Littlejohn TV

Inspired by possibly the worst column in a series of columns by Richard Littlejohn that are a crime against the written word.

BBC1

6.00am. Breakfast With Littlejohn. Join Richard on the sofa as he interviews his celebrity friends – Nick Griffin – and discusses talking points such as why climate change is a terrible myth created to tax us more. Weatherman: Richard Littlejohn.

9.00am. Homos Under The Hammer. Richard Littlejohn sells rent boys as part of the illegal sex trade. Any unsold ‘homos’ are hilariously beaten to death with a hammer.

11.00am. Cash In The Attic. Richard Littlejohn opens his Florida safe and shows us all the money he has been paid over the years by shitty right-wing tabloids.

12.00pm. Working Lunch. Richard Littlejohn entertains his celebrity pals at The Ivy, on expenses. Also features an interview with his private jet pilot who flies Richard between Florida and the UK.

3.00pm. Bargain Cunt. Richard Littlejohn writes a column for a hilariously small fee.

4.00pm. Ready Steady Littlejohn. A team of experienced columnists are pitted against each other and the clock to produce a horribly cliched column in the style of Richard Littlejohn. Points are awarded for factual innacuracy, racism, xenophobia, homophobia and references to 70’s sitcoms.

5.00pm. Escape The Country. Watch Richard Littlejohn travel to his main residence – a gated mansion in Florida – in a bid to escape the ‘PC brigade’ that have taken over Britain.

6.00pm. Littlejohn News. Presented by Richard Littlejohn. A daily news show confirming that immigrants and ethnics are the source of all crime in the UK. TOnight’s special feature exposes a gang of asylum seekers that are eating YOUR family pets.

7.00pm. The One Show. Richard Littlejohn rehashes his only column for 30 minutes every evening.

8.00pm. Panorama. A special investigation by Richard Littlejohn into whether conkers really have been banned from the playground. Richard Littlejohn concludes that they have.

9.00pm. Violent Britain. Richard Littlejohn scuffles outside a nightclub. Part of the Broken Britain Series.

11.00pm. Imagine. Richard Littlejohn invites the viewer to step inside his imaginary world. Warning: some viewers may find this programme extremely offensive.

I could go on, but I fear I’d be as boring as Richard Littlejohn if I did.

Britain’s Berlin Wall

The Berlin Wall was a concrete barrier erected by the German Democratic Republic in 1961 that split Berlin in two. The barrier became much more than this, it was fortified with a wide area (that became known as the ‘death strip’) that contained anti-vehicle trenches and other things to stem any flow of human traffic from one side of the wall to the other. According to Wikipedia from 1961 to 1989 (when the wall came down) around 5,000 people had attempted to escape over the wall, with an estimated death toll of between 100-200 people.

So, quite a serious wall, politically, symbolically and physically.

Fast forward to 2009 and head west to Britain, a fairly liberal country which respects human rights (of its own citizens at least, on the whole) and has a democracy in which people can criticise the government and not only do they not get punished they actually get paid handsomely and work for tabloid newspapers. However, all is not well and the quiet streets steeped in history are ready to flood with the flow of blood spilt in the lawnmower of civil unrest stirred up by… BRITAIN’S OWN BERLIN WAR! That is right, you heard it here second, one town in Britain has been torn in two by a barrier so fearsome, pensioners must drive their lethal electric buggies literally YARDS to get round it. The death toll for those circumventing the barrier is currently thought to be nil, but surely it is only a matter of time before that pensioner dies.

The article that first shook British society with news of the terrible barrier appeared in the Liberal Daily Mail newspaper – champion of the little man (providing he’s white, middle-class, is called Gerald and lives in a lovely detached house worth at least £250,000 with a docile wife and 2.1 white children who attend Sunday school and play woodwind instruments) – who shockingly broke the story with a typically restrained headline: ‘Neighbours’ fury after school erects ‘Berlin Wall’ across road to allow pupils to cross safely‘.

The  divided hoardes
The comparison to the Berlin wall here is well-founded and provides a clear indication of just how serious this wall is. Built to protect school children – who might not even be white – the wall has succeeded in blocking off the end of an entire road. The restriction on human movement has affected literally 10 people, who – rather than walk the 45 yards that they used to – are now faced with a terrifying 150 yard walk around the block (quite literally in this case!).

Naturally the invasion of liberty and the inhuman demand that people walk an extra 105 yards has caused utter outrage and horror from a people usually slow to revolt. Beverley Mason, a 46-year-old art student, said: ‘It’s ludicrous. Why don’t they just ban traffic? ‘I can’t think of anywhere else this has happened, apart from Berlin.’

Pensioner Joe Beckles, 73, said the school had been unwilling to compromise: ”The school is not committed to having the road opened. We will carry on protesting until access is authorised.’ The whole community senses a divide much like that of Berlin, like the families torn apart for 28 years by the Berlin Wall, non-war hero Joe Beckles continues with a tale of his own grief:

They say it’s an inconvenience but we’re saying it’s much more we’re being deprived of.

‘The extra diversion the wall has created has caused me grief. People who come to see me can’t find me as the street is blocked.’

