Things the Wealthy & Powerful Get Away With: The “Roasting” & Humiliation of Maggie

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Who is The Producer?

Excerpt from my forthcoming book, “I Really, Really Want It,” a black as pitch comedy that uses fictional and composite characters to explore the troubling nature of celebrity.

WARNING: CONTAINS STRONG LANGUAGE & ADULT THEMES

The Producer is on the phone. And he is not happy. He’s talking with the editor of Britain’s best-selling Sunday tabloid. That dumb cunt who was in his office the other day, the girl whose tits he spunked on, what was her name? Zandra, that was it, the slutty one. Stupid cow has only gone and taken her story to a newspaper! Who does she think she is? Like any paper is going to print something that he doesn’t want printed!

It’s a short conversation, the editor mentions that the girl says she was physically and sexually abused by The Producer. He’s sure there’s nothing in it, that probably she was just bitter and angry and couldn’t take the constructive criticism that The Producer was giving her. Exactly so, says The Producer, the girl was a bit of a nut-job frankly, and by the way would the editor like to run an exclusive on his latest boy-band sensation next week? The editor says he would, that it’s very kind of The Producer to offer, and obviously the girl is psychologically unbalanced and they’ll not be running with anything she has to say.

The Producer hangs up, that’s that sorted, silly bitch. He’s still pissed off, though. Not that the girl went to the press per se. That kind of thing is not a problem to him. He’s pissed off that she should be so ungrateful as to go whingeing to the papers after he invited her to his office to give her, what was it the editor said, oh yeh, constructive advice. Ungrateful slut, skank, whore from hell!

Anyway, he’s got more fun lined up today, so fuck her! Today is a different kind of Fun Day. The Producer doesn’t just get off on sexually abusing the innocents he invites into his lair. Sometimes he finds it just as much fun to vary his routine, to leave the sex bit out and just go in for pure, unadulterated, blistering, nasty as fuck humiliation. Every now and then, instead of a pretty boy or girl a fucking ugly one (a “fugly”) will find his or her way from the “reject” pile to the “see” pile, specifically to be invited in for a “roasting.” The aim of “roasting” is to so humiliate and insult the victim that they are reduced to a quivering, crying wreck, their self-esteem should be left in tatters, any illusions they may have about their talent should be shattered and any hope they have for the future comprehensively extinguished. The victim should be made to feel like the worthless piece of shit that they are. The Producer remembers one girl who actually pissed herself with fear. That was a particularly good roasting, it gave him a stonking hard on and fueled sadistic masturbatory fantasies for weeks afterwards.

That’s why, today, he’s invited Maggie to his office. Maggie is twenty-one and works in a call center, but she want to be famous. He’s seen and heard the material she sent in. Ironically, she’s got a great a voice (not that he’ll tell her that, obviously), but she’s fat, drab and unattractive. All that adds up to a massive no-no in The Producer’s mind. Fat and ugly people do not become famous, they shouldn’t even have careers, period. After all, what is the point of ugly, fat people? The Producer doesn’t know why they think they have a right to exist, let alone to think that they should have even the smallest chance of being famous! They must be punished for such ridiculous aspiration, taught a lesson they won’t forget, be reminded that they are physically repulsive and useless.

The Producer’s P.A. knocks softly on his office door, he calls her to “come,” she opens the door and lets in Maggie. As Maggie walks into his office the door swings quietly shut behind her and The Producer presses that handy button under his desk that locks the door and closes the blinds.
“Hullo, Maggie, how are you?”
“I’m well, sir, very well, I’m so excited to be here, it’s like a dream come true!”
“That’s good, Maggie, love. Please, come forward, stop moving around so much, dear, and stand in the circle, there, in the carpet in front of my desk, that’s it, good girl”

