Richard Littlejohn and his Interminable Hatred of Women

50 sHaDeS oF iDiOcY: pArT 2

Richard 'Upwards-of-£700,000-a-year’ Littlejohn can afford high class hookers if he so fancies and you'd have thought, for this, he'd be thankful.  

I'm not for a moment suggesting that prostitutes are a luxury that Dicky would want to spaff his filthy lucre on of course, far from it. I mean it's self-evident from his various poisonous prevarications that women from pretty much any background are among the most despicable creatures he's forced to endure, invariably invading his precious consciousness.

Here are a couple of this contemptible crank's jaw-dropping scribbles on the Daily Mail website that are well worth a leisurely perusal. For your delectation, as it were:

Firstly: "Spare us the 'People's Prostitute' routine..." was an article published less than a week before Christmas, 2006 and it outlined Mr Littlejohn's opinions regarding the victims of the Suffolk Strangler (who was still at large at the time). Then in 2011, following justice secretary Ken Clarke's "serious rapes" gaffe, came the execrable: "It’s not only rape victims betrayed by the system." 

The Mail's provocative and intentionally ill-judged editorial decisions to afford this 21^st century Julius Streicher a platform to honk his perverse opinions regarding subjects as sensitive as rape or the murder of young women, wrest you to the degree that you wouldn't even bat an eyelid if this deplorable rag published a free pull-out Home Improvements supplement entitled: "The Fred West Guide to Health & Safety on the Building Site."

Littlejohn is a ‘man’ who, during serial killer Steve Wright’s murder spree in Ipswich, felt compelled to snipe:

"In their grubby little existences [the victims]… death by strangulation is an occupational hazard... In the scheme of things the deaths of these five women is no great loss."

Yep, you did read that correctly. Try it again. It has the same impact the second time.

By about halfway through the Ipswich murders column you realise that it would pretty much come down to the flip of a coin to decide who despised the murdered girls the most – psychopathic serial killer Steve Wright or the shank-brained Mail columnist?

Littlejohn lasciviously dribbles: "These five women were on the streets because even the filthiest, most disreputable back-alley "sauna" above a kebab shop wouldn't give them house room. Some men are actually turned on by disgusting, drug-addled street whores." 

For some reason, somewhat uncharitably, he didn't sign the article off with Yuletide Season's Greetings to the victims' friends and families.

Following the gang rape of two British charity workers on the Carribean island of St Lucia in 2011, the Daily Mail again felt that a subject of such sensitivity would be best dealt with by their most obliging, misogynistic, compassion contravener... 

Littlejohn sets the scene for an odious diatribe by detailing the horrific and prolonged sexual assault of the two women before peculiarly stating that:

"No one would dream of suggesting that because they were camping on an isolated beauty spot overnight they were asking to be attacked."

He's right. No one would ever think that. It did cross his mind though, apparently - the sort of thing that no one in their right mind would ever conceive. It's good that he felt compelled to inform us of a truly awful notion that would have never occurred to anyone in the first place without his help.

"Let’s imagine for a moment that one of these unfortunate women had met a man in a Tiki Bar, got off her head on rum punch and invited him back to her hotel room for a drunken tumble..."

Yes, why not? That seems reasonable. Let’s equate ‘drunken tumbles’ with vicious sexual attacks. And while we're at it, rather than imagining a hypothetical woman, he wants to specifically imagine one of the traumatised rape victims for this disturbing fantasy scenario...

I presume she drunkenly stumbles into said Tiki Bar, hair tousled and matted with deep scratches and weeping gouges -

Apologies Richard, I’m getting ahead of you here. It's your fantasy:  

"The following morning, through her hungover haze, she was consumed by self-loathing. Would she be entitled to cry ‘rape’?"

Jesus Christ impatiently standing in a queue in Halfords clutching a puncture repair kit!

I've just realised that Mr Littlejohn doesn’t understand the literal meaning of the word rape. The contemptuous inverted commas adorning the word in his conjecture speak volumes. To help our Mailman out, here's the Oxford English Dictionary's definition of the word rape:

• noun

  [mass noun]
  • 1the crime, typically committed by a man, of forcing another person to have sexual intercourse with the offender against their will.
    
    

Unhelpfully, Dicky goes on to inform us: "There’s a world of difference between a violent sexual assault at the hands of a complete stranger and a subsequently regretted alcohol-induced one night stand."

And d'ya know what? He’s not wrong. The main difference between a violent sexual assault at the hands of a complete stranger and a subsequently regretted alcohol-induced one night stand is that one is a violent sexual assault at the hands of a complete stranger and the other is a subsequently regretted alcohol-induced one night stand. Littlejohn seems to be so confused with the meaning of these very different phrases that I'd be surprised if he doesn't pepper those fucking Go-Compare-The-Meerkat-furry-fuckwits with repeated befuddled telephone calls all day long.

There is also a ‘world of difference’ between a violent sexual assault at the hands of a complete stranger and a violent sexual assault at the hands of a vaguely familiar face that an inebriated girl may have been dancing with at a party throughout the night. Either way, if she decided that she needed to go home because the room had started spinning and her bed was calling, regardless of whether Mr Familiar Face had accompanied her for the trek back and regardless of whether she'd invited him in for coffee and regardless of whether she'd snogged his face off on the sofa for half an hour, it's still her call to say: "Night night" or "Fuck off" if that's how she feels. 

It's her call.   

If said girl is physically overpowered and violated by a sex offender of any subdivision against her will then the consequences are undoubtedly going to be devastating. The perpetrator is a dangerous predator who should be clinked-up and forced to join the Government Facebook register. For good.

Twathead's reprehensible stream of misogynistic gobshitery putrefies, unceasingly:

"To the Boadiceas of feminism ‘rape is rape’, regardless of the circumstances, even if the woman was so sloshed she can’t remember whether or not she consented. These vengeful viragos insist that ‘rape is a life sentence’ in every case. No, it isn’t. In many instances, it isn’t even rape."

