Summer of Savile – Day 19: Travel

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…

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~ by Stuart on October 19, 2009.

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