When Will You Gullible Fuckers Ever Learn?
Posted on | October 31, 2008 |
Johnathon Ross and Russell Brand’s BBC careers are under threat following a media shit-storm, stirred up when the pair left a series of outrageous answerphone messages aimed at comedy “legend” Andrew Sachs during their hilarious radio show.
And by hilarious I, of course, mean totally fucking shit.
Make no mistake, that pair of turgid turds will wipe the floor with allcomers in our forthcoming gala event: “The Manic Whiner Top 10 Most Talentless Fuckers Of All Time Awards”. Oh, If you don’t want to know the winners, don’t read the previous sentence.
But that’s not the reason for this post. No. This is all about you pissy little tossers who actually took time out of your lives to complain to the BBC. And yes, Gordon Brown, that includes you.
Whilst reading the whole non-story on the train, squashed up against three cackling middle aged bints, whose collective stinking hairspray had combined in the air so violently I was contemplating - literally - cutting my nose off to spite my face, I was struck with the only sensible thought possible…
“BIG FUCKING DEAL”
…and promptly forgot about it, moving on to the footie reports.
However, fast forward three days, and it’s still all over the front pages like a dead Queen. Jesus H. Christ, hasn’t anyone heard there’s, like, a global financial meltdown going on? You know, something a bit more important to worry about. Hundreds of thousands staring homelessness and poverty square in the face…and so the speccy twat journalist wankers of the world take it upon themselves to vilify a pair of useless clowns instead. Good work, fuckos.
Worse still is that, at the time of writing, over 30,000 bleating middle class, middle-England douchebags have jammed the BBC hotline demanding “justice”. Erm, for what exactly?
I have my own reasons for wanting to give Ross and Brand a well aimed studded boot to the crotch:
Ross is such a smug bastard, if he were a bar of chocolate he’d fucking eat himself. He’s the human equivalent of an “I’m With Stupid” t-shirt. An utter cunt. Do yourself a favour, dear reader. Take yourself down to Catherine House and check out Johnathon Ross’ birth certificate. You’ll discover it’s a letter of apology from the condom factory. Fact.
As for Brand, well, where do I start? Look, I know we all sprung from apes, but poor old Russell clearly didn’t spring far enough, did he? He’s the only primate I know who’d have to dress down to look normal at a Wookie conference. And honestly, I swear I’ll have a bigger belly laugh the day I’m told I’ve got terminal cancer than I ever have suffering his crappy sodding comedy routines.
Having said that, I’m on their side in this sorry excuse of a news saga.
Let’s examine the evidence:
1. Ross and Brand invite Andrew Sachs onto their radio show.
2. Sachs doesn’t bother showing up.
3. Ross and Brand leave messages on answerphone, claiming Brand had shagged Sachs’ grand-daughter. They also suggest breaking into Sachs’ house to wipe the answerphone messages, and offer to wank the old git off in his sleep by means of an apology.
4. Sachs get the hump. Brand resigns. Ross gets a slapped wrist.
Fuck me.
Listen, I don’t want to boast, but I mastered the art of speaking-out-loud at around three years of age. So which brain-free loser at the BBC decided that Johnathon Ross even has the core competencies (say, being able to enunciate words, for example) for a glitterwing wadio caweer?
Then there’s Andrew Sachs. The nation’s favourite pretend Spanish waitor, and…well, absolutely nothing else. Now I must confess, I haven’t read the “what constitutes a comedy legend?” rule book for a while (my bad).
But if you honestly believe it’s possible to qualify by saying “Barthelona” a few times in a piss-poor accent, whilst getting twatted around the head with a frying pan, then feel free to pop over to my house and I’ll happily make a legend out of you, too.
Sachs, like the true gentleman he thinks he is, said of the whole incident, “It’s not me they need to apologise to, it’s my grand-daughter”. Cock.
Which brings us nicely on to the epicentre of this twisted train wreck of fuck-all, “aspiring model” (and, wouldn’t you know, ex-porn star!), Miss Georgina Baillie.
Here’s what she had to say about her ordeal - edited to get to the goddamn point:
“…I’M DEEPLY DISTURBED.”
Boo Fucking Hoo.
Judging by that photo, I’m not going to argue, but come on sweetheart, what kind of easy-mark dipshit sucker do you take me for?
Her day job is prancing around on stage with pseudo-lesbian minge-eating dance muppets, “The Satanic Sluts”, a blur of bad lipstick, PVC, and fake orgasms…entertaining roomfulls of 40-something virgins who haven’t seen a pair of tits in the flesh since they moved onto solid food (or ironically, visited the Ross & Brand Roadshow).
The girl with a history of getting nailed more often than a suicide bomb victim is “shocked and offended” at the suggestion that Russell Brand had given her one. Whatever.
Of course, I don’t believe for a minute that Brand actually did fuck her. After all, she must be far too busy getting a pounding from her new publicist, cunt-of-the-year-46-years-running Max Clifford. A thouroughly contemptible, vile little grief-hole.
This entire episode is yet another cut-throat con job designed entirely to line Clifford’s pockets with more ill-gotten cash, and all you gullible twats who got steamed up enough to demand the scalps of Ross and Brand ate his shit up with a fucking silver spoon. You and Max Clifford deserve each other.
And when your house gets repossessed because you were too busy having a heart attack over a bad joke rather than actually reading the real fucking news…well, I’ll be at the auction, cash in hand, pissing myself with laughter.
Laters.
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