Maggie moves nervously forward. The Producer assesses her coolly. Seeing her in the flesh he’s very, very angry with her. Up close and personal she looks even fatter and uglier than he thought. She is short, about five foot four, she has curly brown hair which is down to her shoulders and badly cut, she has a broad, flat face with small brown eyes, a big nose and narrow lips, she even has acne for fucks sake! Who the fuck does she think she is? Doesn’t she understand that fame is for pretty people?
“Well now,” says The Producer, “I’ve reviewed what you sent in to me and I’ve some comments to make, which I hope you will find enlightening.”
“Thank you sir, any tips or advice you could give me…well…I’d be very grateful…”
“All right then, I’ll bear your request for feedback in mind. First of all I’d like to ask you a question, do you think you can sing?”
“Well, yes, I do sir, I hope so, sir!”
“And do you think that being able to sing is something that can make you a star?”
“I guess it must help, sir…”
“Ah, well that’s where you’re wrong, dear. It’s completely fucking irrelevant, none of my acts can sing, they just speak into a microphone and computer programming does the rest.”
“And that little fact, Maggie, leaves you with a problem, because even if I were to say you had a great voice, which I’m not by the way, that still wouldn’t be enough for you to succeed in this business. The most important factor would be how I chose to market you and at what audience I intend to aim you, and that’s really determined by how good you look. Bearing that in mind I can now give you your feedback… unfortunately for you, Maggie, you don’t look good at all. I’m afraid you’re fat, far too fat. I’m sorry if you don’t like what I’m telling you, but I’m a plain speaking man who says it how it is.”
The Producer is pleased to see that Maggie’s thin little lips are hanging open and that her face has gone red with embarrassment.
“But…but…but I could lose weight!”
“Oh sure, you could lose weight but there would be no point because as well as being fat I’m afraid that you’re also very ugly. Very ugly indeed. Pig fucking ugly, in fact. You’d simply go from looking like a fat, ugly pig to looking like a thin, ugly pig!” The Producer laughs at his own little joke, and continues: “in fact, Maggie, you know what, I’m really fucking annoyed that you’ve come here today, you’re totally wasting my time…I mean look at the state of you, you’ve even got fucking spots for Christ sake!”
“B-b-but…but…you…you a-a-asked me to come” stammers Maggie, who is now crying.
“Shut up, woman, don’t bloody interrupt me…now where was I? Oh yes…you’ve wasted my time today. I mean for fucks sake, take a look in the mirror, girl! You’re an obese, piggy, minger, a fucking charity shag, you’re so fucking ugly that you’d be the fucking booby prize in a fucking “let’s see who can pull the dog” competition. Do you really, really think anybody would pay good money to see you, a performing pig with spots, a bad haircut and saggy tits onstage? You’re fucking deluded, utterly deluded. I mean, what the fuck do you think you have to offer? Look at you, you’re a sad excuse for a woman, you’re as ugly as warthog with smallpox and fat as an obese elephant on a junk food diet! The idea of you ever being famous is ridiculous, fucking ridiculous and the upshot of your delusions is that I, a busy and important man, end up having to waste time on people like you, a fat, ugly, piggy-faced, acne-ridden, drab, no hope, pathetic skank! You, Maggie, are a troll with tits.”
The Producer gets up from his desk and walks over to the circle in the carpet where Maggie, now quaking and crying loudly, is standing. “Now have you got the message, girl, has it drilled through your thick skull to that pea-sized lump of turd that you call a brain? You haven’t got a chance of making it, not a chance. Listen to me, you’re too fat and too ugly to be famous. It ain’t going to happen. Not now, not ever, so go back to your sad little job in your sad little call center and maybe one day you’ll marry a sad little man who’s just as ugly as you and together you’ll breed a deformed brood of sad, no-hope, gut bucket, disgusting looking baby trolls who’ll grow up to be as useless and troll fucking ugly as their parents!”

The Producer is standing just a couple of inches from Maggie, leaning over her, his spit flecks her hair as he rants. He has a hard on. Not because he finds Maggie attractive, obviously not and God forbid, but because he has power over. He has humiliated, destroyed her. He can almost smell her fear, her embarrassment, her pain. He grabs Maggie’s shoulders, spins her round and shouts in her face, “now get out of my sight you ridiculous, worthless, repulsive, tub of lard!” He pushes her roughly towards the door of his office.
Maggie is distraught, she can’t believe this has happened. Poor girl, her dream has turned into a nightmare. She tries to get out of the office, yanking at the door handle, banging her fists against the door, screaming and crying. But the door is still locked and as The Producer watches her frantic and unsuccessful attempts to leave his office, he becomes increasingly aroused by her distress.

He puts a hand down to his crotch and feels his throbbing erection. He decides he’s had enough fun with Maggie and presses his special button to open the office door, Maggie runs out, screaming and hysterical.

The Producer sits back at his desk and laughs and laughs. Oh, what fun he has had! When he’s finished laughing, he replays Maggie’s roasting back through his mind and masturbates enthusiastically, as he feels an orgasm approaching he stands and walks, still wanking, over to the circle in his office carpet and shoots a heavy load of sperm directly on to it.