The school at the centre of the monstrous division refused to comment, but the local council (who can be unfavourably compared to the Communist Stasi or Nazi stormtroopers) insisted that the hoarding was only a temporary measure.

A spokeswoman (too evil to be named) said:

‘After a thorough consultation process, dating back to 1999, planning permission was granted in 2006 to turn Lant Street into an attractive space which would benefit the whole community and add to the outstanding facilities provided to Charles Dickens pupils.

‘Any objections received were fully considered at the time. Temporary hoardings are in place to address the issue of safety for children attending the school.

‘We understand that the hoardings can be an inconvenience and we do appreciate people’s patience while we improve the area for the benefit of all.’

One can only speculate as to whether the council actually intend on disbanding the ‘temporary hoardings’ or whether the whole city – or country – may eventually be divided by a rampaging council and school.

One can only sympathise for the divided residents in a town that could be any town in England. The residents can only hope and pray that the mighty pen of Richard Littlejohn will bring their crisis and misery to a wider audience on Friday, and that the school and council will be brought down by the masses chanting: ‘IT’S ELF ‘N’ SAFETY PC GONE MAD’.

Eejit Jones’ Diary

Now, I’ve thought long and hard about whether to write this. Because as you know, I’ve made it the habit of a lifetime not to slag off other writers – especially well-known, influential ones. And it’s not such a great idea to break the habit of a lifetime twice in a week.

Then I thought, sod it.

Because I really can’t stand the stupid, delusional, overpaid cow that is Liz Jones.

And I can’t contain my irritation and contempt for another second.

If anyone reads this, and wants to use the words ‘pot,’ ‘kettle’ or ‘black,’ I would like you to bear the following points in mind:

Unlike Liz Jones, I am not an Olympic-level stalker who doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, doesn’t take ‘fuck off’ for an answer, and treats a restraining order as a gentle hint.

Unlike Liz Jones, I am not constantly and smugly comparing myself to other women, and bragging about how much thinner, richer, more glamorous, better dressed and better groomed I am. How much more lavish my furniture is, how much more expensive my house is, how much more high-powered my job is, and how much more expertly styled my hair is. Then whining on ad infinitum that men are thick/insecure/blind for not preferring me.

Unlike Liz Jones, I don’t dress like an escapee from a travelling circus – and am not constantly showing off about my wardrobe full of designer clothes whose outrageous rip-off prices are only equalled by their mind-blowing ugliness and unwearability. Silver Prada leggings for £980? Well really, what red blooded male is not going to fancy a fifty-year-old woman wearing silver Prada leggings that cost £980? Why does Liz Jones keep meeting such ignorant fashion-backward men?

Unlike Liz Jones, I treat the lives of those around me as the sacrosanct holiest of holies, marked Totally And Utterly Off Limits No Matter How Stuck I Am For Material. This is in direct contrast to Liz Jones, who uses the lives of those around her with a casual and sociopathic disregard for their feelings – backed up with a quite astounding lack of self-awareness. She blithely dismisses her neighbours as a bunch of smelly ignorant toothless inbreeds living in the Stone Age, uses everyone’s real names without thinking twice – then she wonders why she gets dirty looks in the local shop.

Unlike Liz Jones, I’m not getting paid for this shit.

However, I’m apparently doing this all wrong – because Liz Jones gets massive great fuck-off book deals for her humourless, self-pitying, boring, repetitive shite. Her latest book is called the Exmoor Files, in which she describes how she turned her back on London society to patronise the shit out of the good people of Exmoor. Lucky old them.

Having read her columns in the Mail on Sunday, I’m pretty sure what the book’s going to be like, anyway. Here’s a sneaky peek into this forthcoming masterpiece:

Eejit Jones’ Diary

Monday August 3rd

Oh God. A terrible thing has happened. Snooty, the smallest and loveliest of all my fur babies, is dead. In a freak accident, she seems to have jumped out of the fourth floor window of my beautiful farmhouse with its ninety acres of land, five trout lakes, apple orchard and grouse moor. Nobody is quite sure how it happened, as I painstakingly keep the windows closed at all times. She seems to have somehow operated the latch with her paw.

I have no idea how I shall cope with her loss, as Snooty is the one I always pour my heart out to every night. She listens to all my stories about how men have never cared for me, no matter what I have done to make them happy. Take Terrence, my first boyfriend, who I bought four thousand pounds’ worth of flowers for in the space of a month. All he ever said to me was ‘who are you?’, ‘how did you get my address?’ ‘you’re not my bloody girlfriend, I’ve only spoken to you once,’ ‘did you break in here through an open window?’ and ‘for the love of God get out of my living room and fuck off before I call the police.’ Men are such ungrateful creatures.

I think the problem is that men are threatened by successful women. Secretly, they much prefer sad, unsuccessful and frankly unattractive women, who enable them to feel superior and powerful. Take Terrence’s girlfriend, who I later discovered he had been living with all the time. She weighed at least eight stone, and had clearly never heard that Philip Treacy’s lime green top hats were in fashion this season (those boring Topshop floral dresses – ugh!). She worked as a secretary (!!!) and had visible breasts sticking out of her chest, whereas I have long ago had my own reduced to a 32AA so that my pure white Helmut Lang shirts would hang properly. How any man can be attracted to a woman whose shirts do not hang properly, I will never understand.

