Summer of Savile – Day 16: Better Left Unsaid
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.