*trigger warning: the following contains foul imaginings involving the sexual activities of a vile right-wing journalist. Fair warning*
So, if you watched Question Time last night, you no doubt saw the moment when that jowly fuck Littlejohn laid into some poor young fellow who had the temerity to come out with what he calls 'the lie' that he's 'the BNP's favourite columnist'.
I saw that moment after I'd had a long, relaxing bath with a Honey Bee bath bomb from Lush, then spent the better part of an hour rubbing Lemony Flutter into the rougher bits of my skin, attending to my regular facial skincare routine and doing my nails, and I'm glad I did, because this level of papmpering had fortunately left me relaxed enough that when I witnessed this outrage I merely went purple and spent the next ten minutes showering invective on Littlejohn, Dimbleby, the BBC, television in general and the astonishing number of foul racist pricks who apparently make up the politically-engaged population of Stevenage. If I was in a less relaxed state it's entirely possible that I would have exploded, and the morning's news reports would centre on how Washington had been destroyed by a teraton of thermonuclear rage.
Leaving aside the fact that it's a bit rich for Richard fucking Littlejohn to call other people liars, given that his entire ouevre consists of lie upon lie upon lie, what annoyed me was that I could predict, based on this little interaction, exactly what Littlejohn would do when he got back to his hotel room later. He would take off his ill-fitting suit and have a shower, then, without even properly towel-drying his lank, thinning hair, would throw himself down on his anonymous bed and set about wanking his tiny, shrivelling infra-cock into a froth of onanistic self-congratulation, endlessly frotting away at a mental image of himself as some kind of Chuck Norris-style hardman, a veritable rightwing cockney Terminator, all because he was rude to a callow youth. Big fucking man, Littlejohn. You're so fucking hard, you've got me quaking in my Airwalks. You're like Batman, baby.
Well, actually he's more like that scene in V for Vendetta where Roger Allam feels himself up in his wet room while looking at videos of his own Glenn Beck-style rants, except that Roger Allam has an odd sort of sexy old guy appeal while Littlejohn oozes all the raw sexuality of a festering dog turd. But, because I like playing Codename V to the Lewis Protheros of this world, and because I figure Littlejohn is such an egomaniac he probably spends hours sat in his Florida mansion googling his own name, so there's at least a chance he'll see this, I feel it's incumbent on me to sour Littlejohn's little victory-shuffle by reminding him of two people who threw him to the floor and made him their bitch.
First, Johann Hari: yes, he spends far too much of his time sticking up for his pal Julie Bindel out of a misplaced sense of loyalty, but you have to give him props for pwning Littletool all over the shop in the lions' den that is Sky News , to the extent, in fact, that Littleman felt the aerated husks of his testes withdrawing so far into his scrotal cavity he lost the ability to speak and had to cut to viewers' emails.
But the daddy of Littlejohn-pwnership is and always will be esteemed fabulist Mr William Self, who famously swashbuckled Littleprick into such a rhetorical corner he wound up declaring himself better than Tolstoy.
That sound you hear? That low, whipped-dog whimper you detect emanating from somewhere near the Florida Keys? That's Littlejohn, keening at the funeral of his hard-on. He could take to the streets of Miami and find a seventeen-year-old American boy to act the arse with, but, y'know, they carry guns and besides, he doesn't have an audience of idiots brainwashed by his right-wing bullshit who can back him up if things turn ugly. No, for Littlejohn it's another lonely night in his ex-pat mansion, blowing his nose into fistfuls of dishonestly-earned cash as he weeps for the fact that whenever he appears on TV and goes up against a grown-up, he ends up with his pants 'round his ankles and a bouquet of marigolds shoved up his arse.
Good night, Richard. Sleep well. Don't have nightmares.
*Edited: How could I forget Stewart Lee's awesome piss-take of Littlejohn and all the crap he stands for? Well, I did, but I've fixed it now. *
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