Well, it is. In this particular paragraph, the word rape must maintain its actual meaning as it was Mr Littlejohn who constructed the notion in the first place and we are obliged to prescribe to the laws of language in a newspaper article. By conceiving the 'Boadiceas’ ‘rape is rape’' lie, the word rape has to retain its literal definition otherwise the whole paragraph makes precisely as much sense as if he'd typed:

"Each morning, without fail, I ride to work on my bicycle. However, some mornings, it’s not actually a bike because it’s a knitted, turkeymonkey tea-cosy. And I haven’t got a job because I am in fact a slug languishing under a heap of salt, dying obtusely in a thick, gooey puddle of my own disgusting internal biology."

It just wouldn’t make any logical sense despite being a far preferable imagining.

So here’s a scenario that might help Richard Littlejohn to begin to understand the concept of rape a little more unambiguously.

I think it’s predominantly down to the logistics of the deed that he’s struggling with. I reckon a good way for him to begin to comprehend the damage caused by such a violation would be some kind of a switcheroo-type situation into the victim’s position. It matters not that Littlejohn is a heterosexual male for this to work.

Here’s the scenario…

'Let’s imagine for a moment that an intoxicated Richard Littlejohn got chatting with three muscular rugby lads after stumbling into a sweaty Tiki Bar alone. Out of his tiny squiff-faced noggin on rum punch, he’d invited the trio back to his hotel room for a sozzled scrum down when, without warning, one of the burly brutes seized him by the throat, thumbs crushing his larynx, as the other two violently wrenched his arms behind his back…'

I’ll spare you the horrific details of what ensued and skip to the end:

'…covered in blood in what was a veritable, knuckle-duster-clad, triple-fisting.

The following morning, through his hungover haze, Mr Littlejohn was consumed by self-loathing.'

Would he be entitled to cry ‘rape’?

Badly Drawn Boy Live @ Northampton Music Festival, August 2012: Sadly Mourned Joy.

When Badly Drawn Boy (real name Damon Gough) was announced as the headline act for Northampton Music Festival's market square concert, a few of my friends' ears pricked up and I must admit, I thought yeah, that should be kind of interesting.

It seems, that for various different reasons, the town has never really attracted the bigger acts touring the country. They tend to leapfrog us, as you would, a stagnating puddle in the middle of a forest trail as they trundle their way north or south. There's the obvious lack of decent music venues I suppose, particularly following the closure of the Soundhaus, but somehow it still feels unfair. It could also be, that to 'outsiders', the town portrays itself as something of a cultural cul-de-sac - a kind of post-apocalyptic, dystopian crossroads where you're being watched and judged by unseen eyes, glaring from its omnipotent, architectural centrepiece: the obelisk-like monolith of the Jesus Army HQ. To the idle visitor, scarily, it could come across as the sort of town where, if you over-stayed your welcome, then you'd only have yourself to blame as the flames licked at your conflagrated nether regions whilst being set ablaze, entombed inside a Wicker Man-style effigy fashioned into the shape of a sensible shoe.

Actually, there happens to be a voracious appetite for culture and the arts in Northampton with an endlessly vibrant music scene that keeps reaching wider and further afield in an attempt to embrace the wider world. There are now a profusion of success stories regarding talented locals 'making good'. It seemed only natural that the creative world outside should occasionally drop by..

So when an artist with a reputation as esteemed as Badly Drawn Boy confirms he's headlining one of the town's outdoor music festivals, it's easy to think, ah, at last we're being treated to some genuine quality as opposed to the turgid Droning Bleatings or the moribund Steps of the 'world' that have dis-graced the town's stages in recent years.

Admittedly, Bob Marley played here in the 70s but I fear that may have been due to his entourage, and the great man himself, being so utterly baked that they took a wrong turn.

Anyway, this summer's show has now gone down in the annals of provincial town, musical-débâcles history and taken the hotel-room-smashing, rock n roll myth to dizzyingly-mediocre new lows. One day the gig-goers of East Anglia that attended will triumphantly declare: 'I was there! ...I think? Was Badly Drawn Boy the bluesy, New Wave band named after a slang term for heroin that rocked the market square?'

No, will probably come the disinterested reply, that was the impeccably behaved 70s outfit Dr Feelgood. They played just before him, then most people went home 'cos it started pissing it down.

I did actually quite like Badly Drawn Boy's first album 'The Hour of Bewilderbeast' which led to him winning the Mercury Music Prize (or at least an ex-girlfriend did and it was a grower) and I really enjoyed the departure from his usual acoustic singer/songwriter tweeness when he recorded the trashy, breakbeat 'Nursery Rhyme/Breather' with DJ Shadow and James Lavelle for Unkle's debut album 'Psyence Fiction'.

Then he recorded the entire soundtrack to the rom-com About a Boy and I found my enthusiasm had transformed into abject indifference due to a natural (and probably unfair) aversion to Hugh Grant. It might have been an amazing album - I've no idea. However, my appetite for decent live music and limited experience of the shabbily scrawled lad thus far had given me enough encouragement to go and check out Bolton's finest perform at the NMF.

It wasn't the gig I'd anticipated.

Umbrellas that had been erratically busy all afternoon were finally furled as the singer-songwriter was welcomed onto stage to rapturous applause by an expectant and welcoming Northampton throng.

Mr 'Boy stepped up to the mic and clearly, in an advanced state of refreshment, surprisingly dropped his opening gambit:

‘I’m in a fookin' bad mood and I don’t want to be here.’

As it transpired, he wasn't the only one.

What followed was a shambolic 'performance' of start-then-give-up-half-way-through 'songs' and incoherent mumblings, peppered haphazardly with expletive-strewn insults directed at members of the audience. His finest moment on record 'The Shining' was the second song played and possibly the only track that he managed to blunder all the way to the conclusion without trying to embellish its beauty with uncoordinated verbal assaults aimed at anyone who might be looking at him in a funny way.   