The Upstanding Lady of Indeterminate Age & a Silence so Loud it was Deafening.

soulfireOnce upon a time in the land of Anywhere, in a world long since forgotten, there lived, in the fine and prosperous city of Anyplace, an Upstanding Lady Of Indeterminate Age. Sitting one day in her neat little home, alone as was normal in these later years of hers, she was deafened by the screaming silence of a house that used to be so busy but that was now so empty. She decided she had to escape this Persistent And Raucous Noise Of Nothingness. She craved the tranquillity of open, green countryside and the possibilities of Broad, Bright Blue Skies. She needed a change from the Numbing And Persistent Progression Of Her Silent Days.

Donning a pair of Sensibly Flat Shoes, the Lady Of Indeterminate Age strode decisively out of her house, heading for the hills outside the city: not those made ugly by the gross mansions of the Greedy And Reprehensible One Percent, but those that are Further On And Further Away.

Her journey was long but uneventful, even though it passed through territory known to be plagued by Fairies and Trolls. Not that this concerned our Lady: like Joan Crawford in your world, she had “been around the block” and there were no longer things in This Life that caused her fear. In fact, one Rheumy Old Troll did spot her but, using that Sixth Sense that Trolls have, he decide she was best left undisturbed for he knew, even if she did not, that this was one Lady who had an Appointment With Destiny.

Presently, the Lady came upon the chain of hills she desired to visit. Setting her sites upon the highest hill in the chain, she began to climb. Up and up, and up until the hill levelled off into a wide and tranquil plateau, carpeted in lush green grass, spotted with beautiful wild flowers, and open to the possibilities of the Broad, Bright, Blue Sky.

Setting foot on the plateau, our Lady became aware that a strong Wind was blowing, but it was a pleasant Wind: fierce, powerful but in some way warm and comforting. And as she walked through the Wind, attracted for some reason she could not fathom towards the centre of the lush greenness before her, it seemed to strip away the everyday physical pain of being of An Indeterminate Age and soon it seemed even her Persistently Aching Knees were young and flexible. Our Lady was even sure that, had she had a mirror, she could have held it up to a face that was no longer wrinkled and saggy but firm and unlined, bejewelled with the bright, hopeful, unclouded Eyes Of Youth. Even more remarkably, she was delighted to discover the wind had also succeeded in blowing away the Cobwebs Of Unhappiness And Loneliness that the capriciously malicious Blind Old Weaver that is fate had woven around the Later Years Of Her Life.

Truth be told, upon reaching the middle of the plateau, our Lady felt quite the Giddy Young Girl again.

And there, in the centre of a green plateau under a Broad, Bright, Blue Sky, she decided to simply stand still and give herself to this Warm And Happy Wind and discover where it would take her.

As she stood, the Wind enfolded her. It wrapped its arms around her and her held her tight like her loving and loved husband, dead these ten years gone, a man who had woven a web beneath her, made of love and gossamer thread, to catch her should she fall. It whispered enjoyable nonsense in her ears, in the endlessly charming voices of children now grown and living lives of their own, and it sensuously caressed her breasts and between her legs like the stunningly handsome younger lover she had taken in middle age, who taught her nothing of love but everything of the pleasures of the body. At some points the wind would grow to an intensity that our Lady was sure would knock her down, but then, instead, it would seem to be holding her up: using its own strange wisdom, the Wind knew never to blow stronger than she could bare.

The Wind became more and more intense, enfolding and absorbing, filling and possessing her consciousness until it felt to our Lady not like air rushing past her, but her life, played out in thoughts, feelings and emotions, a fast-flowing stream of consciousness. It was her story. And it had come full circle, it was finished. Nothing to regret, nothing to fear. The most natural thing in the world. An ending and a beginning.

Now the Wind reaches a new peak of power, stripping away our Lady’s shoes and clothes and scattering them across the plateau. It blows the hair from her head, eyebrows and intimate areas, and as it begins to peel off her skin in great, loose flaps our Lady has a sense of Coming Apart. She feels no pain, no panic, just a sense of freedom.

Next to go were her eyes, the Wind popping them out of their sockets, the brain following closely behind, squeezing out of the spaces where the eyes had been. Cartilage, muscle and internal organs were the last to be blown away and now our Lady was nothing but a skeleton and a Soul, standing there on an open plateau and had you also been there you would have been blinded for the Soul of the Lady burned with the Brightness Of A Thousand Stars, sitting Incandescent inside her ribcage until the Wind embraced it and carried it up higher and higher, speeding it triumphantly across a Broad, Bright, Blue Sky on a Final Exhilarating, Blissful Journey.

