonight, Derren plans, via the medium of trickery and that, to render the nation physically incapable of getting up off the sofa. Jim could do that, and he wouldn’t need a subliminal video, NLP, or a gold watch swinging on a chain.
HE’D USE SPUNK! STICKY SPUNK FROM HIS SPUNKING WILLY!
If you’re American, this post won’t make much sense, because like with the UK and Hulu, and China with pictures of boobs and communist oppression, you’re not allowed to sample the delights of Spotify.
Ah Roberta, lovely Roberta. In the early days of Spotify, before they had a bunch of irritating ads about suits and shit Mika songs to stick between songs, that chirpy, lilting, slightly posh voice was the only thing to break up the rock. And my God, how hard we all fell.
Even though she was essentially selling something, and while we knew in our broken heart of hearts that they’d cynically chosen her over the gruff sounding men of the Spotify office specifically to appeal to damaged wretches like ourselves, she just seemed to happy to see us, as though she waited impatiently during the songs, eager for the opportunity to pop up to say hello to that guy with the really sexy playlist and great taste.
It didn’t take long for nerds everywhere to become obsessed. Here on the internet, everything burns so fast – too fast. For one thing, the internet has killed satire, barring that brief 24 hour window where every possible take, joke, cut-up or animated gif gets gunked across messageboards and social networking sites, EVERYTHING notable that happens gets parodied to the point of utter tedium almost immediately. Witness this week’s billion memes of Kanye West interrupting everything from Presidential speeches to my mid-morning wank. “IMMA LET YOU FINISH, BUT LAST WEEK I SAT ON MY HAND…”
Anyway, we all felt like David Niven in A Matter of Life and Death, listening to streams of Radiohead and Devin Townsend while picturing ourselves minutes from death in a burning WW2 bomber, with only lovely Roberta’s lovely voice floating across the airwaves to gently accompany us screaming into the afterlife. It suddenly became clear why socially inept, pre-cum drenched men become fixated with weathergirls and female newsreaders. When they’re looking down the lens, they’re addressing you, and you alone, their loving hellos and goodbyes aren’t for the nation, they’re for meeeeee. “Please join me tomorrow.” I will, my darling, I’ll cancel all my appointments just to be here! They might as well be reaching through the screen and giving you your first ever peck on the cheek. Someday, Millard, someday.
But even though Roberta was just a voice, this wasn’t a Cadbury’s Bunny/Miriyam Margolyes situation either. A quick Google proves that she’s just as pretty as you think she’d be. Sigh.
But one day, like Kyzer Soze, or my parents “popping out for booze, brb” she was gone, seemingly never to return, and replaced by the likes of Zeer, Zane “fucking” Lowe, and phonecalls from comedy Irishmen who “just want to get me dancin’ shoes on!” As one, we wept, and tried to forget, lest the pain become too great, and we try to hang ourselves with the earphones from an iPod, or throw ourselves off the top of Rhianna’s forehead.
Then, last night, completely out of the blue, she returned. Sing Hosanna! Sadly, the excitement was short lived. While this was Roberta, it’s clear that something had changed. She sounded so…jaded, so unchirpy. She’d probably spent the last few months in exile, tired of all the creepy attention, and of having her name bandied about by the sort of men who’ve got every episode of Buffy on DVD and VHS. That happy innocence had gone, replaced (quite rightly) by a world weary disgust for the listeners who objectified someone who was just trying to promote a streaming music service. Like that bit in the risible Butterfly Effect where Ashton Kutcher goes back in time to see Amy Smart living in a crack-dive, covered in scars and selling her a feel of her ‘ole for pennies, or a broken-minded Susan Boyle sitting in a rusty old shopping trolley on the side of the motorway in only her bra, making “brum brum” noises and turning an imaginary steering wheel, the price of fame was never clearer. Heavy is the head that wears the crown of Nerd Queen. This is why we – by which I mean lonely nerds – can never have nice things.
Sometimes you meet a guy who tells you all about his female best friend, and how close they are. Then when you meet her, he goes in for a hug, and while she does reciprocate, her feet are so far away she’s almost at a right angle, desperate to avoid any crotchal-touching, and she’s got the smile of a hostage in an Al Qaeda video. Roberta’s hugs went cold, and we’re all to blame.
So, Roberta from Spotify, on behalf of all pitiful geeks everywhere, I’d like to say two things.
