sandi toksvig can p*ss off

Now, here's a person whose constant jolliness, whose incessant unfunniness, whose relentless belief in herself that she's funny, and intellectual (what an effin joke - yeh, right - and my leg I'm slapping right now goodheartedly at such a thought - yeh, that's really my penis), and oh-so-obvious belief that her brain-draining, flat, fat, sludgey self and prose style is interesting and meaningful and worthwhile - makes me want to jab an icepick into my head, rather than spend even a single, solitary second encountering her. Yes, dear reader: she gets on my big, fat tits.

And jesus wept, but the moo is all over the place - a veritable bubonic plague. She's on TV, in magazines, radio, on the bookshelves. Christ, she's like some sinister Orwellian presence, except instead of a glower, frowning brows and sinister eyes looking down at you, you've got her arsefat face, piggish eyes, and inane grin. What the fcuk is it with people who take an interest in her?

I'll tell you what it's about. The lepton is bolstered and boosted by those suburban MOFO dimwits known as middle Englanders (MEs henceforth). Without them, she'd be doing a sh*t job like the rest of us. And clearly MEs are all powerful - not just cos they read the Daily Mail and run government - but because they're clearly all the turdburger arsewipe editors who commission her to do stuff.

My flatmate brought an MEs publication the other day, the RadioTimes. Sure enough, the lump is on the cover, sandwiched between Torvill & Dean. And - surprise, surprise - but the bloated pixiefreak is holding her fat face between her fat hands, in a pathetic attempt at trying to look amusing and entertaining. I couldn't help myself - I had to turn the pages to the article and mygod I thought I was going to projectile vomit. Have you seen the treetrunks she calls legs? At first, I thought - no, no - there's been some sort of mistake; I've seen Californian Red Fir Trees with less girdle and width than those mothers.

But, of course, because she thinks she's cute and funny, when she's just decidely fat and foolish instead, she's happy to don a ratty dress (that looks like it's been whipped up by a deranged blind sewing lady from curtains used in an old school play), and a pair of skates (the amount of metal used probably accounted for 10% of the gross steel output this year alone).

Then, just when I was thinking that it couldn't possibly get worse, I realised that she'd been commissioned to write a bloody piece about the bloody piece she's been filmed in as well (it's bloody, because you're tearing your hair out, reading it and thinking, what pea-brained, masochistic, mollusced-mouthed bullspizzle allowed her to write this sh*t AND publish it?!).

Did you read it? It's yet more sickmaking prose - in other words, business as usual. The somnambulistic, pathetic and entirely disingenuous attempt at self-deprecation (she clearly does like the way she looks because otherwise she'd walk around in a black binliner from head to toe based on her genuinely believing she's a fat cow); the smug superiority conveyed through her always bashing you over the head with her look-at-me-peacock risible display of her supposed intelligence, as exemplified by her statement early on in the article:

"Why anyone would want to spend precious time locked up with people happy to holiday without a book is beyond me, and my failure to watch soap operas, listen to pop music or watch daytime TV means that on the whole I don't know who any of the celebrities are".

And she thinks somehow that's proof in itself that she's clever or cultured? Stupid vache! Get a life. P*ss off with the rest of the MEs.

What's truly hysterically funny is that she regards herself as clever, but all the while she only ever does inane and superficial crap - like holiday programmes (because clearly she's miserly with her own money, and anything for a free ride), or is throwing her oceanic weight onto the ice with Torvill & Dean in Dancing on Ice, or breaking the back of a poor horse on Only Fools on Horses (mind you, never a truer title to capture what a programme's all about, it must be said - though why the word 'Idiots' wasn't used, or see you next Tuesday, god only knows). And what the fcuk is it with this dancing obsession over the last year. Yet more ME sh*t. It just doesn't stop.

Mind you, I heard she did the Moral Maze once on Radio 4. I presume that's where the other panelists were discussing whether it would have been morally right or wrong to have put her down at birth, knowing what we now do about her idiocy contaminating our lives and media.

Let me give you another example of her profound insights and brilliant prose style. In the painful piece on ice skating, throughout which she's kicking you in the bollocks/ovaries with her attempts at humour, she concludes by trying to convey the supposed magic of Torvill & Dean (that was 20 years ago, you turd on a stick!). So she writes:

"Watching them dance in ordinary clothes on a poor lit rink, housed in a deserted building with no-one but me to see, is extraordinarily moving. Queen's It's a Kind of Magic is playing and that really says it all."

Yes, Sandi - what it says is you're a dimwitted, phenomenally dull ME who could strip wallpaper simply by talking/writing such p*ss poor sh*t. It's just so pathetic. This is supposed to be extraordinarily moving, and impress us? Are we supposed to get all warm and squishy inside? Is that a tear in my eye (Yes, dear reader: from trying to gauge my eyes out, as punishment for reading her bilge-like and bileous words.) If the size of an animal was the metaphor for the size of one's intellect, she'd be a grub beatle.

And the irony is that while she preens and prides herself for not watching soaps, she stalks us with her soap-sudsy prose and participation in soap-documentaries squeeking on in her awful sh*tty soap voice of hers (it's like that of a pregnant yak attempting to speak English through buck teeth or perhaps, as Gore Vidal said when describing Truman Capote's voice: imagine if a brussel sprout could talk). Anyway, the whole experience of being violated by her ME useless, inane, banale twaddle is enough to make you Carbolic and scrub yourself down with a wirebrush until the skin is red raw. God, how I wish she'd just p*ss off. Chance would be a fine thing eh, dear reader?




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Note re photograph: This marvellously scary picture is copyright Martin Argles of The Guardian. Martin, if you read this, and aren't happy with your fab photo being here, just zap an email to perspectiveiskey@yahoo.co.uk and Bobbyg will remove it.