Some months later, our Lady’s skeleton was discovered, just a pile of old bones, lying atop that isolated plateau. Nobody could be sure to whom these bones had once belonged and it was assumed that they were the Mortal Remains of some Unfortunate Traveller who had been attacked and eaten by Trolls. Thus the Upstanding  Lady Of An Indeterminate Age slipped silently and unnoticed into the dense fog of Forgotten Stories which makes up so much of history.

The downing of Flight MH17 and the Shaming of Journalism.

Site of a Malaysia Airlines Boeing 777 plane crash is seen in the settlement of Grabovo in the Donetsk regionThis is post is a criticism of journalists. Not all of them, there are some very brave and very honest journalists out there, but far too few…

If you look at the TV news and press this morning then you’ll see that Russia was behind the shooting down of Malaysian Airways flight MH17, or if not Russia then Russian backed separatists using Russian supplied “Buk” missiles.

Okay, that’s a given then, no questions to be asked, case proven.

Not quite. No. There are actually many questions that should be asked in relation to this tragic incident, but it seem that journalists, those brave, unbiased truth-seekers, can’t be bothered to do so.

Why is that? Firstly, it’s because most journalists are lazy and not very bright. Many years ago I worked in PR and I quickly learned that the best way to get a journalist to write what you wanted was as difficult and challenging as giving him/her a well-written press release. You could then rely upon journalistic laziness and lack of desire to work/check the facts to ensure that said press release would be printed or broadcast pretty much word for word. Secondly, it’s because concepts like journalistic “integrity” and “balance” are handy little myths sold to us chavs to keep us quiet and keep us thinking that we live in a functioning democracy supported by a healthy, robust and truth-seeking Fourth Estate. Shit, I’ve just pissed myself laughing….

Truth is, journalists are willing and supportive captives of the media organisation that employs them, which organisation is in turn captive of and facilitator for the political interests of the wealthy and connected. Thus (as examples) those working for the hopeless, bias, smugly middle-class infested BBC say whatever the UK government says they should say, those working for the hate-filled Murdoch organisation spout the Neo-Con line coming out of the US State Department.

And amongst all that bias, there’s no-one to ask the obvious questions about who really shot down flight MH17. So, for all the brain-dead journo’s out there, here a quick Journalism 101 for you:

*How does it serve Russian interests to shoot down a civilian airliner? Why would Russia want more US involvement in Ukraine, more international approbation, more sanctions? How does this incident serve Russia’s interests in way, shape or form?

*Why has America NOT published any satellite photograph evidence from the satellite it had above this area of Ukraine at the time?

*Why has Russian photographic evidence of Buk missile batteries (which would have been capable of targeting and downing Flight MH17) in the Donetsk area not been shown by the Western media?

*Why has Ukraine not explained why one of its fighter jets was flying 5 kilometers behind MH17 before it was shot down?

*The downing of Flight MH17 does, strangely, suit US interests very well. The fascist overthrow of the democratically elected government of the Ukraine was financed, supported and planned by the USA. Working with the Neo-Con nutjobs of the US State Department, the highly unpleasant, blood-stained, JP Morgan quizling, Barack “Drone Killer” Obama hoped to draw Russia into conflict in the Ukraine. The aim: destabilise and weaken Russia, turn it into an international pariah, hit its economy with sanctions and control its gas pipeline network. Fair to say, then, that widening and deepening the Ukraine issue would very much be in the interests of the USA and it does not take a great leap of imagination to view this whole incident as a covert US/Ukrainian government operation.

*Okay, the Russians didn’t do it but Russian supported separatists using Russian supplied weapons did, so Russia is ultimately to blame. That’s an argument. But using the same argument (which, strangely, none of our fearlessly independent journalists have chosen to do, can’t think why…) all those Palestinian children (oh, sorry, dangerous terrorists) blown to pieces by a US financed Israeli army using US supplied weaponry have been killed by America. Russian separatists have claimed that (though it seems nobody is listening or bothering to check the veracity of their statement) whilst they do have Buk missiles they have only the portable “man pad” variant which does not have sufficient range to strike a target flying at 30,000 feet.