Shortly into the set, Damon announced that he'd dedicate a song to all the beautiful girls in the crowd 'just as soon as they turned up' and it was at about this point that I really started to pay attention to him. I'd been vaguely aware that he'd had some kind of meltdown on stage at a Los Angeles Troubadour show a couple of years ago where he'd apparently advised his fans that they were 'twats and should fook off'.

That was a show with actual paying punters, this was a free concert in Northampton, probably full of inbred yokels that had never even heard of him and most certainly wouldn't be able to understand the intricate complexities of such an artiste's tortured soul. This was definitely going to be interesting.

As an audience, one of our many collective illusions, was shattered when the vocalist dropped the first of numerous bombshells by informing us that the town we dwelt in was a 'fucking shithole' and apparently not the sprawling metropolis or cradle of artistic invention he assumed we'd somehow deluded ourselves into believing. I was so shocked by such a revelation I almost scratched my brow. Here I'd been, all these years, thinking the crown of the 'Rose of the Shires' was one of the jewels of the wider, free-thinking world, what with its unsurpassed distance from any beach in the UK, its world-unknown, dilapidated and postcard-hostile skyline (where a cluster of eyesores are bullied into submission by a dreaming, featureless turret that goes by the name of the National Lift Tower) and, of course, Billing Aquadrome - surely the envy of all theme parks. A place where the imagination of dreams really can come true - as long as your fantastical, slumbering visions involve sitting on a miniature train and circling a lake at 5mph. Whose don't?     

Apparently we're incredibly unenlightened down here in the East Midlands. I guess we really should appreciate being treated to a visit by such a complex artisan of the wooden guitar as Mr Gough. A craftsperson that hails from a far-away, exotic and cosmopolitan dominion that goes by the mysteriously enigmatic name of Bolton. Unfortunately, we can only attempt to envision the majesty of such an unknown kingdom or to the profound depths of its mercurial denizens.

Rather charmingly, after stopping his third song half way through, BDB splurged: ‘I’m bored already. At least I still get fookin' paid so I couldn't give a shite,’ and then proceeded to castigate the crowd continuously with volleys of insults, whilst stamping his feet and then woollily whimpering about the terrible time he's been having recently - a relative of his had recently died, his sister and brother-in-law had split up and we should fucking well know how awful his life is.

This is to people who live in Northampton for fuck's sake!

It was so moving, I almost yawned.

His fellow musicians and backing vocalists shifted uncomfortably as their artistic integrity was demeaned by the brattish display - how can you shake a tambourine in time when your front man repeatedly stops the songs to inform the crowd that they should 'fook off home?' It's has to be a bit distracting.

Eventually, after calling assorted members of the audience 'cunts', the cunts in the audience, understandably, started to heckle back.

And it was at about this time that certain individuals started to film the unfolding events, with the subsequent footage making it onto YouTube and circulating in the media.

I've read oodles of online comments from Badly Drawn Boy fans that didn't actually attend the Northampton show, defending his outbursts and assuming they were just directed at a particular female heckler, who can be heard clearly in one of the clips and 'definitely deserved it' but this ain't representative of what actually went on. The heckling (from scores of onlookers, eventually) only occurred after the Bolton man had repeatedly informed them that they were 'cunts and should fook off', whilst triumphantly proclaiming that he’s ‘actually got a life’. How fortunate.

Unlike the twats that had braved the rain with their kids to watch him.

For the record, Drably Yawn Baby was categorically NOT heckled until he’d aggressively and repeatedly called fans 'twats' and 'cunts', completely without provocation for just turning up to watch his sorry, hissy-fitting arse. The thing is, it wasn't Brixton Academy or Nottingham Rock City or the Bloodstock Festival, it was an alcohol-free, family music event that took place in the late afternoon amid fruit stalls and bugle-blowing pensioners. It was embarrassing.

The fans defending his indefensible behaviour on numerous websites without witnessing the actual events or viewing the footage in its entirety are being somewhat adventuresome with their loyalty, I'd suggest. The YouTube clip that appeared on national newspaper websites was taken several songs into the gig after repeated and unprovoked derision from the behatted bellend and frankly, I’m surprised he wasn't twatted by a member of the Numptyville massive after tempestuously kicking and hurling percussion instruments and stands into the front couple of rows, where there happened to be plenty of kids milling about.

It was the most objectionable performance I've ever witnessed by a reputable artist.

Having said that, I actually enjoyed the gig in a kind of masochistic way because I thought it was hilarious, but I’m someone who regularly attends amazing gigs and festivals; it was never going to be a particularly special day out for me – I went because my friends and their families were going and I always like to see good live music.

And that was the problem. I actually felt sorry for the fans that had turned up in the hope of seeing something cool, the people that don’t get the opportunity to traipse up and down the country to events because they’ve got kids or they feel they’re just too old. This was a chance for them to see an artist, who is clearly talented, perform in their own back yard. Aside from the insults, the performance itself was atrocious, with minimal effort being made with the musicality and some of the most shuddersome, lacklustre singing I've ever had the misfortune to witness. And I saw The Stone Roses' reunion gig at Heaton Park in June.

As an aside, I have a genuine love and admiration for Anton Newcombe, the lead-singer with The Brian Jonestown Massacre, who also has a reputation for being unpredictable and kicking-off at gigs. The thing is, he does it when he feels that his talent and music are not being given the respect due. This is an artist that lives and breathes for the music. When Badly Drawn Boy whined: ‘I hate doing this, I don’t even want to be here,’ it was impossible not to think:

Well fuck off then you pampered, egotistical, over-privileged, uninspiring, prima donna, cunt-face. The lives of the majority of the proletariat stood here being insulted by you in the rain are, without doubt, infinitely worse than yours could ever be. Get the fuck over yourself.

Hmm...