Firstly, I’m sorry. We put you on a pedestal, it was very wrong. I can’t say we’ll never do it again, but I for one will try not to be such an implusive, desperately obsessive and creepy tosser.
Secondly, I LOVE YOU, WILL YOU MARRY ME??? GO ON, PLEASE?? YOU KNOW I’VE GOT GREAT TASTE IN MUSIC. MAYBE YOU COULD COME OVER AND WE COULD HAVE A BIT OF A DANCE?!?? I’LL BE WAITING FOR YOU, MY BETWIXT-SONGS SOULMATE <3 XXX
Here’s a short story I found in an old notepad and tidied up a bit. Nothing spectacular, but it might kill 2 minutes.
The Bigger Bang
Although some claim to have heard the wind making a mournful sighing sound just before it happened, most of us only heard the loud bang, the one that shattered windows and set off a choir of boorish car alarms from New York to Munich and, well, every place you could or couldn’t name on a map of the world. That bang, that’s when we all knew that God had killed himself. There was talk that you could see the back of His head sprayed in a delicate crimson mist against the sparkling backdrop of the universe He lovingly created and eventually just got so fucking sick of, but if you ask me, people will see whatever they want.
Personally, I think He faked it. He must have grown tired of all the whining, needy prayers, and “…then why do bad things happen to good people?” and that every time a rapper won a Grammy for their album about guns, rims and bitches, they’d give all praise to Him and make Him feel like the not so proud parent of Scotland’s self proclaimed Sex Pest of The Year.
“Without God, I’m wouldn’t be here today,” said Jizzy G at last year’s VMAs, holding aloft a little golden statue received for his video The Nut-Nut Song, which sampled various cereal advert jingles from the late eighties, but was mostly about unloading a stringy wad of ball-glue into women’s faces when they least expect it, before running away, laughing. The only miracle is that He didn’t do it sooner.
He wanted to get away, to start again, start afresh, without the weight of expectation, or the grandest reputation in recorded history. If He’d really topped himself, we wouldn’t still be here. If you’re abandoning your house, isn’t half the satisfaction and fun watching it burn while you walk away? Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe He knows we’ll burn it down ourselves.
I sat up that night and listened, I don’t know what for. Maybe the splash of His enormous body crashing into the ocean to set off a tsunami that would engulf us all, or the heavy tip-toes and creaks of a creator trying to sneak away, like an ageless Reginald Perrin with planets for eyes. I’d half-expected the end-times chaos of Ragnarok, looters and religious fanatics all, falling through cracks in the Earth, and household pets reawakening their savage ancestral memories to claw and bite at their owner’s faces – but nothing. Everything was normal, everything was still. Except for the crows. All night long, they flew and cawed in gigantic packs, screeching and swooping around like bad kids partying in the house of some poor nerd whose parents were on vacation. I saw a group of thirty or forty rounding on a ragged pair and pecking them to pieces. Those just watching were shrieking with approval, the squawks laced with such a seemingly mocking tone, it was hard not to project a more human psychotic zeal onto their actions. When they were done, they scattered what was left to the empty winds and took off to their next destination. Murder. A murder of crows.
Even now, the people who can’t or won’t let go, the ones who need answers or who never found a way to cope with the issues of abandonment, they’re out there come sundown, peering through telescopes for clues and reasons, searching for the final note they think He might have scrawled in the stars before He pulled the trigger. It was probably a trick of the mind, but when I watched the crows heading off in search of their next victim, in the sky above, if you tilted your head a little to the East, there was a twinkling that looked an awful lot like “Fuck. You. All.”
The Summer of Savile is an eternal one, unfettered the calendars of man. If you need to reacquaint yourself, scan your peepers over the previous entries. And, begin:
Despite all the charity work and relentless fucking, Jim still finds time to muse on life’s great questions. Regard the following Cantona-style metaphor.
In the animal kingdom, let a budgie fly into the open and the sparrows kill it. If you don’t belong, life can get very strange.
I don’t want to get into some long psychological investigation into the frightening mind of Jimmy Savile, because it’ll end up like that film The Cell, but with some boy scouts eating their breakfast on a rollercoaster that dips and swerves into an old man’s glittering anus. Anyway, those things aren’t reliable. One time they made me take a psyche evaluation, and they’d deliberately set up all the rorschach pictures to look exactly like my mother’s vagina, beckoning me home.
So, Saville.