*On the other hand, the Ukranian army DOES have full on, ground-launched, central radar controlled Buk missiles batteries, and here’s what the Russian Defense ministry has to say about that and yesterday’s tragic events: “Throughout the day on July 17, Russian means of radar surveillance intercepted the operation of the Buk-M1 battery’s Kupol radar station located in the region of the populated area of Styla [30 kilometers south of Donetsk]. The technical capabilities of the Buk-M1 allow the exchange of data on air targets between batteries of one battalion. Thus, the launch of rockets could have also occurred from any of the batteries deployed in the populated area of Avdeevka [8 kilometers north of Donetsk] or from Gruzsko-Zoryanskoe [25 kilometers east of Donetsk],”

*Why did Ukrainian air traffic control divert flight MH17 to a flight path well north of its intended route, a route already established as being unsafe for air traffic after the destruction of air traffic control facilities in the on-going Ukrainian army/Separatist violence?

*Why has the West been so quick to accept the Ukrainian government “intercepted” conversation between a “Russian Major” and a “Russian separatist” which purports to be a conversation about the shooting down of MH17…this from a government that already has a track record of releasing makey-uppy “intercepted conversations” and why does the version of this conversation uploaded to Youtube have a doctored and erroneous timeline, and why does the video show as having been created the DAY BEFORE flight MH17 was shot down?

*Is it not a rather convenient coincidence that the shooting down of MH17 coincided with Israel’s ground invasion of Gaza? The perfect incident to distract the World’s attention as Israel ups its kill rate of Palestinian children (oh, sorry, I forgot again, terrorists): the perfect gift to America’s favourite ally from its biggest supporter?

In short, the lack of journalistic investigation into this matter, the readiness of journalists to believe what they’re told, to tow the line is shocking and depressing. This is a day that the profession of journalism should hang its (empty) head in collective shame.

Pic: huffingtonpost.co.uk

WHAT’S THE SIMILARITY BETWEEN VODAFONE & POLITICIANS WHO ABUSE CHILDREN?

vodafoneWhat indeed? I hear you ask. Surely I’m stretching things to breaking point with this assertion?

Well, no, I’m not. Bear with me. First let me tell you a true story about the way Vodafone behave and the utter contempt they have for customers.

In 2009 and 2011 I visited Vodafone retail outlets to upgrade my phone. On both occasions I was given a “free” sim to use “if I wanted.” What I wasn’t told was that unless I wrote to Vodafone within 30 days to cancel, the so-called “free” sim would convert into an extra phone line (and line rental charge) on my Vodafone account.

So, without my knowledge or consent and without signing any agreement I ended up with two extra phone lines. Unfortunately, I’m not one of these people that check bills, I just pay them automatically by direct debit, and this matter did not come to my attention until a couple of weeks back when I rang Vodafone to ask why my bill was so high.

All in all, I paid Vodafone an extra 8 years of line rentals, that’s £1026 in total.

As the extra lines I had been paying for were clearly a result of Vodafone’s own misselling and fraud I asked for a full refund of the £1026. Ten days later they offered me a £160 “goodwill payment” as the whole issue was, apparently, my fault for not noticing the extra charges. I should have (as per my contract, I was told) bought the matter to their attention within two weeks, and beyond that two week period they weren’t liable. I explained that you can’t, by the law of the land, add to contracts clauses that limit your liability for your own criminal actions and that, anyway, I had never signed or even seen contracts for the additional lines. To no avail. £160, that’s it, like or lump, now bugger off, lowly serf.

Okay, fair enough, but what’s the link between Vodafone blatantly robbing me and then telling me, “tough luck, sod off” got to do with politicians who sexually abuse children? A corrosive little concept called “that arrogance of power,” that’s what.

Vodafone can treat me like dirt and take my money because they now they’ll get away with it. Simple. After all, this is a business that has UK sales of £5bn and then has discussions with HMRC as to how much corporation tax it might or might not pay, so ripping off one ordinary punter is a very small issue indeed.

I mean, what are my options? I can talk to the “Citizens Advice Bureau” (phone calls charged at up to 40 pence per minute), who’ll then refer me to OFCOM who are supposed to “regulate” companies like Vodafone. What a laugh. Google consumer’s experiences of OFCOM if you like. You’ll rapidly come to the conclusion that OFCOM is about as much use as a chocolate teapot. Could this be that, like all our supposed “regulatory authorities” it’s alleged impartiality has fallen victim to the revolving door between themselves, politicians and the businesses they’re supposed to be overseeing? (A big shout out here to all you ex-politicians and bankers working at the Prudential Regulation Authority, great to know that our financial system is safe in your hands!). To cut a long story short, Vodafone can rest assured that, should my complaint ever actually make it through OFCOM’s Brobdingnagian bureaucracy, it’ll most likely be investigated by one of their mates who used to work for them and be quietly filed under “b” for “bin.”

