Every week it’s the same, nothing ever really changes. We come into the hecklerspray bedsit on a Monday morning, having been released to poison the outside world over the weekend, and find the same stinking pizza boxes, the same drained bottles of methylated spirits and the same greasy, ignominious faces staring at us across the room.
Our ‘colleagues’ as we laughingly refer to them are actually lawyers who, down on their luck after losing a Tax Evasion case, have rented out the far corner of the bedsit which is sometimes known as “The Fred West Wing”. They look ill. Lawyers always look ill.
Perhaps it’s the smell which is putting them off their writs. The festering stench of the opposite corner, marked out by a laminated card which- in odious Comic Sans- reads “POST”. It’s enough to make anyone sick to their stomach.
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It’s Friday and the hecklerspray bedsit has breathed a collective sigh of relief as they’re allowed out into the world to live among functioning humans for a couple of days. Unfortunately, I’m still here as there are Readers’ Letters to be analysed. Still, it’s nice to have a bit of peace and quiet to work. No Mof Gimmers shouting about codpieces, no Sophie Hall shouting at Kris Wood for making a reclining chair out of sausage and no Euan L Davidson, breathing heavily in my ear.
Yes folks, Fridays are the nicest time to be in the bedsit. It’s easier to sit in “the clean chair” and the stale stench of discarded cigarettes and methylated spirits is beginning to lift. Unfortunately, that means that the foetid stench of the hecklerspray post bag is coming through loud and clear.
It stings the nostrils.
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When Michael Jackson was alive (he’s very much dead these days), he ended up getting married to Lisa Marie Presley. It was weird. The King Of Pop shacking up with The King Of Rock ‘n’ Roll’s daughter. Mixing pop royalty like that… it’s incestuous and odd.
And guess what is going to happen?
That’s right, with a little bit of history repeating itself, Michael’s daughter – Paris Jackson – is giving the sex-eye to pop midget, Justin Bieber. You can just imagine the people behind both of these veritable toddlers advising them about how good a relationship with each other would be for their careers. Blecch!
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The day after Michael Jackson died, one face was everywhere – one harrowing, barely-human, oddly-coloured face.
But enough about Uri Geller. Mark Lester was everywhere too. Oh come on, you know Mark Lester. He played Oliver Twist in the 1968 movie Oliver! He’s the man who a) played a fictional lonely boy looking for acceptance in a cruel world, b) is a real-life child-star who looks like he struggled with the transition to adulthood and c) was befriended by Michael Jackson for some reason.
Oh, and d) Mark Lester says he’s the biological father of Michael Jackson’s daughter. Which didn’t take long.
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In life, Michael Jackson always had a touch of the Willy Wonkas about him – reclusive, eccentric, fond of kids.
But in death? Well, in death the comparison’s gone berserk. Not only was the audience for yesterday’s Michael Jackson memorial service doled out via a lucky ticket-style lottery system, but Michael Jackson himself made sure he was front and centre throughout the show in his great big shiny coffin. How nobody started a mass singalong of I’ve Got A Golden Casket is beyond us.
But what a show the Michael Jackson memorial service was. Try and top that, Gary Glitter.
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Readers’ Letters: “This Ignorant Little Twit’s Opinion Doesn’t Matter” Or “A Cacophony Of Verbose Morons”
by Michael Park on February 10, 2012 1 Comment
Our ‘colleagues’ as we laughingly refer to them are actually lawyers who, down on their luck after losing a Tax Evasion case, have rented out the far corner of the bedsit which is sometimes known as “The Fred West Wing”. They look ill. Lawyers always look ill.
Perhaps it’s the smell which is putting them off their writs. The festering stench of the opposite corner, marked out by a laminated card which- in odious Comic Sans- reads “POST”. It’s enough to make anyone sick to their stomach.
Read More >>>