A final word regarding my personal experience of the show:

Ignore everything I've just said, I actually thought Badly Drawn Boy totally atoned for the banality of his dreary music and his one good song with a staggeringly unexpected and impetuously cavalier onstage crackup and for the relentless peppering of a family day out with repeated bellows of: ‘Fook off ya cunts.’

It was fuckin' rock n roll genius.

But hey, I ain't a parent. Or a pensioner.

Yet.

Oh Stop Being Such a Girl

50 sHaDeS oF iDiOcY: pArT 1

During the recent sexism furore that engulfed the media (kicked off by Sky Sports presenters Andy 'Arrows' Gray and Richard 'Course-They-Don’t' Keys’ odious confab that was erroneously aired), I clicked on a related link from my feminist sister Lynsey that left me genuinely aghast. The link led to an article that was published on the MailOnline website, penned by a certain Giles Coren, (no, I'd never heard of him either) entitled: 

‘So why is it all right for women to be sexist about MEN?’ 

And by all accounts, it is a frankly jaw-dropping piece of slanderous misogyny, brimming over with boiling hate. This bogus, scurrilous scribble is both indefensible and utterly pathetic in its entirety. But we'll return to Master Coren and his whining, insignificant, baseless-bellyacher opinions after the half-time oranges...

Firstly, let’s tackle Messrs. Keys and Gray and their witless assumption that the microphones were turned off before launching into a tirade of childish jibes directed at assistant referee Sian Massey, regarding the critical flaw in her character needed for accurately translating the footy rulebook into Premiership flag-waving reality...

She's female. A girl. With their stupid, befuddled XX chromosomes. 

Evidently her male counterparts are currently doing something of a Sterling job; faultlessly executed week in, week out, as they like to say. Seriously, when was the last time you heard Alex Ferguson or Arsing Whinger beefing-on about bad refereeing decisions following a game? How often does the post-match analysis burble endlessly away about how the result hinged on a couple of controversial decisions made by the male officials? And how regularly does the topic of introducing video evidence into the sport ever crop up? Erm, well…

Lovely day isn’t it? Looks like the weather’s finally on the turn... Sorry, what were you saying?

The exchanges between this pair of old-fangled obsoletes occurred before Ms Massey had even trotted anywhere near the touchline at Molineux for the Wolves/Liverpool match. I expect it came as something of a shock that this hackneyed, meat-and-potato-brained  double act were exposed, not as the impartial, philosophical philanthropists (with Zen enlightenment gleaned from their studies in the East) that you’d assumed they were? 

Egad! They had me hornswoggled too. Just how naive are we? What with their mud-caked rearing on 1970s/‘80s footy, soccer, football, cabbage kicking, pigskin punting and um, Breakfast Television? Possibly not the ideal ingredients for engineering the 21st century Renaissance man, I accept. But never did I conceive of the intolerance concealed behind the wide-eyed grin of a soft-focus Andy Gray, mullet tossed resplendently over his Villa-striped shoulders, in Panini’s Football ‘86 sticker album. My horror was palpable as I discovered the bombshell of the bullheadedness, seated-deep that belied the steely-jawed yet insipid, expressionless gawk of Richard Keys - his matted hair sprouting coarsely, but proud from under his cuffs and into his coffee mug - as he jostled with the banalities of marmalade festivals or feminine hygiene products with Wincey Willis at dawn, like the hybrid of an Easter Island Moai statue and Teen Wolf's unsavoury uncle. (Although regular daily doses of Willis is possibly enough to make a very hairy man indeed take leave of his senses). 

The scandal permeated an excited media for days on end as they always do and we were invited to stare, slack-jawed at the newly-exposed dark heart of institutionalised chauvinism that beats, bigotedly unabashed, just below the seedy, bloated underbelly of the Beautiful Game.

The disparaging remarks made by the pair were damning. Enrolling for evening classes entitled, ‘A Beginners Guide to Achieving Sexism in the Workplace,’ where the lessons are taught in a fusty old changing room with fluted circular-stud-indented, crusty chunks of earth under the rickety desks, the tutor would undoubtedly include the majority of Keys and Gray’s pearls of wisdom for the eager students. It was a veritable magic-marker, whiteboard-squeaking master class. Pure textbook:

Section 1

a)   Always commence proceedings with arrogant superiority: 'Somebody better get down there and explain offside to her.’ Check.

b)   Follow up with sweeping generalisations: 'Women don’t know the offside rule.’  Check.

c)   It is imperative to demean the subject with dismissive aplomb: 'Of course they don’t.’ Check.

d)   Insist that these tawdry inferiors will have all their frailties laid bare, paying absolutely no heed whatsoever to the actual subsequent events: 'There’ll be a big one today (bad line call). Kenny’ll go potty.’ Check  

e)   Always add a dash of derogatory terminology while referring to your quarry: 'Hear Karren Brady this morning, complaining about sexism? Do me a favour love.’ Cheeyeckk! 

cLaNg!

And so on, et cetera, et al, continued the, ‘To you, to me, to you,’ blah blah blah, toing and froing whatnots of this particular chucklesome exchange. And then things got worse for them. Much worse.

Further cringe-inducing episodes of boys' bravado batty-chunter from the hapless pair ensued and these were even more excruciating and potentially career-curtailing than the initial exposé. Their analysis of the 1998 Women’s FA Cup Final between Arsenal and Croydon emerged, which essentially involved the pair laughing their arses off throughout its duration. Now, ‘scuse my common turnstile parlance here, but to be fair, I defy any footy fan to watch the highlights of that game and not guffaw themselves giddy. It begs the question, just what was the quality like in the earlier rounds? Clearly Women’s (and Girls’) football have come a long way since those heady-days. And so followed further ‘exclusives’, including one piece of footage that showed Andy Gray suggestively urging the unimpressed Sky presenter Charlotte Jackson to: 

‘Tuck this down here for me, love,’ as he lewdly gestures towards the microphone pack down the noticeably-roomy front of his trousers. 

This proved to be Gray’s undoing and he was sent off for an early bath. Two yellow cards resulting in a red from Sky Sports.