This is the “arrogance of power,” doing things that you know are wrong because you know you’ll get away with them because you have money, position and influence behind you.

In effect, Vodafone are behaving just like those MPS, celebrities, and other wealthy and powerful individuals who had sex with children in the ‘70’s and ‘80’s (and continuing?). They knew that they could do what they wanted. Children, particularly if poor or mentally vulnerable, are powerless. They knew victim’s complaints would be ignored, they knew investigations (should they occur) would be shelved and files “lost.” They did it because they could. Because they could indulge their sociopathic desire to humiliate and abuse the defenceless and get away with it, and then do it again. And again.

Obviously, me being robbed by Vodafone pales into absolute insignificance when compared to the terrible crimes inflicted upon children by monsters. But the basic principle, the arrogance of power, is the same. And in a world where the wealthy One Percent control the worlds of finance and business and have corrupted/co-opted the political system to serve them and only them, this kind of arrogance (from sexual abuse to systematic bank fraud for which no individuals are ever held responsible, to monopolistic utilities suppliers bleeding consumers dry and on and on…), and its corollaries, corruption, theft and worse, are all too prevalent. Maybe it’s time we told these people where to get off. Or maybe it’d be easier just to watch X-Factor…

For more about The One Percent and the fate that may await them, read my little “parable,” THE GREEDY ONE PERCENT WHO WANTED IT ALL & DESTROYED EVERYTHING.

P.S. DO YOU HAVE AN ACCOUNT WITH VODAFONE? HAVE YOU EVER BEEN OFFERED A “FREE” VODAFONE SIM? IF SO, PLEASE CHECK YOUR ACCOUNT AND ENSURE VODAFONE HAVE NOT ADDED EXTRA LINES TO IT WITHOUT YOUR KNOWLEDGE. #VODAFONEMISSELLING

Exclusively Revealed: Prince Charles’ remarkable “Black Spider” Letter.

lettercharles

Prince Charles’ remarkable letter on immigration, with his characteristic “airplane” folding pattern. (Click to Enlarge).

For many years our esteemed and beloved Prince Charles has been writing to politicians to impart his wisdom with respect to this or that aspect of life in our great country. Because of the style of the Prince’s handwriting, these have become known as his “Black Spider” letters and foolish politicians, jealous of their own role as servants of the public and operating under the entirely foolish belief that a man as obviously wise and as intelligent as Prince Charles should not comment upon the affairs of the state, have refused to release these letters to the press.

I can now lay bare the politicians arrogance and foolishness for, as you can see from the picture accompanying this article, one of the Prince’s letter has been “leaked” to me by a Patriotic and Brave Civil Servant. As one would have expected, it shows His Majesty to be a man with his finger on the pulse of contemporary society, in touch with the everyday issues affecting you ordinary folk and reveals him to be a man who is a master of the English language (to say his abilities in this sphere rival those of Shakespeare is no overstatement) and a man of quite incredible intellect, compassion and understanding. A man who will be a worthy King, a man of such strengths and force of personality that it begs the question “where now for democracy?”

Let me take you step by step through the Prince’s amazing letter for, as befits his high-order intellectual and linguistic abilities, it is written in language so rich in metaphor, allegory and parable that you, as one of the ordinary folk, will find it difficult to understand. However, do not worry, I am a journalist and as such I have the formidable investigative and critical faculties of my ilk. Furthermore I went to Public School and I have a BA (Hons) Eng Lit from Oxford. You can, then, rest assured that I amply qualified tell you what to believe.

First, I will identify the main theme of Charles’s letter. It is quite clearly the controversial subject of immigration. How do I know this? To someone with my skills and training it is perfectly obvious that the “mat” in the letter represents our green and pleasant Homeland. The “cat” is the immigrant, the physical act of the cat “sitting” on the mat is an incredibly clever metaphor for the actual action of people immigrating into our country. But now, in a twist that makes Shakespeare look like a first-time novelist, the Prince uses more complex metaphor and allegory, rolled out in rich linguistic layer upon layer of meaning, to illustrate another point. Remember, immigrants are represented by cats. And what are cats? Cats are cute and fluffy animals that everybody loves. Thus in one stunning, dialectic triumph of the English language the Prince reveals his intention: ordinary folk should not fear the immigrant, should not be distrustful of “the other”. Indeed, in his amazingly moving (yes, at this point your correspondent did indeed shed a tear) admonition to “Janet” to love “John” he reminds us that we (except for his Majesty, obviously) are all the same and that we should in fact embrace “the other” with open arms, that we should all love each other.

