Neo-conservatives, paedophiles, estate agents and the Welsh: there are so many abhorrent categories humans place themselves within it’s hard to know who you’re supposed to be hating most when you lever open your eyes in the morning for another purposeless few hours of life on Earth. What’s most confusing is that you’ll occasionally meet a Welshman who doesn’t bang on about fucking rugby to anyone within earshot, so he might actually be all right; you just can’t tell without asking him about rugby, which is like pissing on an electric fence to find out if it’s on.
Perhaps we should have one despicable basket to put all our cunts in; one name for the lot. I suggest ‘impressionists’.
This weekend I was subjected to the celebrity edition of a popular television quiz show, and one of the contestants was Alistair McGowan. Since Rory Bremner’s abdication McGowan has been the undisputed and fucking obviously unelected leader of the army of impressionists who pant and gurn their way through a succession of tired, pointless mimicries. Like we’ve not had enough of Alan fucking Hansen without someone else pretending to be him, or rather him during some kind of fit.
You could see the fatigue and desperation in McGowan’s eyes as he pitched and yawed his way through Andy Murray and Gary Lineker, all “Oh fuck fuck fuck who shall I do now? Yes! Des Lynam!” McGowan was the only one of the quiz show no-marks treating it as some type of audition. I didn’t see Joe Mangel banging on about shrimps and barbies and fucking Bouncer the dog in a pathetic attempt to get back into the good books of the Neighbours script writers. I didn’t know who any of the other six contestants were.
As McGowan, or that reedy voiced sub-McGowan twat Jon Culshaw, continue to roll through their fiendish repertoire on the way to the tragically inevitable Michael Caine climax, they should know that we will hold them responsible for the end of comedy. Its demise is epitomised by impressionism’s supreme being: the ultimate light-entertainment Satan, Rob fucking Brydon.
By paving the way for Brydon’s smug, lifeless, ‘likeable’ humour, impressionists have unwittingly created the black hole of broadcasting, otherwise known as ‘The Guess List’. This is a show in which Brydon asks a panel of six people you’ve a one in five chance of having heard of one question each in about an hour. In the many intervening minutes he does Rob Brydon, winking at cameras like a cheeky sex pest and making audiences laugh nervously with the bedroom noises of Ronnie Corbett.
The Guess List is utterly hateful and I want everyone involved with it summoned to the palace to be slowly disemboweled in front of cheering crowds. McGowan himself will be wielding the knife, before he’s taken to the river and dunked to within a single breath of death over and over again in one of those medieval witch’s chairs, simulating what listening to his fucking impressions does to the rest of us.
And when Steve Coogan finally snaps and pushes Brydon off an Italian Alp I will be there to clear the latter’s path all the way down to ensure he makes the loudest possible squelching noise, and so I get to make certain the massive-faced cunt is finally at an end.
He’s Welsh too. Well I never.