How appropriate that at the tackiest royal wedding of the 20th/21st century this heaving oleaginous, coarse, dime store Oscar Wilde bugger should turn up with his *husband* thirty years his junior to prove that the Queen Mother is still with us.
He is surely the Hyacinth Bucket of modern times, the keeping up with the Joneses , slimy social climbing wankstain who thinks that no *important* event can occur without his obese presence, and is given a certificate of gravitas by it. He is the David Frost of his day, another up his own arse *entertainer* who thought he was better than he was – a minimally talented turd with the gift of the gab and a PHd in arse-licking
In a way I feel sorry for the *husband* half his age, half his weight, probably overwhelmed by Daddy Steve’s great sense of self importance. The poor little fucker will probably be squashed to death in an unfortunate face-sitting accident, when the elderly lavatory blocker takes his next Viagra (or whatever other pharmaceutical product he inbibes). Then again marrying a 19th century funster, a Poundland Wildeian in gaudy plastic, was probably only done for financial security. Even so, the poor little cunt has earned it, waking up next to that sweating festering rancid bucket of lard every morning. Looking at old slubberguts wobbling in his fancy waistcoat, let’s spare a thought for the poor Eastern European minimum wage bleeder that has to clean the lavatory after Fry has pebble-dashed it today following his over-indulgence in oily exotic food yesterday as he stuffed his cakehole at the tax payers expense. If he had farted yesterday the whole bunch of cunts would probably have been in danger. I would just like to feel assured that the bog attendant is offered breathing apparatus as well as counselling for PTSD.
Why can’t comedians (if that what Fry actually is?) be more down to earth like Sid James or Ken Dodd?. Fuck this posturing old pansy. The only funny thing he ever did was run away from a West End play after the first night because of *mental health problems*, the truth is the pompous old cunt had one moment of self awareness and actually realised what an untalented oily heap of shit he actually is. It must have been a fright for him to realise that a paying audience don’t clap when they are told to,
after one of his *hilarious* bon mots as he was used to with his TV shows. A pity his meltdown didn’t happen at the Glasgow Empire in it’s heyday. Many “fuck off’s” accompanied by hurling cans and other debris onto the stage might have made the motherfucker leave the stage for ever.
Nominated by W.C.Boggs