Hello ladies and Gentlemen, I hope life finds you well and in good working order what with this drab grey winter that refuses to end, however - if not – tough! For I have had to deal with hardships as well. So my sympathy tear ducts have run dry.

Not to worry people, for I am sure my joviality bone will balance out the constant despair I feel at being alive on a semi retarded planet where the moron runs amok and we consume it like it was going out of fashion - which it is and I suppose that is the point…

Bloody celeb culture is driving me to the point of wanting to burn down a newsagent. I know Mr Patel won’t be happy and will cry arson but I feel it will alleviate a certain tension that dwells within my psyche and to see numerous magazines destroyed like I was in the USA after John Lennon had said what he had said about Jesus being an arse or something like that. The red necks proceeded to burn his albums and that would make me smile . “Irrational” I hear you say and I retort - “Perhaps, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do”.

Now just for the record I feel it is an important point to reiterate because people seem to think that we are all swept away with the idiocy that prevails… I have no interest in Cheryl Cole, who she is sleeping with, who is cheating on her, whether or not she has talent, whether or not she finds a limp lifeless cock amusing, what shampoo she uses… She to me is no more than dog meat, pig swill, miming her way to the top.

Yes I for one have had enough seeing her on the front page of every retarded publication. I also had no interest in who John Terry was shagging behind whoevers back. Don’t care, couldn’t give a toss people. I don’t care who Englands captain is - they are all simpletons, halfwits and cranks… except of course the genius Frank Lampard, who does puzzles in his spare time.

You may think I mock him but he has a IQ of 150 whatever that means in reality? But I suppose if this is not poof positive of Lampard’s potential as a maverick thinker I don’t know what is - in his own words “Nobody expects a footballer to have any kind of IQ, It’s an unfair stereotype.” Well, Frank has certainly put me in my place there, what can I say?… the man is a genius. But nevertheless we will still flop in the World Cup in South Africa because simply we are not good enough and too much ego permeates the English team and dressing room and that is a fair and simple fact.

Also people, I don’t care about Tiger Woods, his so called fall from grace, I don’t care about him now, I didn’t when he was just a golfer or the Gillette man. He is a dullard, a non event, the most boring man alive and the fact that he may or may not like a bit of pussy on the side makes him no more exciting than David Mellor or my next door neighbor Howard Gotwood who is always on the search for a slice of snatch.

I also care not a pinhead with the Lords Prayer inscribed upon it for Alex Reid and his new orange wife Jordan couldn’t give two hoots about them, what happens to them and why they are. And to finish my point I have no interest in Tess Daily and her yogurt covered vagina. Nor do I care about retarded spouses such as Ashley Cole or Vernon Kaye. I find them to be less interesting than the inner workings of Faye Featherlites anus or the content of Alvin Lindwalls tool box and new bucket from the pound shop.

You might say that if you don’t care about them why write about them? And this is fair comment but the truth is I can’t avoid the Berkeley hunts…They are everywhere like a plague, or a swarm of locusts yes they are a sign of the Apocalypse. Like fire and brimstone on my face and they are given credence and respect for what?… I do not know… “Bollocks” I say to all of them.

I have to say that what has really got my goat over these last few months is Sage Macorkadale and his nut hugging of the Knob Brothers. He even allowed them free rein on his show and they showed themselves up no end…. However, what really sticks in my throat like a prawn shell is Sage when the Knobs were on air… Lets cut to the chase here - Sage lost control of the studio again. This is just another case of the countless examples of his lack of spunk and fortitude in a crisis…The point about all of this is Sage is a Bertie Smalls, a grass.

Sage is a company man my friends and will do anything to climb the corporate ladder even if that means stepping on people to get there. Point is - when The Knobs: Syd and Andy were live in the studio defiling the air waves with their gross utterances, Sage put on his hat, long coat and scarf. Bear in mind my good people that Sage did have his patented shorts on, so he looked ridiculous as his Tescos trench coat fell short at his pink and yellow silk socks. Truth is - Sage looked like a faggot on honeymoon taking part in a late night fire drill, quite rancid he is.