I shared these confidences with Snooty every night, without fail. So I have no idea how I will cope without her. Tonight, I poured my heart out to Sulky, another fur baby. I cried into her sweet smelling fur, and told her about all the men who have rejected me. How I have always, always gone out of my way to make others happy, and received nothing in return but indifference, rejection and restraining orders. Sulky looked at me as if she understood every word. God bless my sweet, understanding fur babies. Whatever would I do without them.


Tuesday, August 4th

Tragedy has struck yet again. Sulky is dead. In a freak accident, my furry baby seems to have eaten a handful of my organic Dr Brandt sleeping tablets from Space NK Apothecary, and washed them down with my very expensive Grey Goose vodka from Harvey Nichols (which is frankly impossible to find out here. The gnarled and toothless locals have barely heard of Smirnoff. I sometimes wish I had never moved away from my beautiful and very expensive Georgian townhouse in London.)

I have no idea how I shall cope with the loss of Sulky. It is awfully depressing, living out here far from civilisation and my favourite organic chemist in South Kensington. The weather is foul, and the locals are horribly unfriendly. One would have thought they would be delighted to have a successful and elegant woman single-handedly injecting wealth and glamour into their dismal poverty stricken little lives. I am, furthermore, the only attractive woman for several miles around, and write about them at great length in my weekly column. Yet far from welcoming my arrival, they stare at me with open hostility when I walk into the village shop in search of organic Vietnamese flaxseed oil. All they can ever find to do is mumble ‘we don’t have none, we told you that last time.’ Frankly, their ingratitude is staggering.

For example, Mavis, the woman who runs the village shop, is extremely unfriendly. I have mentioned her before, as you may remember (a large and rather ugly woman with an unfortunate wart on the end of her nose and a tragic lack of fashion sense, who bears a resemblence to an ageing sumo wrestler.) One would have thought that such a frankly pitiful human being would be grateful to be immortalised in my national newspaper column, especially as I know she reads it herself every Sunday. Yet I could have sworn she stuck up two fingers at me when I saw her across the street last week. What bizarre behaviour.

These unattractive, frankly malodorous country people are terribly rude and unwelcoming. I dare say they are jealous of my seven foot tall Hummer and my £980 silver Prada wellington boots. When I go into the local village, they stare at me as if they have never seen such things before. They also seem to believe I am rather odd for having adopted twenty rats, five badgers and a mangled vole, who I have christened Edwina. And for paying a Reiki practioner to drive down from London twice a week, to tend to the emotional needs of my rescued skunk.

I weep into my fur baby Smartie’s fur that night. I confide in him about the people who I have known in my life, to whom I have shown nothing but kindness and generosity. And they have rejected me. Always. All I have ever wanted was to be loved. Just a little. Smartie looks up at me wisely. As if he has understood every word.


Wednesday, August 5th

I have been crying all morning, Smartie is dead. I found him lying in my imported Philippe Starck marble bath this morning. He appeared to have somehow cut himself across the inside of both forepaws with my very expensive Space NK Apothecary stainless steel razor. I have no idea how I will cope without him.

Tragedy has dogged my life at every step. I remember my doomed marriage to the Fat Sportswear Clad Nobody, in which I gave him everything and received nothing but disappointment in return. I shared with him my beautiful and very expensive Georgian townhouse, for which he was thoroughly ungrateful. On several occasions, he attempted to sit on my very expensive Philippe Starck sofa, and once prepared some ghastly, messy concoction called a ‘meal’ in my imported marble Poggenpohl kitchen. All this in spite of the fact that I constantly tried to make him happy, advising him when he was putting on weight, teaching him exactly how to operate all of my very expensive household appliances, and helpfully comparing our respective incomes on a near-daily basis. I even helped to raise his public profile, describing his lamentable bedroom performance and cabbagey smells to my millions of readers in considerable detail. But as so often before in my life, nothing I did was ever quite enough.

To this very day, the stupidity of the Fat Sportswear Clad Nobody astounds me. Where else will this pathetic man ever find another woman who pastes herself with Creme de la Mer and wraps herself in clingfilm before going to bed every night? Who painstakingly seperates her eyelashes with a pin every morning, and cleans the undersides of her furniture with a very expensive Dr Brandt germ killer seventeen times every day? Who has eighteen furry babies, and who can count every single one of her ribs and pelvic bones without the slightest hint of unsightly breasts or buttocks getting in the way? Frankly, it is very depressing to realise that I have everything a man could ever want in a woman, and I have never, ever, received anything but rejection in return.

I pour my heart out to Spooky, my remaining fur baby. I cry into his fur, and tell him about all the men who I have loved, who have given me nothing in return but heartache, disappointment and loneliness. Spooky looks at me as if he understands every word, with an expression of terrible sadness in his little eyes. Men may let me down, but at least my fur babies love me with all their heart…


This post originally appeared on the new adventures of juliette.