Earl Spencer has struck again – 23 years after his pulpit skewering of senior royals, he’s pulled the rug out from under serial toad Martin Bashir over some roguish manoeuvring to obtain a sit-and-chat with his sister, the inveterate jizz-whisperer, Princess Diana.
Why the jackoff Earl opted to bash Bashir now has not yet budged the needle on the give-a-shitometer, but the caper is certainly going to be a nasty jolt for the slippery wordsmith when he emerges from his COVID coma.
He might be tempted to celebrate his big wake-up with a nose-prodding speed-dial to whistle up the local Deliveroo suicide peloton. Before you can say, whatever Afghani is for ‘on your marks…’, they’ll be balls-deep into the UK’s red-light offence personal best and winging over some crispy fried Wuhan bat steaks to earn the wheezing shyster an extended stay in whatever Nightingale establishment will still be prepared to accommodate him without spritzing a cheeky ricin chaser into his drip.
If not, the only way out of the mire might be to suck on a Jimmy Savile-strength Montecristo to expedite a nifty spiritual hook-up for round two with either Dirty Di, or his other famous but long since carked interlocutory foil, Jacko.
What bamboozles me is why more of our high-profile, sleaze-addled, posturing hacks are not dangled over metaphorical balconies for their woefully shabby self-promoting shithousery that they breathlessly whinge down our throats.
That would be a Blanket solution we could all get behind if we no longer had to suck up the constant bleating of the entitled journos recounting their divine mission to hold the powers-that-be to account.
Well, that’s the bullshit narrative that they toss out to the masses.
Half of them have spent the COVID period grinding out books to sell off the back of the social media follower count that they will suck in with whatever click-baiting faux outrage they can squeeze through their distended creative recta.
But let’s not big this up into a spectacle. Flashy Bashy is just an old school player who pulled a few strokes to lure the biggest crowd-puller in town onto his show that in turn opened up a crafty slice of wedge.
It all adds up to the same common denominator of scumedia that continues to thrive via any established or emergent channel.
If our exalted journalistic royalty had ever aspired to the noble pursuit of truth to which they relentlessly lay claim, they would be forensically dissecting COVID, opening up UK Government procurement scamming, and not abandoning Grenfell – to name but a few shockers where every complicit dirtbag floats through life on a fartcloud of immunity.
But hey. There are audiences to grow and books to sell.
Read all about it.