And, in one final and stunning literary flourish, Charles, in a nod to T.H White and Arthurian legend, signs off as the “future King,” reminding us in one haiku like soundbite, of the indispensability and continuity of the blessed institution of Monarchy.

Now that I have exclusively revealed the first of Prince Charles’ “Black Spider” letters and shown him to be not so much a man as a demi-God, I appeal to you, the ordinary folk, to rise up and demand of your politicians that they release ALL the Prince’s letters, for in these troubled times we need the wisdom of our Royal friend, protector and undoubted genius more than ever.

 

Things The Devil Invented, No.4. Two Minutes Past Four in The Morning.

horrorpicAnd so we come to another instalment in my occasional series “Things the Devil Invented.”

To recap briefly, this series consists of a retelling of arcane knowledge regarding the Devil’s interventions in this world as he seeks to fulfil his role in the Universe of always promoting the greater sum of unhappiness. The knowledge was handed down to me in a London pub by an alcoholic and broken man. The guy had been a black cab driver, but had been pushed to the brink of insanity after having a conversation with a fare of his: a smart, suave looking commodities trader he’d picked up in the City who’d turned out to be The Devil in a chatty mood. In the course of a trip from the City to Heathrow the Devil revealed to the cabby how the world really works, and the knowledge would destroy the poor man’s life. For a full background read “Things The Devil Invented No.1: The Internet.”

So, our fourth Devil’s Invention is…Two Minutes Past Four In the Morning.

Let me explain. It’s a scientific and medical fact that more people die at 4.02am than at any other time. Scientists and doctors explain this away by saying that this is the exact time when our bio-rhythms are at their lowest. But that’s a three dimensional explanation given by three dimensional people. Truth is the world and life are multi-dimensional and the answer to the 4.02am question is somewhat more complicated.

You see, as the cabby explained (via The Devil) to me, there is not just one world (this one that we inhabit), there are three. The three worlds are intimately and invisibly connected and what happens in one can affect what happens in another. Firstly, there is our world, then there is the World Beyond, where most of us will eventually travel, and finally there is the World In-between. This is the world where the Devil keeps his Special Children. This is the world inhabited by those Souls who are too greedy for the pleasures of the dark side of life in this world to cross over to the World Beyond. Bankers, financiers, corrupt businessmen, politicians, Oligarchs, wife beaters, religious fanatics, bigots, abusers, rapists, murderers:  evil, sociopathic people, monsters who have profited or pleasured from the misery and pain of others.

But they hanker so for the pleasure of causing pain that they have left behind! Like The Devil, they are attracted to misery as a bee to honey. And where there is grief, pain, death, destruction they gather in great numbers and eventually the sheer weight of their wanting tears a whole in the fabric of the universe between our world and the one they inhabit and their malignant spirits burst through that tear, at once feeding and growing strong off the misery that they find and making it infinitely worse by virtue of the pervasive miasma of corruption and evil that they leak like poison in their wake.

Now the Devil knew that his Special Children would miss the pleasure of causing pain. But he never expected that the strength of their need would tear the universal fabric and allow them to temporarily enter this world. He was surprised. And delighted. Being a Master of Misery he immediately saw the potential in this strange occurrence. What if he could make this happen not just when there was a “hot spot” of pain, but every day?

And The Devil set his mind to things and came up with a plan. He created a hole in the fabric between our world and the World In-between. A hole that would open up at 4.02am every day, granting access to humanity for his Special Children. A perfect way to spread a little despair! He deliberately chose 4.02am as, like scientists and doctors (whom he respects greatly), he knew that at this time the human body is at its lowest: at this specific point on the clock, The Devil knew that an injection of despair into the human psyche would have its greatest effect and if his Special Children targeted their efforts on the sick, the vulnerable, the troubled, the down on their luck and those filled with self-doubt then at worst they could give a person some days of depressive introspection, at best they could carry away with them a life.

So the next time things aren’t going as well for you as they could be and you awake at 4.02am, feeling worthless and panicked, as though life is against you, that all your dreams and ambitions will come to nought and you sink into a black depression, then remember this little tale. And if you should feel, in the depths of your misery, that some dark and brooding figure is there in the room with you, radiating malice and oozing psychic poison, then it’s not your imagination. You’re right. It is there. Watching you. And it’s come to take you away.