Keys’ own personal public humiliation was about to be screened for the masses and will no doubt haunt him well into the next life. Pre-match footage unearthed from the Stamford Bridge studio saw our hirsute charmer probing the clearly-uncomfortable co-presenter Jamie Redknapp about his sexual exploits with an ex-girlfriend. In the most vulgar of terms: 

‘Did you smash it? Mind you, that’s a stupid question. If you were anywhere near it, you definitely smashed it.’ He ain’t quite done yet: 

‘You could go round there any night and find Redknapp hanging out of the back of it.’ 

It, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it, it… 

I’ve been pondering as to whether a youthful Mr and ‘It’ Keys consummated their wedding night with him poetically thumbing-in a softy before hanging out of the back of it by romantic candlelight? Let’s hope so. 

I say it’ll haunt him, if only for the number of times his daughter Jenny presumably has to put up with some jokester declaring, ‘I’d smash it,’ referring to her. 

Keys unceremoniously punted himself into touch and resigned before being given the boot. So what next? Years of penance in the wilderness for the jingoistic jackasses you might presume?

Not a jot of it. 

TalkSport announced it had scored a sensational coup by snapping up the two presenters just days after they had to start scrawling lies into their Job Seeker’s Looking For Work Diary. The radio station has emphatically, albeit tacitly declared, we don’t really give a shit what anyone thinks and we have no intention of justifying our position because it’s already been made pretty goddamn clear. Here are two gentlemen that fully comprehend all the nuances of multi-faceted pieces of football legislation such as the offside rule and also have a very clear acumen as to what has always made this hierarchy function. Now click the kettle on sugar lips, that bloody brew’s not going to make itself.

TalkSport may as well have released this as a viral video:

[The camera pulls back to reveal the moment of elation as Keys and Gray are giving each other a high-ten, amid and above the sweaty Eiffel-Towering of a doubly-penetrated Gaby Logan. Camera switches to a slowly panning close-up of her glistening face just seconds before her head inexplicably splits in two and disturbingly reveals that her brain is actually fashioned from a six-wing carbon-latex bladder, encased in micro-textured, hand-stitched hexagonal panels of Thermoplastic Polyurethane.] © 2011 TalkSport *Sort of

It’s difficult to even criticise them for their controversial standpoint. I mean, if the woman who was recently caught on CCTV tossing a cat into a wheelie bin had actually replied to the repeated question from the press: 

‘But why did you do it?’

And responded with, ‘Because it couldn’t open the bin lid itself,’ there would have been no further questions needed your honour. The sour-faced ogress is simply just a twat who really fucking hates cats. That’s fair enough in her world. You can’t really argue with a clarification of position like that. An unrepentant TalkSport are as bold as baboons and all set for the antiquated future. 

Now…

(Sharp intake of breath). 

Giles Coren. Just where the fuck do you start with this piec-?

PPPPHHHHHEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

A Swift Spraff with Funk Da Bass.

DJ outfit Funk Da Bass (aka Darren Lee and Dr Frost) are nothing if not turntablist veterans of the Ones and Twos. The Ceux et Deux. The Unos y Dos. The 部分和兩. Look, what I'm trying to say is that they like to rip it up like a scratch card. We met in a discreet darkened dungeon hidden beneath the boating lake in Abington Park. For security reasons.

Why Funk Da Bass?

DL: "The name reflects our passion for all music and we never put ourselves into a category. From one end of the scale we might play a funky house set, at the other end, a D&B set. The concept of Funk Da Bass is to mix all styles of dance music together in one session - to create an exciting blend of music."

Ah, good old D&B. Personally, I guzzle at least two litres of the glorious brown nectar every night (usually of the Happy Shopper variety). What's with the puzzled look? I'm talking about Dandelion & Burdock which I assume they are, of course..? 

So, how long have you been in the industry?

DL: " Twelve years and counting."

And what shenanegizzles were going down ten years ago?

DL: "In total ecstasy, puttin' on my raving shooz. We danced all night."

Okay, sounds nice an' easy, somehow cheesy. Heads on the block time then gents, favourite tune ever?

DF: "Most definitely a tough one... 'Tainted Love' by Soft Cell?"

DL: "Definitely not that one. Too many to choose."

'Tainted Love' sounds like an obvious choice to me, what with its syncopated, 1980s-stylee, tonne-eighty BPM Jungle breakbeats and skanky-filth, low-range frequency bass wobble-fest. Although, having said that, I might be thinking of a different tune.(?) 

Come on then, give us your most delectable record purchase:

DL: "'Some Justice' by Mickey Finn and Aphrodite. For a fiver."

DF: "Every one except the one I've just sold to Darren."

(Now check how I've lured them in before flipping this shit upside its own head with skills.)

Now to the serious business then... Give up your most dismally ill-judged vinyl purchase ever. Come on lads, spill the beanage..:

DF: "'I Think We're Alone Now' by Tiffany, 12". Yeah. It rocks."

DL: "I've just bought a Debbie Gibson tune off Frost for a penny. Cool."

Although I've never met you before, you never seem to age. What's your secret?

DF: "I've always looked old, right from the start."

DL: "Jack Daniels and dancing."

What's been the most memorable gig so far? If you can remember.

DF: "Covering The Rat Pack and Nicky Blackmarket's set at Helter Skelter."

DL: "There was one particular night we played at the Roadmender - I say we, but Frost was having trouble both seeing or hearing for certain reasons. The crowd had fun."

Namecheck some gigs/venues where you've rolled like a Cooper's Hill cheese wheel:

DL: "Fuel, Hysteria, Liquid, Helter Skelter, Club Pluto, Break-Up, B2M, Strictly Drum n Bass, Rage, and er, too many pubs and parties under bridges or in barns to mention."

What about projects for the future, assuming we have one?

DL: "We're concentrating on two main club nights at the minute - VIP House, where we've just got a residency and a big new monthly Drum n Bass night that's soon to be launched in Northampton. Check press for details. Apart from that, we're also working on some new tracks in the studio."