I can remember asking him where he was going, he said “not to worry - it will all work out” so suspicious as ever I gave him a sycophantic hug and attached an MI5 microphone spook style to his Boothby bow tie… Sage being the arse that he is was none the wiser, although I felt undoubtedly that he tried to cup my testicle when we got close. Like I say - Sage has no class. So now our hero made his way to the lift, the hall light creating shade across his face. On entering the lift he could be heard calling his driver Claude Wistful. Asking if Claude would pick him up as soon as possible out side the Chit A Chat studios. It was at that point I picked Sage up on the CCTV as he made his way out onto the wet and icy street. I watched him pull up his collar to keep the blistering cold from kissing his feline neckline. I saw him take out a packet of Players slip one in his mouth while returning the packet to his inside pocket. Leaning up against a new Victorian lamplight he then lit the cigarette with trembling hands and inhaled fully as he flicked the used match onto the pavement while slipping the match box into his pocket, he then exhaled beautifully. Whatever one says about Sage, no one can say he does not have a sense of drama.

It was a minute or so before the car arrived - a run down Bentley but British nevertheless. The camp Claude Wistful gracefully stepped out of the drivers side and opened the back door so Sage could enter the British classic. He did so with a sense of urgency and as Wistful climbed into the drivers side and shut the door I heard Sage - clear as Big Ben at midnight - say “Scotland Yard, I need to speak to PC Raper, I have information on Clarence Knob.” I could hear at that point Wistful say “Oooh this should be interesting Sage my dear” I then heard Sage reply … “Drive Claude and don’t stop at red lights, this is the sort of info that will get me taken seriously once and for all.”
“As you wish,” was the limp reply and the car kicked into gear and they were gone…
I am -as you know - not the sort to tell tales out of school but seeing Sage go into the lair of the notorious PC Raper was highly suspicious . I say this now with the full knowledge of Sage’s meeting with the bounder Raper who has a checkered history to say the least. I have found myself alone with the hardcore fiend that is and was PC Raper. Raper by name and rape by nature - and with the sounds that came through our little microphone when Sage was alone with the decadent fiend – well! All I can say is I’d rather it be you Sage than me. What I am trying to say is that Sage will not admit to the indecent assault by the wayward protagonist that is PC Raper. Anyhow the reason for Sage’s visit to the police station soon became apparent because after the unpleasant interlude that Sage had to endure - or enjoy. As I say - Sage is a conundrum of sorts and wether or not he enjoyed or disliked P.C. Raper’s violation is something I fear we shall never know for certain.

At this point I am sure you are wondering why Sage was at the Police station in the first place - well yes! It was all on tape recorded on the secreted microphone. Point is, Sage I feel that you have let the side down and have made a gigantic bloomer in the process. To try to get New Scotland Yard to reopen the case against Clarence Knob is a joke beyond even the prowess of Russ Abbot. I mean it’s a cold case and was as far as the hierarchy are concerned a suicide. Yes… Joe Meek killed his landlady and took his own life - let it lie Sage - to say that Clarence Knob confessed in your presence is stupid and even more idiotic is the premise that he lives with Lord Lucan in a council flat in Wandsworth.

Now let me say this it is probably not the last you will hear of this tawdry speculation, but I say - Sage give it up. You are not Sherlock Holmes or indeed gay Guy Ritchie who has the charm to dazzle. My point is this when all is said and done if the speculation were true about Clarence Knob and Lord Lucan and the two anti-heros were living together in their twilight years… well, all I can say is let the two enjoy their pensions in peace.

Finally, I just want to end by saying I think that The Knobs did themselves no favours on the show with their unsavory disclosures. The thing is - whether true or not - they would be well advised to remember that careless talk costs lives and walls have ears… have they not seen Alec Baldwin in Bridge over the River Kwai? Or was it Guinness? Oh well! You get the point…

P.S. I just would like to say that the La-la folk song was the worst fucking song I’ve heard in fifty years of pop music - they should have given it to the New Seekers or Charles Manson - that is of course if those people are still alive… Like I say - the Knobs did them selves no favours especially admitting to vile late night cemetery action live on air… misguided as always.