A very belated Merry Christmas to you.
The Bishop had a wonderful family Christmas - made all the more wonderful by the news about Harold Pinto. I celebrated with a special bottle of communion wine from my friends at Ridge Wines. [And, no, I don't get paid to endorse them - they're just the best wines in the world, in my humble opinion.]
However, the Christmas day festivities were interrupted by a 'special' edition of Top of the Pops, which featured Leona Lewis mauling (given her Aslan-like looks - and, no, that wasn't intended as a compliment - a good choice of word, methinks) the wonderful Snow Patrol song, Run.
Now, the Bishop isn't particularly wivvit, innit when it comes to the X-Factor and other shite beamed into the Sheeple's living rooms, 1984-style, by ITV and the BBC (yet another reason to rip up my TV licence and tell them to fuck off, as if I needed one...). But I have not only heard Run being farted out by Leona Fat-Arse as previously mentioned, but also Leonard Cohen's wonderful Halleluja being vomited out by some other piece of choir-fodder, who, I am told, rejoices in the name 'Burke'. How appropriate.
Well, I could make these two transexual wannabes my joint Wankers of the Week. And it's not that they don't merit it - fame-hungry, money-grubbing chav-fodder that they are. It's just that, well...
There is a cunt of the highest order that has for many years produced this kind of junk music, aimed at teenage girls and their mothers / grandmothers, all in the name of making money. Not that there's anything wrong with making money. But the Bishop wouldn't choose to do so by trafficking women from Eastern Europe to work as prostitutes, say, or by selling weapons to Hugo Chavez. And crimes against music are - to these ears, at least - pretty much on a par with such reprehensible activities...
And his name is Simon Cowell. The man who gave us Sinitta and Grease is the word (where is the puking smiley when you need it? Ah... here - ).
And. He's. A. Cunt. A Christmas Wanker if ever I saw one.
So, Simon, go fuck yourself right up the arse with the longest bargepole in history. And when you die, I hope your own personal Hell is to be forced to listen to Sinitta et al for eternity. And that might, just might make us even.
In the meantime, I will give you a tiny taste - although probably not nearly as minuscule as your cock must be, given how you obsessed you are with fame, money and all that they bring at the expense of taste, family and love (what else would explain his sense of inadequacy?) - of what I think about you by making you the first Christmas Wanker of the Week.