Summer of Savile – Day 23: Jimmy Defined – Part I

Days 0-22

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.

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~ by Stuart on October 26, 2009.

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