Monday, 23 January 2006
An open letter to Liza Tarbuck
Oi Tarbuck - learn to eat propers!
You'll excuse my terseness this morning, I trust, but I am - to put it mildly - a little fucked off with a certain actress/TV presenter/daughter of Jimmy Tarbuck stood not a million miles away. She's got me all mithered up and I don't mind admitting that, just like that fella in the Kate Bush song with the 'my silver Buddha and my silver bullet', she's "stirring violence up in me". Let me explain....
I'd just popped down to the Cow and Snuffers to catch last orders and return a cagoul I'd borrowed from Jarvis Cocker - well, I figured there was no way he was ever going to lend me his 5 CD Scott Walker boxed set while I still hadn't returned the waterproof he'd lent me to go three-legged fellwalking with Denise Lewis three years ago - kill two birds sort of thing. Anyway, I'm stood at the bar watching Jarv. take a right tonking off Lester Piggott on the shove ha'penny board, when I feel something rustling beside me and who should I turn to confront but Liza Tarbuck wearing a bin liner dress two sizes too small for her with a foot-long stain of dribble and half-masticated twiglets down the front. "Coming outside yer horny shite", she asks me, all coy like. "Pillocks to that, L.", I said - trying to keep a lid on it but feeling it wouldn't take much more of this to land one right on her. "Piggott's on a whitewash here and I'm not missing him taunting old Cocker with a celebratory display of faux-fart-wafting and John McCririck-style Turf Accountant hand signals."
Oi, Cocker! Here's your flamin' cagoul back, you tight wad!
Undetered, she splutters "..go on, I've just had it widened.." and I feel something cold and velvet glove-clad poking around beneath my waistband, trying to find the gap in my y-front and before I can help myself, I've blurted out "..oh, go on then - but mind me stubble or you'll have a thigh slit in your makeshift punk-rock outfit the length of the Yorkshire Dales..."
Oi Britton! Lay off the sherry!
Cut a long story short, she's obviously gone on the old bush telegraph straight after 'cause as I'm putting me coat back on, Jarvis looks over from the Mastermind quiz machine that's just got stuck on its "I've started so I'll finish" loop, and says, "I think the fan club's arrived". I'm not sure what he's on about until I'm halfway out the door only to find my way blocked by Denise van Outen, Lisa Rogers and Fern Britton - arms folded, all done up in see-through macs and looking like a tart's convention on a girl's night out with a bottle of Emva Cream and 40 Capstons.
Oi Rogers! Can I get you anything at the bar dearest darling?
So, without going into all the gory details, suffice to say that I'm fair bloody knackered and I haven't seen chapping like this since I fell asleep at the wheel on my rotaey powered exercise bike wearing a PVC "Vive le Plastic Bertrand!" t-shirt and matching cycle shorts. So, Ms. Tarbuck, the next time you want someone to put some wind in your sails, do me a favour willya? Pick on someone your own size!
Love on y'all,
© 2006 Swipe Enterprises