Tuesday, November 27, 2007


I was forced to cough up £135 for a TV license the other day. I tried to argue with the licensing creeps that I'm only interested in watching Newsnight, Footballers' Wives ((sorry, but has there been a more prurient moment in the history of the idiot box than Gillian Taylforth crawling around the carpet on a triple bad acid trip while an overweight football manager, in a plastic donkey mask and posing pouch, tries to rape her for the second time in her acting career?)), the odd nature programme, football and The Heaven and Earth Show ((a pile of pseudo-religious Sunday morning dross put together by a production crew so hard pressed for decent stories, and evidently too scared to tackle grown up stuff like honour killings and Vatican paedo fumblings, that they'll happily send reporters out to Ireland to interview mentally ill old ladies about 'fairy trees', or conduct interviews with Pete Doherty's mum and try to pass it off as 'religious-orientated viewing')).

((No, seriously, you didn't see the one with Pete Doherty's mum? Shame K-Punk missed it, he'd have been on it like a lion on a lame gazelle - and I thought my ma was a soppy old bat! Rock and roll! You could tell Gloria Hunniford didn't have a fucking clue who he was))

Anyway, I digress....by Harry Redknapp's melting maw, where was I? Oh yeah, so anyway I try to tell the TV license scoundrels - rot their kidneys! - that as I only watch about 10% of available TV, I should only have to pay £13.50. After all, I've no interest in watching anything on Channel 4 ((especially not tripe about jaded 'LDN'ers trying to up sticks to the south of Croatia - hang on, we're meant to laugh at fat single mums on council estates but cross our fingers that these simpering creeps get their bargain Dubrovnik 3-bedder for less than £250,000??)) or BBC1, so why do I have to shell out for it?? Oh, because I'm going to go to court otherwise. Oh alright then. Here you go, son. No, let me personally slip the notes in your jacket pocket there. Our little secret. Give it a nice pat. Feel that fresh bankroll press against your tit. Don't spend it at all once. And may you be trapped on a burning ferry, you grasping flock of cuckolds.

But cheer up! Don't be down on my behalf. If I was worried about a bit of penury I'd have thrown myself head first from the pram into the traffic in 1977. But this episode's inspired a fit of poetry - I don't normally inflict this shite on you, so apologies - come back later, there'll be a review of the Lewisham '77 thing:

Farting in your fictional detector van
Wading through files on a battered PC
In your mind, you're some cop from a rugged northern drama
But as you skulk through addresses, scan Hackney to Bank
Think of this! Your wife's head, flopped on the pillow
As the milkman slobbers and has his wicked way
Yes! Look to the skies: the dead aerials mock you
They make cuckold horn signs from their nests on the rooftops!

You struggle to fulfill your court order quota
Like a rabid German Shepherd turned parking attendant
Staggering up stairwells, hired muscle behind you
The clicks of hastily disconnected TV sets
Produce Pavlovian drool in your B&H gulphole
Like big hearted Tarby and 'how clean is your colon'
Or your wife, making post-coital tea for Jehovahs!

Now they're clearing your desk, it's like razing an anthill
A new drone with a pixeltan squats on your swivel-throne
As the license fee dodgers, fresh from HMP Brixton
Don animal masks and pelt you with brickbats
Lead you out on the marshes by dog chain and bedsheet
"NO!" you scream, "CHRIST!" as your eyes meet THE PYLON
132kV of cancerdustrial wicker man
You sob like a wretch, as your captors cheer freely
Embrace the pylon! Feel that electric surge
Kick your corpse on the blood-boiling bucking bronco
A public information film for you and your kind!

Not that I'm bitter, the ponceing cunts....
Comments: Post a Comment

<< Home

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?