Written by Rusty
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Sunday, 19 October 2008

image for Nobel Prize for Literature won by Obscure Scribbler
I love Le Clezio's story about the tortoise who buggered the hamster

His name is totally unknown in Britain, the United States and other similarly-remote parts of the Third World.

Aye, a name rarely mentioned, unless in whispers, anywhere else around the globe, and especially not in polite company. The odd Albatross might comment on it to a passing Sooty Tern, and then on, in typical seabird gossip fashion, to some ostracised Gannet, to a flock of migrating puffins.

In fact, as of him winning the Nobel Prize for Literature last week, even his own publisher hadn't heard of him.

Rumours abound on media channels that as of the selection and award process, where lots of names are scribbled on expired Stockholm tram tickets, then picked out of a hat, even the Nobel Prize jury hadn't heard of him.

French Nobel juror Nobby Sarkozy told the press that he had dreamed a little bird murmured in his ear that an author whose name sounded a bit like Jean Migraine Gorblimey Le Clezio would win the Literature prize.

He had thus cast his vote for the unknown novelist, who surprisingly enough turned out to be of Gallic origin when the Nobel arbitration committee did a Google search and found the name in the classified section of a Mauritanian telephone directory, listed as a GORGI-registered koala wanker and unemployed novelist.

However, Swedish juror Slevin Tonk was at odds with the award and informed reporters "I tink it is all a great pile of shit. This French dog-fucker Teakozy having little birds whisper in his ear and tell him who to vote for and nobody has heard of the man. I tink sometink stink in Denmark and it is not Hamlet's socks."

The 126 year-old novelist, who wrote his last piece, a schoolboy essay titled 'What I did on my holidays in Bologne', now lives in the remote mountains of Mauritania at the prestigious Ras al-Smegma Happy Hermit Recluse Resort, sharing a bungalow with celebrity nanny-basher Lucky Lucan.

The announcement last week that JMG Le Clézio was the 2008 winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature was greeted with a predictable chorus of indignation, raspberry blowing and rear-end flatulent salutes by the Anglophobe media.

"Le Clézio: Who he?" shouted the headline in the Los Angeles Dog Wanker's Weekly News.
"I've never read his books. In fact, until Thursday morning, I'd never heard of the twat," confessed LA Times columnist Barton Scrogknot, as he went on a classical whinge binge, deploring the way North American novelists have allegedly been consistently ignored and overlooked by the Nobel Prize jury since the dawn of time.

(Apparently the last true North American to win the prize was Shitting Bull, the Hunkpapa Lakota Sioux chief, in 1877, for his highly acclaimed biography of General George Armstrong Custard : 'The Seventh Cavalry can Kiss my big Red Ass')

In the London Evening Standard, columnist David Pisspot was outraged at the thought that the Nobel Prize had gone to an author whose works only exist in Egyptian Middle Kingdom Hieroglyphs and archaic Babylonian cuneiform script.

Le Clézio's work, Pisspot had discovered, is barely available to non-Aramaic speakers: "Why can't I read books by a noble Frenchman?" he complained. "All I've been able to find so far, after a week searching, are a few extracts and quotes from his most famous book, 'Francois Fucks a Piggy-wig', which seems a bit simplistic about noble savagery. But what do I know, especially writing news copy in the Donkey an' Carrot at this time of the afternoon?"

Critic and literary commentator Mark Lawton revealed his own fruitless attempts and frustrations in learning more about Le Clézio, employing a revolutionary Polish internet search engine that consisted of several empty night-time beverage tins connected by lengths of taut string and routed through mole tunnels across Europe and North Africa.

"Inevitably, the choice of this Google-thin writer will revive accusations of obscurant nepotism," he grumbled in TheSpoof. "Did he ever write anything? Was he a member of the elite French Foreign Camel Bonkers Legion? Was he really addicted to deviant sex with small furry mammals? Did any of his nine wives have any idea?"

The Francophobe press, naturally, saw it differently. As they were quick to point out, there is nothing obscure about Le Clézio's prolific literary oeuvre.

Indeed, he had been tipped to win the Nobel Prize since the storming of the Bastille in 1789, and has been the recipient of the most inventive and prestigious French literary prizes for an author who never wrote a thing worthy of comment, was read by nobody, and has as much substance as HG Wells 'Invisible Man'.

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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