Purely as a statistical postscript if I slept for two hours, during that period, several hundred people would die violent deaths, somewhere else…
Of course by this point we all realise that those deaths happened because Dear Jim’ll dreamed them. It’s impossible to read the preceding paragraph without hearing a threatening sense of grim achievement in his voice. “What if I was to dream about you, eh? With all your skin peeling from your flesh like bacon, and your eyes burning and bubbling in their sockets? Right, we’ll say no more.” *chomps cigar*
When I was ordinary I used to go to a Turkish bath in Leeds. Sitting in the steam room would be an assortment of glistening, naked men. I used to wonder, why is that naked body rich and that one not?
Quite.
Pretty much every single one of the trillion online videos are tagged with the caveat of “You really have to see this!!!” and it usually turns out to be some badly acted viral where someone throws a tantrum and falls headfirst into a waste paper basket, or a distressed looking cat miming to Lady Gaga’s latest single, but I swear, this is the most extraordinary footage that has ever been recorded.
I can’t claim to have found or uploaded it, I just chanced upon it once and immediately watched reality fold in on itself. Lets break this down.
* THE MAN - Bill Roache is one of those ‘actors,’ and you’ll note that I’ve put the word in sarcastic quote marks, who’s been in the same role for so long that you just assume he lives on the set, sleeping on the cold studio floor in his Ken Barlow outfit, with an agent made from some glued together twigs with an orange for a head. The same can be said for Adam Woodyatt, who’s been homeless since 2001 because all of his paychecks and the deeds for his house were in the name of Ian Beale, and when he tried to protest, he was arrested for identity fraud. These days he answers to the name of Ian, just like a dog. Don’t even bother trying to imagine either of these men in another acting role – barring panto – the human mind ain’t made for that, yo.
* THE DANCING – Just look at it. It was someone’s job to put this performance together. There are videos on You’ve Been Framed of clumsy dads unconvincingly tripping face-first into birthday cakes that are better rehearsed than this toot.
* THE RAPPING – “I’m Bill Roache and I love it for sure!” Remember when rap first came about, and TV shows would often have awkward little novelty rap bits that were always structured like poems? “Word up cats and mind the gap, my name’s Cheggers and this is my rap!” Well this is from 1993! Rap is not a new thing here. NWA are already oldschool by this point, and it’s a post-Vanilla Ice landscape that Barlow is dropping his beats in. It’s literally the whitest thing I’ve ever seen, a metaphorical albino bukakke film with all the style and sass of a pair of grey underpants with the voice of Thora Hird.
* THE CLOTHES – Look at what Ken Barlow (for that is his name) is wearing. Appropriate clothing for a dancing rap, no? He probably thought that white shirt was “a bit flashy.” I’m not asking for Flava Flav style viking horns and a diamond studded bollock-ring, but for Christ sake put some effort into it.
* THE APATHY – The weird man who kicks in with the Elvis stuff’s voice is so weak, I suspect it might be coming from Barlow himself in a show of terrible ventriloquism. His level of passion leads me to think he died as soon as the cameras stopped shooting, with the official autopsy reporting that his organs “just couldn’t be arsed.”
* THE SHAME - Barlow’s deep and obvious levels of awkward shame throughout are almost enough to forgive him, almost. Those two women, on the other hand, look remarkably unphased. The blond one nearly loses her top at one point, testament to the overpowering sexual magnetism of Ken Barlow. What becomes of women who partake in such an unbelievably wretched piece of television? As passably attractive as they were in 1993, surely such a horrific two minutes would age you very badly, like those Faces of Meth posters, or pretty porn stars who do a year’s worth of DP shoots and look almost as old as Madonna. By the time they’d got back to the dressing room, they were withered and shrunken, with hooded, bloodshot eyes that had seen sights no mortal should ever have to witness.
In conclusion: I JUST DON’T KNOW
Clitorises
On a different topic, in the last entry, I mentioned that I’d been getting hits from searches for “massive + clitorises.” That blog, like some kind of proof that each generation is more degenerate and sleazy than the one preceding it, is itself getting hits for people searching for big ol’ clits. Presumably this one will continue that chain, like some horrible third-generation sex pest.
They so always say that sex sells, but to be more specific, what sells are enormous clitorises. Clearly the best advertising for the book would be for me to find a clitoris big enough to write www.franticplanet.com on in biro, like a disgusting throbbing sandwich board.
