SIR JACKIE STEWART
(motor racing driver)
The money? The fame? The thrills? The helicopters? Yes, well all of that, but there was something far, far more important. Now I am a deeply unattractive man – no, no don’t try to deny it, deep down I know it to be true – and if I hadn’t been a championship racing driver I doubt I would have been getting my hole much, if at all. So if you like me have a face like a retards etch -a -sketch, my advice is to start out in karting and work up from there, otherwise you’d be as well cutting it off. Unless you’re prepared to pay for it. But even then, with the precautions working girls take these days, you’ll still never know what it feels like to go bareback. Unless you have finely honed your negotiating skills when it comes to arranging ‘extras’. Why not consult ‘My guide to paying for sex’ by Sir Jackie Stewart for more details. And if that isn’t a shameless plug, I don’t know what is. And if you don’t know what a shameless plug is, why not consult ‘Shameless plugs: The guide to sticking things up your bottom.’ by Sir Jackie Stewart for details. Interestingly enough both of these books are available this Xmas and make great stocking fillers.
What I loved about my career? Well I’d say it was the opportunity to give. You know, growing up I was just another no good street punk doing drugs and doing crime aint no telling what I wouldn’t do.
My film career dragged me out of all that – and when it did – I made a vow. I made a promise to myself that I’d give something back to the po’ boys I saw in my self same barrio, cussing and fighting in the streets – streets without hope in a town without pity. And that’s how I came to build this place – and son when I say build – that’s exactly what I mean brick by brick, stone by stone, with nothing but these two bare hands. You know the folks all thought I was crazy and I kinda guess I’d looked that way too. Every day I’d just sit there in the park, and them school kids, they’d come round and laugh at me. ‘Hey old man’ they’d cry, ‘you’re crazy man- just plum loco.’ And I’d just smile and go on thinking my thoughts and dreaming my dreams. Then when the night come round that’s when I’d go a creeping to the local lumberyard and the scrap yard and just about every kind of yard, and I’d be scavenging for them things I needed – and mostly I weren’t too particular what folks them things belonged to – no sir. Then I’d come back here and start in on building, just me and that ol yeller moon, right through till the dawn. My coat grew tattered, my beard grew matted and there were so many holes in ma shoes that they weren’t rightly shoes no more, but on and on I went, night after night, week after week, year after year. And then one night I steeped back, kinda amazed, and I looked and I saw that it was done. Well, you know, right there and then I thought I was as proud as a feller could be, but it weren’t nothing to my feelings about a week later when, with brass bands and bunting, and a visit from the Lord Provost his self it was officially opened to the public – The Sir Irvine Welsh Morningside Heart of Midlothian Supporters Club.
Well what I’ve enjoyed most my career or careers for you will recall I spent sometime in the merchant marine earning an honest shilling before taking up arms so to speak for simple working folk in the rough old trade of politics that’s a difficult question to answer but answer it I will without prevarication and the answer is that what I enjoyed most were life’s challenges. Now what I always say and when you think about this is in a real sense very true is that your greatest challenge is your next challenge but you know my next challenge has its roots in those early days when I was a humble but hardy mariner of decent working class stock. In those days on shipboard on what we then called cruises it often fell to the lot of the crew to provide entertainment of one kind or another for the passengers which we performed with great pride in the dignity of the labour. And so it was that I first trod the boards as you might say in the variety which is what we called light entertainment shows giving my renditions and as it were impersonations of the songs of the Lancashire Nightingale George Formby. Now there were never a finer man trod the earth working class to his bootstraps, though he sometimes may have worn clogs, than George but for all that there were a few requests after several weeks for the crew to extend our repertoire and the passengers being mainly toffs it had to be Shakespeare. Not that Shakespeare was in any way a toff you understand but of ordinary decent working descent like myself but I suppose more a worker brain than hand and so any road we put together a shipboard rendition of a Midsummer’s Night’s Dream. Well if you know the work there are princes in it and fairies if you please which I didn’t think would suit me and to cut a long story short so it was that I first gave my Bottom at sea on that voyage in 1951 and my bottom being very much admired I continued to give my bottom on every voyage thereafter and I would have to say that every appearance of my bottom was greeted with great applause and in the appropriate parts laughter. When I entered politics with the support of the TUC my theatrical endeavours were through necessity curtailed but I never lost my hankering for the smell of greasepaint and when I left the cabinet I thought I still had it me to give a good Lear or even a pantomime dame Little did I realise that my wishes to return to the decent and sturdy profession of acting were to be granted though not in what posh folks might call the legitimate theatre which didn’t worry me as that is not everyone’s cup of tea which is a drink I much enjoy – though strong and sweet and in a mug. No it was television – the theatre of the common man that came calling when the BBC no less asked if I would consider the role of tough talking but decent bluff hard headed – but lovable copper Andy Dalziel in the new Dalziel and Pascoe series. Well I jumped at the chance but I wondered who was to play his hoity- toity wine drinking sidekick… you could have knocked me down with a feather when I learned they had cast – nay- typecast my old sparring partner Peter Mandelson. As I often say ìIt’s a funny old world.’
