smiff

Morrissey is going to be on Desert Island Discs. Sweet Christ, One of the Famous Mancurian Arseholes is going to be on BBC Radio 4 for a protracted and humourless moan from stretched questions fired from the less than competent Kirsty Young. I heard an extract last night as I was making some tea, in response to a question involving Morrissey doing ‘normal things’ which, less face it is red rag to an already contemptuous bull, he snorted the following, ‘what, like feeding ducks in the park?’ I could almost see the twat swaggering towards me, little fists clenched in preparation to stick one on me for daring to suggest by proxy he does poo and wee wee like the rest of us ‘normals.’ Kirsty went on to explain she was thinking more in terms of ‘settling down,’ he unconvincingly objected in a pseudo fit of pique about how the thought of such things (having human company, love, etc., basic requirements of the human condition unless one is in a fucking coma, like his fictitious girlfriend) make him want to ‘explode,’ with what I’m not sure.

In the space of 20 seconds I went from sanguine temperament to a ball of venting fury. Who let this cunt into my room? Roy Plomley would be spinning in his grave like Lewis Button’s drive shaft. I for one won’t be listening but even I am intrigued to hear the pillocks response when Kirsty mentions that, like all guests, you get the Complete Works of Shakespeare and god help her, The Bible on your Desert Island as a given. His teenage response is inevitable, right? This could be the first time BBC Radio 4 has broadcast a dirty protest.

Despite the aforementioned whinge, I’m in excellent cheer. IC is back and this morning I had a bloody killer ride into work. I won all 6 stages of my imagined competition by performing acts of derring-do (apparently ‘derring-do’ is a ‘pseudo archaism,’ it originated from Chaucer, was misunderstood by Lydgate, picked up but misprinted by Spenser and then employed by Sir Walter Scott, this series of misunderstandings have created a word meaning ‘reckless courage.’) on Brutta. I decimated the competition including an act of surgery on a KTM Duke, my nemesis, who even popped a little wheelie when he was behind my pipe in order to claw back some dignity as I shut off the traffic I’d past and farted away into the grey yonder.