Summer of Savile – Day 9: Danger Danger
Here, we attempt to classify and categorize the various methods used in unsuccessful attempts on the life of seemingly unkillable shrieking machine, Jimmy Savile. He could have been our JFK, if he wasn’t so damned wiley.
At one party, I narrowly escaped being knifed, with a breadknife as it happens.
Two cameos will suffice for this story. One feeling and one factual. First, I nearly got shot.
My first terror was being set on by three Dobermann dogs on only the second day, but saved by my heavy plastic overgear.
The noble shire beast reared up on its back legs and uttered a shrill cry of fear. The Mayor promptly applied the brakes and near dislocated my two arms and neck simultaneously.
Apparently he feared that it was some sort of preliminary Kung Fu attack for, with a hoarse shout, he stepped back and drew from a Sam Browne holster a hand gun – hay, cannon – with a bore on it like the exhaust of my Rolls Royce.
I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA. ELEPHANT HUNTERS? STEAMPUNK NINJAS?
Say what you like about the guy who looks like a Jan Svankmajer puppet of Ric Flair, but nobody can deny that he’s a modern day Rasputin, or Vigo the Carpathian if he’d been sat on a Magic Chair from the BBC props department instead of a throne of blood.