All careers must come to a close and here is where the great schism appears between our brother players and those who have chosen to don the motley, Those that have worn the tragic mask, once stricken in years, are honoured as the grand old men of the stage; while we devotees of the Thalian muse can have no higher hope than to know when our day is done. Should we exceed our allotted span the groundlings, I fear, grow restless. ‘He’s past it, they say, an old fogey, a fuddy duddy, he’s just not funny anymore.’ And, in truth, even the magic of Doctor Theatre holds no power to compel old bones to the antic capers of the jester. Tragedy reveres its past, comedy devours and excretes it. Just look at poor old Tarby. And that is why my proudest boast is that, though my three score and ten have come and gone, the younger generation still respect and reverence both me and my vast body of work. Que?
(BBC’s Business affairs correspondent)
Dear Mr Peston,
Let me put it this way: You probably think the credit crunch has been the best thing ever for your career and that we, your adoring public, wait nightly on the edge of our seats for your latest breathless revelations from the financial frontline. We don’t. We think you an irritating twat whose airtime might be better utilised by devoted to re-runs of the excellent ‘Airwolf’ featuring Jan Michael Vincent and Ernst Borgnine.
Thanks to you Mr Peston I now know about hedge funds, short selling and preferential shares and all the other shite of interest only to bankers, wankers and economist like yourself. In the name of god, why? What’s worse is that all this bullshit pseudo-scientific babble is preventing me from learning other things, is pushing knowledge out of my brain I could have learned about Jesus, the real man of the gospels; have learned how to play the late Beethoven Quartets; learned about the cultivation of rare and beautiful orchids; learned how to make a loved one come and come again until they were in danger of losing their minds through an excess of bliss. Yes all this would have been great or I could
have formed a gang with my mates where we’d go out on our bikes and solve slightly spooky but strictly non- threatening mysteries. But oh no, thank to you, that’s all gone possibly forever, and instead I have learned about the ‘dead cat fucking bounce’. I put it to you, Mr Peston, that your so called career is as worthless as it is sterile as it is contemptible, and that you yourself, for all your appearances on television screens gushing excitedly like a maiden aunt who has spent all xmas day on the pink Lambrini are and will remain an insignificant little shit.
Robert Peston: Yes, Well, I suppose there‘s something in that.
GORDON RAMSAY: AN APOLOGY.
We all make mistakes. Even though the highly paid journalists at The Weekly are at the very top of their game and make every possible check to make sure their information is correct they are still human. For two or three months now they have, in their articles, been insinuating that Mr Ramsay is nothing more that a highly sexed big porker with not one but several mistresses and it is with this in mind that they would like to offer a sincere apol…What? Oh really…you’re sure…OH well then. It turns out that Mr Ramsay is nothing but a big chunky fuck-boy. Who has several hundred mistresses, of both sexes and all colours of the rainbow…and is into granny porn as well.