I predict reports of an: “Out pouring of public grief”. No. There’ll be the usual suspect lovies wheeled out, sobbing into their monogrammed silk hankies spewing the usual platitudes: she was such a talent, gone too soon blah, blah. Cut to outside broadcast unit at the Cavern Club now with two sunglassed, dayglo vested securidrones holding back the masses all looking for their fifteen minutes of fame.
Reporter asks bearded, be-tattoed fat scoucer and her husband for their thoughts, lemme guess: She was our princess, Queen of Livapule, always true to her roots and can I just say hi to me mam……… And Liverpool Council (City of Culture, and to think they put a cunt in Scunthorpe, there’s injustice for you. Cunts) are straight on the bandwagon with a book of condolences; I bet that’s had ‘Red Rum’ scribbled out and Cilla inked in double quick; anyway it’ll have been nicked by now. Cunts.
No! No! And thrice No! Don’t presume to tell me when and for whom I shall pour out my grief you manipulating cunts. Don’t try to convince me with your crocodile tears and squeaky voice how good she was you pointless wanna-be cunts. She was a toothy, titless and talent lacking annoying cunt discovered in a dank, damp cellar in Scallyland true to her roots from Costa del whatthefuck, but, that’s not going to stop everybody and his dog with access to the media telling the world we’re all sheeple pouring out our grief. Cunts
Perhaps a site Book of Cuntdolences is in order, just to redress the balance.
Nominated by: King Cnut
