Now then, now then. Rolf Harris has shuffled off this mortal coil, and it is rumoured that the funeral is to be televised with the event being presented by Phillip Schofield in a new version of ‘This Mourning’.
It turns out that he actually Jake the Pegged it nearly two weeks ago, and the funeral has been pencilled in for next week.
His last words to the doctor were, ‘can you guess what it is yet?’
‘Yeah, cancer, you cunt’.
We ought not forget that Rolf’s crimes were largely from an era when UK societal norms were very different. After all, back in the 1970s the police wouldn’t have kicked down your front door for stating that only men had penises.
The young men of that era certainly did have penises when Rolf, Jimmy, and the Glitter gang were on the razz.
Big phat bulbous ones, marinaded in vaseline, and seeping syph.
Unfortunately for Rolf, he suffered from ‘Hitler Syndrome’ – when artists make one tiny mistake and people forget about all the nice paintings they had done.
It all brought back memories of one of the better jokes about the 1970s elite stinkfinger technicians:
‘Rolf Harris, Jimmy Savile, and Gary Glitter walk into a Dublin bar.
The barman looks up and says, ‘Oh no, not Yewtree again’.
Back to the funeral, and that the dear old boy has didgeri-died and presumably gone to Hell – or back down under, as they say – and we can take comfort from the fact that some street urchin with a dirtpiece like a wizard’s sleeve and underpants that snap like hardboard will have to limp to the pulpit and bumble through ‘Morning Has Broken’ on a Stylophone.
It’s what he would have wanted.