If your TV was jammed on one program forever (which is a technical and logical impossibility) which joyous slab of gogglevision would you be as chuffed as a tank engine with?

DF: "Shameless."

DL: "*NTV's Search For A Star."

*For the benefit of readers in, I dunno, say Hollywood or New York or Paris or Ouagadougou, wherever, NTV is the acronym for Northampton TeleVision, a somewhat maverick channel which by all accounts can never be accused of squandering its budget. 

And finally, if you were both marooned on a desert island with just one item (which technically and logically could happen but in all honesty is incredibly unlikely, especially if it happened to the boys independently and not in the same mishap), what would it be?

DF: "An aeroplane."

DL: "A pilot."

Jamfoolery.

tHe SuRpRiSe

a ShOrT sToRy

1. sAtUrDaY eVeNiNg

First ay all, ma boss is nothing short of a dignitary. Nae doubt about that. Ah've butlered fae this particular chiel for a couple ay years now and he's probably the most honest person ah've ever known. Genuinely. This is a guy who I've never once seen compromise his integrity and never once witnessed go back on his word. A rare breed indeed.

It was ma mam who put me ontae him initially. 

He came endorsement-adorned via a couple ay contacts mam had made by way of sweeping the grime off ay rich cunts' Persian rugs and the suchlike and he turned out to be the genuine article. A real-life knab of the highest order.

If anything, the plaudits didn'ae quite do the chappie justice. There's nae airs or graces or any of that gash with him. He somehow casually contradicts expectations ay folks of his calibre or affluence with a clumsy and charming demeanour. He's eloquent, polite, as natural as snowflakes and sports wealth that's overtly obscene. The only (seemingly) self-conscious, awkwardness he ever displays is the occasional facial flush if he's forced to relay bullshit of an administrative disposition your way. 

There's a real altruistic compassion tae this Sassenach. If possible, he'll utilize the less-privileged characters amongst you that may happen tae stumble into his opulent sphere. He'll undoubtedly give ye a leg-up - well, a hooning great hoist if the truth be known. 

By a strange twist ay fortune, he happened to give a ne'er-do-well such as myself the opportunity to take some steps forward. So, with bitter determination and enterprising nous, ah smashed every challenge he thrust my way and before too long, ah wis striding towards being indispensable tae him, ken?

Very quickly, ma new residence unexpectedly became this colossal Georgian Manor House atop a provocatively homesick braeheid that rose quintessentially from deep within the Hertfordshire countryside. It was far flung from the reeking tenements that ah'd been accustomed tae north of the border and ah couldn't have possibly, in ma wildest dreams, envisaged inhabiting such a dwelling, let alone feeling like ah actually belonged there. 

The mansion was situated remotely, somewhere way out beyond the sticks, encircled by sprawling broadleaf woodland that leant pryingly inwards towards our nucleus of activity from every direction. It felt a trillion miles away from ma birthplace and aw the better for it.

The proprietor rapidly became a firm friend of mine and he goes by the name ay Douglas Tempest-Sixsmith ay aw ridiculously-grandiose handles. Tempest-fuckin'-Sixsmith! 

He's deep doon a family blood-line that've bequeathed their prosperity from generation tae generation before their story landed on his shooders fae further script-development. An' ah says good luck tae him. He's nothing like ah imagined this type of radge to be, despite a backgroond that dripped with wedge. 

Tell ye the truth, there isn'ae a great fuckin' deal that ah widn'ae do for the man. 

Tempest-Sixsmith's seen me safe, right from day uno - be it letting me claim hoosin' benayfit from his employees' digs when ah first began working on the estate (an' poortith was still ma main foe) to promoting me tae Head Valet or whatever-tha-fuck ma title currently is. 

This was aw within six months ay conscientious, yet perfectly reasonable toil. 

An' ye ken what? 

There hasn'ae been too many people ay his calibre in ma life thus far. The kind ay upbringing that ah've always been accustomed tae has been largely contaminated by bad eegs caught in the loop ay thievin', tae skag, tae jail, tae brutality, tae a lick ah the rock; from hoose-breakin', tae savagery, tae bullpen, tae settling finally for extinction. Ye get the picture. It goes oan and oan as ye well know. 

But that was never for me.


Tee-Ess, or Dougie as he prefers tae be called, is more than just a boss okay, he's a brethren. A cohort and a confident. He could so easily've told me tae sling ma fuckin' hook on countless an eve over the past months and ah widn'ae have questioned it but he never did.


He never would. Right from the off. Ah've always loved tae blether with him, a brandy or two to the good. Invariably, he's urged me tae digress aboot the sort ay exploits that've occurred in ma life up til now, before our paths crossed.


And cross they have and I suppose our hand was dealt long ago.


Jesus, ye know ah prayed ye wasn'ae real loads of times over the last decade-and-a-half. In protest mostly, admittedly. Now ah'm not so sure. But if you aren'ae the saviour we were promised, then undoubtedly we're fucked.

Beyond belief.

2. mOrNiNg

Shite began fuckin' up royally first thing this morning. Dougie had been planning and preparing tae host toneet's dinner party fae months now - it was always destined to be a significant one. We had an elite selection ay guests due to turn up fae some scran and let's just say, some ay them are more important than others, ken? 

There's this lovely wee missy called Geraldine on the guesty and the boss man's had his eye oan her fae as long as ah can remember. She's a pretty, petite sort and from an aristocratic lineage which suites Dougie's clan right doon tae the shiny marble flooring. But it isn'ae just about that fae him - he truly loves this lassie. And ah'm pretty sure it's reciprocated. Ah've seen the way she looks at him, aw sparkly-eyed and star-crossed. Or aw cross-eyed and stark - it's one ay the pair, anyhow.


