The column which thinks that buffoonery is the last refuge of the failed dictator
READER: Did you see the Eurovision Song Contest? We came last!
MYSELF: No. I was busy watching some drying paint.
READER: You don’t approve, I take it.
MYSELF: As a shameless celebration of unutterably worthless tripe, you can’t beat The Eurovision. Every year they roll out the old barrel and fit it with a new bottom, even lower than the previous bottom, which is then forensically scraped. Meanwhile Monsieur Ed, the long-deceased Euro-horse is fetched from the taxidermist, dusted off and given a severe, pointless flogging.
READER: Well, like it or not, we were robbed. Yet another waste of the biased BBC’s £154 license fee if you ask me.
MYSELF: Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore. Perhaps you should subscribe to Sky TV. Did you know that their ‘license fee’ is only around £1,000 pa? Which, when you think about it, is remarkably cheap for 200 channels of untreated sewage.
Music fan Karly Wallbanger writes to say that in his opinion, the re-release of Nigel Faragy’s Greatest Tits on CD is long overdue. “Such a change of direction from his early rootsy Germanic heavy Nazi Rock stuff. The whole idiot savant thing just suits him so much better.”
HIP’s music correspondent Cuthbert String replies:
Dear Karly, Faragy’s early Nazi Rock stuff has now been remixed on the Rattenscheiße label by Alles ist Klaar, a two-man synth co-operative from Nüremburg. It’s a fascinating mixture of Doppelgänger Hardcore and New Romantic Garage, with a subtle dash of Nancybilly.
Walter Gateaux of Battle responds to last issue’s article on austerity.
Austerity? Today’s kids don’t know they’re born! In 1966, I worked in Woolworths as a shelf stacker in the confectionery department. I was on £100k a week plus bonuses, and I was running a Nimitz class aircraft carrier modified for road use, with two DC9s on board. Thanks to careful budgeting I managed to live quite well, unlike today’s moaning minnies with their cellphones and disposable income. Of course, petrol was much cheaper in those days.
Many people wrongly suppose that professional footballers are stupid, and barely able to string two clichés together, however I cannot recommend this book highly enough. Footballer’s Names for Children, was written by goalkeeping wizard Reg Trubshaw of Herstmonceux Cannibals FC, who is currently serving life in a secure institution for biting off an opponent’s ear and eating it.
READER: Life? Today’s namby-pamby pink-booted footballers are wrapped in cotton wool. When I was a lad we played soccer underwater, in deep-sea diving suits, with itchy woollen underwear, and lead boots. The referee and linesmen were in miniature submarines and carried guns, and the spectators had to hold their breath for 90 minutes plus injury time. On the other hand, it certainly comes to something when an innocent cannibal going about his unlawful business can be banged up in Broadmoor without parole.
MYSELF: Thank you for your invaluable interruption, perhaps we can discuss this on another occasion. Meanwhile here are Reg’s top ten footballer’s children’s names:-
BOYS: Tapestry, Cruciate, Ebola, Asbo, Gangnam, Hamstring, Nutmeg, Groin, Asteroid, Death Wish 5.
GIRLS: Caramel, Rhapsody, Marmalade, Rubella, Colostomy, Labia, Casablanca, Wah-Wah, Handbag, Adultery.
DEAD COMEDIAN WINS SEAT
‘Professor’ Stanley Unwin, who died in 2002, has confounded polls by winning a South East region seat in the European Parliament under the banner of The Breakfast Party.
Contacted via Ouija board by TV psychic duo Medium and Large, he issued this brief statement by way of a manifesto: “Politics ofty communicatle like a paperly flypaper, all of a sticky fluttermost in the sufflerlode of an early morny foodage. Half mathematical of course, meaning, on the wholesome, several barrelody of smouldery sausage, proportional black puddle, toasty marmalady, lovely hot milky teapot – and unforgettabold – the crispymost rasherbacon of the porky pig. But the egg, fried upper-over easily, is, in my deeply humblode opinion, the icicle on the cakehole. This chicky egg, when laid all speckly hen cornpecking in the free rangerly, is truly the deliciously tastymost experiency! This is the rocky fundamould of the Breakfast Party manifesterole, Deep joy in the ballot boxymolder!
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