Television is full of either ‘Happy Joe Happy & His Happy Friends’ or ‘Friendly Joe Friendly and His Friendly Friends’. Cooking shows like Sectarian Chef where different religious groups battle it out in the kitchen only to be judged by atheistic scientists and the occasional porn starlet. Or Sheltered Workshop Chef where disabled people are grouped into their disabilities and prepare food to be judged by guest neurosurgeons and the occasional criminally insanity case, locked by themselves in a cage.
Television is is chock-a-block, jam packed full of mind-numbing crap – real lowest common denominator stuff. Cupcake Wars, Robot Wars, Aftershave Wars and real wars edited down to inconsequential seconds. Then there’s the commercials, “Are you fucked in the head? Because have we got an offer for you…These mail order brides have hardly been used…but wait, there’s more, they each come with needy families, lots of them, overseas for now…It’s hard not to laugh at those less fortunate and at Tranby College we have accredited courses in qualified and advanced swearing, body language and alcohol studies…”
What passes for the sanitised News broadcast is smiling, reassuring Talking-Heads reading a heavily self-edited, predigested, asinine, group-think script aimed at diversion from reality at the expense of knowledge and sanity. And every second programme is a murder show – American murder investigation dramas, British homicide investigation programmes and Australian manslaughter investigation shows. Fuck me! Death is really popular, particularly when delivered in a televised hour with the condensed simplicity and brutally direct honesty of a medieval morality play.
I used to hate all of that shit and the scrapings from the bottom of the gene pool; every single fucking one walking comfortably in lockstep to the all pervasive, self-driven and self-effacing religion of Cretinism – until I learnt how to use them against themselves, for my amusement and Self Divinity. Why wait when there’s just so many abundant opportunities? “Fuck Them All!” I really and truly believe this.
What are ignorantly deluded John and Elsie Lunchbucket or their intellectually and morally stunted off-spring to me? I don’t care. What would be the point? I’m not nasty. I’m fucking no-holds-barred honest! I should get my own radio show: “Old Uncle Al is a Satanic Low Priest of the cheap and effective left hand path mysteries. And he’s waiting for you call…What made the authorities think I wasn’t going to give detailed, easy suicide techniques or talk implicitly and incessantly about the whys and wherefores licit drug highs on-air? So what if I discourse upon the Black Mass, it’s ritual and purposes? The switchboard goes into meltdown and advertisers love me…”
I’d have a paid stooge Xtian character called Brighton Urly telephone in with depressing lines we’d rehearsed. And it would end up a ahte filled tirade of sicker, more disturbing, memory haunting philosophical positions. With music like The Anaemic Boyfriends: Guys Are Not Proud and The Waitresses: I Know What Boys Like, mine would be ground breaking, indeed earth-shattering radio.