Just one more day to go until it’s all over and there’s nothing to block out the crushing lonliness of my wretched life. Let us take a plough through some of the housemates.
Siavash
I actually got a hit on here a while ago for the search string of “siavash looks like cowardly lion wizard of oz.” Although I’ve also had hits for “naked + raincoat” and “massive + clitorises,” the latter being from Thailand, just to reinforce all national stereotypes about ladyboys. I’m presuming here that at a certain point a large enough clitoris by its very nature becomes defined as a penis. Any doctors reading who’d like to weigh in on the issue? I don’t know what any of that says about my readerbase.
Anyway, Siavash. Yes, he does look like a hipster hobo, a sort of Ziggy Stardust and The Metrosexual Lions From Mars, and even though he acts like the coolest man in the world, it’s obvious it is exactly that – an act – and inside he’s just as self-conscious and riddled with doubt as the rest of us mortals. That’s cool, we all love a flawed hero, that’s why Frank Sinatra only really took off after he was caught fucking that window.
Siavash’s ultra-casual diary room catchphrase of “‘Sup, biggy?” is of course, the exact thing you’ll hear me say should you listen at the door when I go for a wee.
Angel
The one eviction I was unhappy with this season, Angel was genuinely a unique character, as opposed to the typical BB “character” – “I’m mad, me! I drink beer and that!” and I’d loved to have seen whatever wacky antics she’d have got up to next. Although it wasn’t fun watching the producers stand back and let her indulge what was clearly a pretty serious eating disorder, the always-dull early weeks were livened up by Angel’s Marilyn Manson meets Liza Minelli in Cabaret sense of style and propensity for making art out of discarded lager cans.
Plus, there were times, mostly after she’d stripped off and given us a peek at her Russian hat, where I quite fancied her. Then she did that thing where she she mimed a trumpet noise with her mouth and just let all the spit dribble down her chin for ages, and I deflated like I would if Michael Winner had a heart attack and collapsed onto my crotch, where he then died.
Marcus
Well, he’s just this guy, isn’t he? I did warm to Marcus eventually, but just as a housemate, I wouldn’t want to hang out with him in real life. Remember, this is the man that prepares for the private issue of relieving his balls by first announcing it to a dozen people, then proudly showing them his little wanking-kit. His early plan of bullying Sree hard enough to make Noirin love him didn’t pan out like he’d hoped, so he divided his time between wistfully gazing at her across a crowded room and metaphorically dousing her with hose-like blasts of territory-marking urine.
It’s a shame that the recurring theme of Marcus’s bad breath never really went anywhere. I was hoping for some big blow-out argument that never came where the housemates who’d all been holding back because of politeness just let it all hang out, and rounded on him with accusations of stinkmouth, but that sadly didn’t happen. I still couldn’t watch a single conversation between Marcus and another housemate without imagining the Peep Show style voiceovers in their heads saying “Right whiffy, it is! Is he brushing his teeth with an elephant’s cock? Pee-yew!”
Freddie/Halfwit
What are these people like when they’re older? Presumably acting like this is just something people grow out of, or is Freddie the younger version of those weed-stinking 40-somethings you see down the front at Levellers concerts with awful white-people dreadlocks, eyes closed and moving their arms about like the opening titles to Tales of The Unexpected?
“It’s sex outside weather, shooby-dooby-doo…”
Charlie
“Eee, I’m reet excited Big Brother! Canne you tell?! *claps hands* I’m reet proper excited and that! I’ve never been so excited, pet!! THE WHOLE TIME!” People don’t find that endearing, you know, you just look like a massive twat.
An absolutely excretable bell-end with a constant look of confusion on his face, like a dog who doesn’t realise they’ve just farted.
David
The gay son Brian Glover probably would have disowned, or the BFG if he’d been deprived of oxygen at birth. Other than deliberately cackling far too hard at EVERY SINGLE THING, David’s greatest contribution to BB was eliciting the tired, withering plea from Lisa for “no more nanoo-nanoos.“
Rodrigo
Ah, Roddy, lovely firey Roddy. I think I speak for us all when I say you can add him to the list of such fine men as Joseph Gordon-Levitt and the young Peter Cook that you not only would, if you were gay, but who actually make you a little bit sad that you’re not. Maybe I should just try harder. Who wants to try and convert me? Any takers?
So..uh, in conclusion: Siavash to win. BYE.
