Excuse me for taking up space on your letters page, but I feel the need to vent.
And, let's be honest. I've read some of these letters you get sent in. How can I put it delicately? They're not exactly the Collected Letters of Robert Southey are they? So it's not as if I am taking up valuable literary space, now, is it? And no, I don't know who the fuck Robert Southey is, I just googled 'collected letters' to look impressive, you thick cunt.
I'm one step ahead all the time. It's what I do for a living. Don't try to take this boy on. I'm a serious operator. Some have tried. Where's that fat pleb Keith Chegwin these days? And his butch mate Maggie Philbin? Yesterday's papers, eh? And here I am, worth a fucking billion. 'Nuff said.
But here's the rub, as Dale Winton said, handing the goosegrease to Gok Wan. Oh, fucking please your bastard selves. Ungrateful shite.
What have I done wrong? Really, I often wonder what I must have done, in order to justify the name-calling, abuse and general ridicule yours truly is subjected to, each day. I work hard, I try to bring happiness to people, I am called a little bearded bastard.
Why do they call me a creepy bearded twat when all I did was operate a successful children's series called, er. Hang on. Tiswas. Yes, I think it was Tiswas. What's her name was in it. Una Stubbs. And John Craven, or was it Michael Aspel?
No, that wasn't it. Hmmm. Bear with me. That inflatable pink geezer was in it. Big cunt. Crinkley Bottom? No, the ointment sorted that out. See, I do have a sense of humour, and still they shout out 'Fuck off you bearded charlatan!' as I walk the streets of Littlehampton in search of a newspaper and a bag of whelks.
Who was that big fat pink cunt? Cyril Smith, the famous fat Rochdale goalkeeper? See? See what it's done to my memory, all this abuse? It's hard enough managing my narcissism. I'm a martyr to that. Combine narcissism with abuse from all quarters and you've got a poorly boy with serious shirt issues and an unfeasibly neat beard. No doubt you're shocked by my fury, my ire, my incandescent rage, but what can a ludicrous rumpelstiltskin-a-like do?
Was it Blue Peter? Basil Brush perhaps? No, I never worked with Basil Brush, though someone compared me to Basil Brush the other day.
It was the elderly lady what does my cleaning. "You, you little fat bearded daft-shirted cuntin' con-merchant", she said, "I used to switch over to watch that fuckin' idiotic stuffed fuckin' fox with his twat of a straight man, that poofter who ended up in Heartbeat as the old copper with a face like a dried-up fuckin' reservoir, rather than watch your bastard twattin' show you short-arsed little ball of cuntin' grease."
That's the thanks you get for going round the workhouse of a Christmas distributing signed photos of yourself to the children of the sturdy beggars. I was never on at the same time as Basil bastard Brush anyway. Do you seriously think if I had been, that he'd still be working now? Like I say, I do this for a fucking living. I don't take fucking prisoners, me.
But who was that big pink cunt? Big fat fucker. Dicky bow tie. Goggly eyes. No, not Robin Day. Frank Muir? No, he was a skinny mincing twat. You fat pink fucker, who the fuck were you?
Zambia, was it? No. Bugger me, might it have been Zanzibar? That African country I was going to take over? I'm perfect for the role, that nice Mr Amin told me. "Come to me if ever you need reference, you not like other insignifferant white trash", he wrote. "You got evil dictator potential, you understand mentality of common herd." I sent him a signed photo, poor dumb cunt.
Fuck Morecambe. Fuck fucking Blobbyland. Whatever possessed me? What was I thinking of? But I'm well out of there. Leave the shithole to the coffin dodgers and the effing seagulls.
Well, this isn't so much a letter, more an extended exercise in splenetic narcissism. But that's me for you. You know where you are with me. So why do they all hate me, eh? Cunts.
Who was that big pink bastard?