Preparations began with the meat, neeps and tatties searing and steaming life into the kitchen. There was maself, head chef Stewie and a couple ay the cooks who've been workin' fae the boss frae time-immemorial manning the stations. Now, due tae the relaxed business practices around here, unsurprisingly, the veggies hadn'ae been stocked up sufficiently to cater fae all attendees, so ah scanned about fae the big man tae rectify the situation.

He was on the front lawn spraffing away to Jay, the lazy-arsed garden-slouchin' motherfucker as usual, so ah opened a window, menu in hand, and interrupted them:

'Someone needs tae scoot down to the market fae, er fennel, Jerusalem artichokey-type things, um, Kohlrabi (or whatever) and the suchlike..'

Dougie raises a hand and says nae bother, he'll shoot down there himself.

Before long, a V8 Vantage roar followed by a clood ay gravel announced his departure as Douglas Tempest-Sixsmith span doon the driveway towards Bovingdon Open Air Market and into a tornado of trouble. 

3. aFtErNoOn

So we're dancin' aroond the kitchen tae Katy Perry's Teenage Dream, an aam singin' obstreperously intae Heed Chef (and lifelong Reds fan) Stewie's simpering an' ruddily-peeved coupon. Aam changing the lyrics freestyle-like, tae aspertions about Liverpool Fitba Club as they've been laughably troonced by the fuckin' Cobblers frae Nurthampton Toon in the week. Oblivious tae this pish, the houghs ay lamb are roasting away happily in the ovens. 


'Useless bastards,' I willnae let up, aw sing-song like as Dougie comes unexpectedly crashing through the double doors and slumps ontae one of the chopping surfaces lookin' nae too braw and greener than the mortared mint leaves. 


He isn'ae fuckin' aboot.


'What the fuck?' yawps Stewie, dropping his tongs as he scampers over tae the main man. 'You okay boss? What's happened?'


Douglas disn'ae answer. He just stares beyond the kitchen walls, his eyes nae blinking and his hands shaking violently.


'Dougie, chap. Dougie, what the fuck's gone oan laddie?' ah plead. For some reason a sinking feeling starts tae consume me. It's that thoosain-yard stare plastered across his face, coupled with the unholy colour ay his cheeks that are starting tae unsettle me. He's in a bad way and I get the feeling it could mean trouble for us all.


'Dougie, it's me Leighton. Yer auld mucker. What the fuck chap? You're okay now... You're okay now.' I try tae sound assured, rubbing his back and shooders but I've never seen a bodie look this scared or defeated. Never once.

4. tEaTiMe

Eventually, away from the others, Douglas breaks his silence and confides in me the events that occurred while he was busy procuring brussel sproots:

'Leighton, I'm in big trouble.'

We're sat consuming an exquisite (and much needed) Cognac in the enduringly-dusty, antiquated study. He's pleading: 


'You have to listen to me very carefully and I swear that every single word I relay is the gospel truth. Please believe me.'


'Of course ah fuckin' will Doug, Jesus. You've been ay the bunemaist order tae me since I've known ye. Like a brair ma friend and ah'd never doubt yer word oan anything. What's occurred laddie? Aam behauden to ye - you know that. Aam always here for ye, ken?'


Douglas closes his eyes for a juncture that goes oan fae far too long and then he starts talking: 


'When I arrived at the market everything seemed as charmingly agreeable as usual. I strolled past the jewellery rotunda and exchanged the obligatory jolly prattle with Derrick - is it Derrick? Oh you know the chap I mean? Portly fellow who runs the Frogmore Farm Shop stall - him with the auburn sideburns and that radio-mic thingy?'


'Ah, ye mean Barry,' ah laugh. Huge ginger chops oan the side ay his heed!'


'Yes indeed, that's the chap. A good fellow - supplies us with prime cuts of venison when the occasion demands. Well anyway, we exchanged a few pleasantries and he teased me a little about this evening's events and whether Geraldine was attending and then on I pottered to the fruit and vegetable stall.

And that's when things took, well, something of a turn.'


'A turn?' ah offer, puzzled. 


Then he drops this oan me:


'As I turned the corner, between the mobile phone stall and that curious New Age trinket stand, a tall shadowy figure of a man clattered straight into me with the most forceful of intent. I almost crumpled to the cobblestones. I promise you, it was nothing like an accident. This peculiar individual unsettled me of the like I've never experienced before. There was just something wrong about him, very wrong. I couldn't really discern the features as his face was obscured, cloaked beneath this long inky-black capuche. A vague rasping sound oozed from his mouth in my direction and my eyes were momentarily dazzled by the glint of what I was certain was some kind of blade he was carrying that glistened in the sunlight. I was overcome with nausea and momentarily, I found my breathing had ceased. I was in shock Leighton. My whole field of vision became a swimming blur of colours. I guessed that he must be one of these 'hoodies' that one's been reading about, hell-bent on perpetrating their knife-crime, with no intent but to ruin.'


Ah interject, 'Look Dougie, this isn'ae a reason tae freak out. Chap, yee've been workin' far too har-'


'LISTEN TO ME LEIGHTON!' He's bellowing, shocking me intae silence fae the rest of his twisted tale:                        


'Listen to me carefully, please. You must take heed of what I tell you. I'm begging you.'

Ah just nod.

'Immediately I scurried away, veering and skewing before taking a couple of disconcerted wrong turns in an attempt to regain some vague level of composure before hurtling towards where the greens stall stood.


And there he was again.


This sinister, downright fucking malevolent looking hoodie was a mere foot away from where I'd stumbled to a halt. He was facing slightly away from me, in profile against the waxy moon. His stature was incredibly intimidating as he towered above the red and white striped canopy.


Then, very slowly, he rolled back the long hood from the concealed face and finally revealed his identity.


It was Death.


Death himself,' Dougie avows. 'As in the personification of death. It was the Grim Reaper, Leighton.'