Image: http://beardmonkey.files.wordpress.com

What Happens when a Celeb calls the Queen a “c*nt” on Live TV?

Excerpt from my forthcoming book “I Really, Really Want It,” a story of Murder, Suicide and Celebrity.

JOEY

queen2

“Okay, you might think she’s a bit of a c*nt but you don’t say that on tele, ever…”

That night he called the Queen a rancid cunt, well that was it. Joey Camps went from being adored celeb to serial fuck up and scumbag. It was all the fault of that twat Paul Hunter. Joey’s there on Hunter’s chat show, he’s already seen the questions Hunter’s going to throw at him in the interview, all easy soft-ball stuff and he’s already learned his answers. So even though he’s flying on half a bottle of vody and some seriously fat lines of coke, Joey is confident that this will be a nice, easy interview. All he needs to do is parrot his rehearsed responses and look pretty.

And then, suddenly, Hunter goes right off the fucking script, just starts asking Joey questions out of the blue. Joey is thrown, he knows Hunter is needling him. Hunter is a fat public school educated prick. At least Joey’s worked to get where he is, not been employed by some other smug upper middle class cunt because they both went to the same school where they used to bum each other in the fucking dorms. It’s very obvious to Joey that Hunter is getting off on patronising and belittling somebody he sees as a working class tosser, and he really doesn’t know how to deal with the situation.

Then Hunter starts going on about the fucking Queen. For chrissake, exactly how is the fucking Queen relevant to my life? thinks Joey. He’s always thought of the royals as a bunch of pointless posh people with a rather doddery, sour-faced old dear as head of the family who all live a life of privileged luxury for fuck knows what fucking reason, and so when Hunter asks him “republic or monarchy” Joey has had enough and before he knows it his brain is switched off but his mouth is motoring and forming the words “the Queen’s a rancid old cunt.”

Bang. Smash. Wallop That’s it. Game fucking over. Signing off. The end.

Hunter is looking at Joey, his mouth is hanging open, he can’t believe what Joey has just said.

Joey can’t believe what Joey just said.

For a few seconds you can, literally, hear a pin drop in that studio. Audience, crew, host, other interviewees all shocked into silence.

Then all chaos breaks loose. A member of the audience boos, then another and another, the producer yells to the camera crew to stop filming. Hunter looks at Joey with a smug smile on his face and says “you just finished yourself, you idiot boy.”

Joey wants to say something back to Hunter, to apologise to everybody for the words that just spilled from his lips, but the boos from the audience are now so loud that he’s not sure he could make himself heard and he’s in a state of shock anyway. Fuck, what has he done?

Joey jumps from his seat, with the audience’s disapproval ringing in his ears, he runs from the studio, out into a long anonymous corridor, down the corridor to a fire exit, setting of an alarm as he barges a fire door open. He flees down a flight of stairs, out of the studio building and into the street where he is lucky enough to be able to hail a black cab almost immediately.

Once in the cab he asks the driver to take him to Belsize Park. After a few minutes Joey notices the cab driver looking surreptitiously at him in the cab’s mirror, “’ere,” says the cab driver “sorry to bug you, feller, but are you that Joey Camps bloke?”

Joey captures the driver’s glance in the mirror and replies “me mate, no mate, me, I’m nobody.”

And that, Joey realizes, that is what he now really is, nobody. What a fuck up, him and his big fucking mouth, him and his fucking love of booze and coke, what a fool, what a total prize fucking prick. Joey can’t see a way back from this. Just saying the word cunt on live television would be bad for his career, but using that word in conjunction with the words “rancid,” “old” and “Queen,” well, that’s it, boyo, career fucking over. No more photo shoots, no more spreads in “Hiya” magazine, no more interviews, no more television appearances, opening ceremonies or lucrative sponsorship and advertising work and he guesses his own exclusive line of fragrances will end up in the remainder bin at ninety nine pence a bottle. It’s back to obscurity for Joey Camps, back to Doncaster, back to flipping burgers, and the house will have to go, and the cars, and the expensive watches, the beautiful clothes, the exotic holidays and the nanny for the twins…everything gone, three fucking words and one moment of stupidity and he’s over.

There’s only one hope, he has to get back home and call Andrew, if anybody can salvage anything from this nightmare, it’ll be Andrew.