Right, after that rather bizarre tirade. I have something else to say. Suprisingly. The Picture of Dorian Gray. Read it. Immediately. That’s it actually, just read it and then we can do business. Yes, go!
In Absentia
It appears I have been Missing in Action, Absent WithOut Leave and various other TLA’s for not being around much. It appears I had better things to do with my life. But upon not having anything to do, this rare and financially void evening I am making good use of it, to purge forth all manner of inconsequential opinions that are only marginally less inane than Jordan’s illclaimed ‘The Next Chapter’. So firstly, and please bear with me, I know I am above this and I should be discussing more erudite fodder for the brain atoms but I can’t and shan’t. So. Nick Ferrari. Yes this is where I wish to begin after months of not hearing a ferret’s peep, a mouse’s squeak from me. I often, while on an underground rat carrier, when bereft of my battered and scruffy copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray, think about what I would say if I were to meet the fat fascist fuckwit. Hang on, that has quite a ring to it, I feel slightly delighted about this rather infantile slur that just this minute came to me. He shall henceforth, furthermore be know as the FFF, the Fat Fascist Fuckwit. Despite these assiduous hours spent musing over this, to my complete chagrin I have come up with nothing that satiates my desire for him to cease to exist on my fucking airwaves. I like the radio. I love Radio 4. I know I am slightly too young and more ‘mainstream’ for this to be cool, (yes I am going to buy the Hello magazine with Colleen Rooney’s access all areas and sell your soul down the river splash of her five million quid wedding), but Nick Ferrari, just him alone, one meagre inconsequential man actually ruins my day. Every morning. “Well, don’t listen then”, I hear you cry. If only it were that simple. It is like the very thing that makes me want to take on Lilleth herself as being hellbent on receiving the crown of Furydom, is the very same thing that draws me like a hypnotised Icarus flying towards a swirly acid induced sunshine. I have to share the car in the morning with a woman, who is also known as my life force, or something, my mother. She listens to it, and I have no idea why, as she is a relatively clever women with the constitution of a thousand nuns and yet she chooses to listen to the FFF. Countless and painfully resurfaced debates have ensued regarding the FFF and the pros and cons of a) killing him, b) hurting him c) remain listening to him d) pulling off my own fingernails with a monkeywrench (which by the way was preferable to listening to him I concluded.) and e) me being quiet so we can hear him make over one ‘bullion’ slurs on the entire Muslim sect, his piece de resistance, his fail safe when all seems to be going to pot. ‘quick quick, someone has rang in and made a relatively comprehensible point, talk about the muslims’ thinks he quietly and smugly to himself. He should probably cut out the middle man and tell them to go back to where they came from. I have actually forgotten why I started this. To conclude and move swiftly on, as there is nothing more abhorant, than a paroxysm of emotion, I kind of, don’t really like him, much.