Ma eyes widen. Has this cunt actually lost his fuckin' mind? Aul' Grim Reaps? I dinn'ae say shite though 'cos tears are rolling doon his cheeks and he's traversing precariously close tae the threshold of hyperventilation. This gadge clearly believes what he's saying:


'I stopped stone-cold in my tracks. I just couldn't move. Death was over seven feet tall and shrouded in a hooded cloak, scythe leaning against his shoulder, betwixt his upper left arm and ribcage. He was rummaging through a tray of what looked like spoiled peaches with his spindly skeletal fingers.

And then slowly, spine-freezingly, he turned towards me.' 


Dougie pauses briefly and fixes his eyes directly intae mine. Then he leans in at such close proximity that ah can blurrily smell the fear emanating from his very being:


'Death bestowed upon me the most threatening and peril-filled glare that I've ever been met with. I have no doubt that this icy stare will be the most poignant vision I'll ever have on this beautiful spinning sphere. And very very soon Leighton, and I'm certain of this, the last. This is the end. This is my demise and it's so terrifying. Oh God, that look was so devoid of mercy.

So grave. So full of menace.'


With this, ma dear friend begins tae weep ay the like that I've never heard from anyone before, be they man, woman or snared animal.


After a time, he coughs, then sobs: 

'I ran and ran and ran. I didn't think I was going to make it to the car...'


Finally, almost inaudibly, he croaks:


'Please tell Geraldine that I love her. I always have. I don't think I'm going to be afforded the opportunity.'

5. eArLy EvEnIng

Ah have tae concoct a plan. We cannae accept this kind ay fuckin' shite. Oaf ay any cunt. Jesus Fuckin' Chri -


And immediately a scheme is devising itself in ma heed.


Ah try tae shake Douglas intae some sort ay sense that all is far from lost:


'Now, listen tae me,' ah implore to him. 'Ye take ma Corsa and ye drive tae ma mam's hoose up in Edinburgh. An' ye fuckin' joyride it swift-style ye hear, like a methed-up ram raider. Ah ken it isn'ae an Aston Martin but it will fuckin' shift if ye hammer yer foot tae the floor. Ye wear ma clothes, ye drive ma car and ye get as far away from this latent ambush conspiracy as is humanly possible, okay? Ah'll call ahead and forewarn the aul' dear that you're on yer way and tae ready the spare room. Just get oot ay Hertfordshire, get oot ay England and get oot ay this fuckin' grisly, culling Mictlantecuhti anathema's path. If he's still doon at Bovingdon now, ah'll stall the cunt for as long as possible so's ye can skedaddle - 


QUICK TIME. MOVE YE DAFT CUNT!'


Following a brief embrace, the plan is in action.


Now it was just doon tae me to try and stonewall this hoodied Spectre ay Deeth type from sculling his way ower tae the fuckin' sticks oot here. And if possible, avoid getting intae a swedge wi' the bastard.

6. iNtO tHe AbYsS

As ah turn the key in the ignition of the V8, ah must admit, despite the bleakness ay the situation, ah have a wee moment of satisfaction at its moody purr before barrelling it doon the driveway and towards this bony atrophied Angel ay Abolishment amid the aubergines, asparagus and annihilation.

On arrival at the market, ah hotfoot it past Barry's amplified jocular abuse emanating from the butcher's stall with a holler ay 'Ginger cunt!' Then ah skid roond the New Age bullshite stand, tearin' dreamcatchers an' medicine wheels with me in ma wake as ah belt towards the fruit and ve-


CRUNCH!


He wasn'ae sifting through the onions any more. Or the okra. 


Ah smashed reet intae the Demon ay Doom's emaciated frame in front ay the mobile phone stall. In a bedeviled effort, he'd been prodding his oversized distal phalanges unavailingly at the unforgiving keypad of the latest BlackBerry before ah almost upended the bastard.


Beneath an ominously purple crepuscular sky, Deeth glowered at me, rouge-drenched and rusty scythe raised high above his cowled cranium. He hissed:


'Just what in the Hell happens to be your boggle little man?'


Suddenly ah got brave:


'Now you listen tae me Mr Reaper 'cos aam not gonnae take shite oaf ay any cunt, ye got that? And especially not oaf ay gadges that fuck with ma friends, be they human or sentient entities. The perpetrators ah mean, not ma mates, obviously.'


This wicked and Godless Santa Muerte hunched doon towards me, belched a blasé yawn intae ma face an' sneered:


'I'm afraid I don't really follow, Leighton. And frankly, as uninterested as I already am, I happen to be doing my shopping and would prefer not to be disturbed, so if you would just kindly shuffle off this er...' 


Danse Macabre's choreographer didn't bother to finish the sentence as he gestured vaguely towards the direction from which ah'd arrived. He surreptitiously slipped the phone he'd been casting an empty eye socket over into his Sainsbury's Bag for Life before beginning tae glide away.

'FUCK YER SHOPPING!' ah roared belligerently. Ma voice was splinterin'. 'Ma best friend was doon at this here market this afternoon daein' HIS shoppin' and ye took it upon yourself tae ruin his fuckin' life, what with shooting ill-boding and fuckin' menace-filled glares at him. He's terror-stricken now - convinced that his existence must be over.'


A look ay confusion briefly blackened Deeth's barren grimace and then he raised his left supraorbital foramen, stuttered and then scorned:


'Meh..? Menacing..?' He slowly shook his bony dome. 'Cretins. That was nothing like a menacing stare you pair of simple fleshwastes. 

What that was, was simply an expression of surprise.'


'Surprise?' Ah shuddered.


'Yes - shock, amazement, etc. Surprise,' he hollowly breathed back.


Ah was confused: 

'But..? Why..? Why were ye, surprised? I don't get it.' It was about aw ah had left.

Then the revelation:


'I was surprised Master Leighton, because the very last person I was expecting to stumble into whilst shopping in a Hertfordshire marketplace this afternoon was your snivelling friend Mr Tempest-Sixsmith as I have an imperative appointment booked with him for later tonight...

Three hundred miles away in an Edinburgh tenement.'

And with that he was gone.