Summer of Savile – Day 25: The Jealousy of Wilt Chamberlain
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).