Good day Brethren,
Some of you may be wondering - if you have far too much time on your hands - how God directed me to the safe, and community charge-free cloisters of St Leonards.
Well, as I’d not been hitting my Basra timeshare sales targets for some time, I thought a career toe-dip into the lucrative waters of media-land might just be the ticket. Breakfast with Andrew Neil, lunch with Paxman, and late supper with Mariella Frostrup - very late.
However, as I was in dire need of the readies, I fully appreciated that the requirements of becoming an overnight celebrity these days might require some dubious shortcuts. It might for instance, necessitate deploying dangling rats from my nipples in the Aussie outback, or perhaps solemnly gift wrapping my bottom droppings for Dr Gillian Mckeith to drool over - so to speak. Still, I wasn’t proud.
Then, one Sunday, whilst scanning my 'News of the World' - vainly seeking evidence of the clue in the title - I hit upon the idea that it would be far less arduous - and possibly more profitable - to make my name as a kiss 'n' tell merchant. After all, I'd been a confidante with many an up and coming thespian, crooner and ward councillor over the years; Oh yes.
Unfortunately, upon further investigation, the celeb market appeared rather an oversubscribed arena. I mean, even now, any Wayne, Shane or Saffron seems happy to impart their precious memoirs for a Spritzer and the whiff of a junior reporter’s ‘Aldi’ brand body spray.
Right now, pound to a penny, there’ll be some wizened old boy cogitating to his Woodbine rolling contemporaries in - oh I don’t know - ‘The Murderer’s Arms’, ‘sarf’ of the river, that the Krays were salt of the earth, misunderstood boys.
‘He was a lovely lad, Ronnie’. Didn’t do no harm to no one that wasn’t asking for an eye gouging’. ‘I mean we’ve all got our limits, right lads?’.
Thing is, who’s to query these spurious claims. Any hippy whose now too old to catch the wind, knows Donovan’s solicitors won’t serve a writ because the ‘Croydon Crier’ publishes alleged shenanigans by the folkster down Carnaby Street in ’65. In fact, it’d all be good publicity for any upcoming ‘All Gold Retold’ tour.
I mean, where do we draw the line?
‘Jesus Christ? - yeah, he used to drink here mate’. ’Red wine was his tipple. Always had a glass of Beaujolais BC40 in his hand’. ‘An’ I tell you what pal, he didn’t half whiff. Beard down to ‘ere, you could smell him a mile off’. 'Dirty minger'.
No, I’m sorry, these tabloid tales should be accompanied by a provenance - like the antiques on ‘Lovejoy’.
So then I thought, why not upgrade to a career on the tellyfunkie. There must be a raft of freeview-box series where my talents could be deployed to their fullest.
‘Naked host for a jungle-in-the studio quiz?’ ‘I’m up for that Marcus’.
‘Gently act as third party agent relieving a pig of his life-giving fludis?’ ‘Of course, I grew up on a farm’. ‘Twas a regular occurrence’.
And there’s the ethnic channels of course. Although I have to say I find the programmes on ‘Shalom-Already TV’ on freeview 40,263 a little derivative of the mainstream;
‘Have I got Jews for you’, ‘Ready Steady Smuchk’ and ‘Jewsnight Review’.
Big mistake there I think having Martin Tyndall as guest host.
‘Tonight we’ll be reviewing my own book entitled: ‘The Holocaust ... and?’
Even the drama’s have dumbed down. Have you seen the remake of ‘The Sweeny’ staring David Suchet?
‘Mon ami, you are nicked you slag, and I have not even ‘ad my veal escalops with lemon sauce’.
No, having mused on a new life in the spotlight, I was convinced my career in property to be far more honourable.
However, following some miss-adventures selling farms down Zimbabwe way, I decided at long last to seek the contemplative life.
And here is where you find me today - contemplating.
Hello, there's the bell for Vesper - must dash.
Peace be upon you.
Brother Scaramouche
