Nobody has done more than me to bring down the career of falsely modest, secretly self-regarding, Richard-everyman-Osman than me. And see how I have succeeded? His second novel is officially the fastest selling work of literature ever. Ever. In the entire history of UK literature.
Worse though, is the reaction of his fans, who have turned on me as the sole traitor in the Garden of Gethlebrity. It’s as if I let off a dirty bomb at an Andre Rieu concert.
Judas apologised as soon as he realised that he’d dropped a bollock, but everyone forgets that bit because it doesn’t fit with the narrative, which prefers to see him cast out forever. The same fate awaits me, but I will not stoop before the baying mob of bigoted half-wits in the same way. No, I will adopt the approach of God herself, who is wrongly assumed to have worked for six days then taken a rest on the seventh, whereas in fact, she worked for six days then stopped, forever. Shortly after resting, she fucked off and didn’t bother with anyone anymore. And look at her now, she’s got away with it for, well, however long it is since an amoeba grew to possess the gift of speech. All I’m planning to do is to lie low until I die. If my blaspheming hits the spot and I’m given a vengeful dose of cancer or Covey by way of punishment, so much the better, there’d be even less time to sit out. Me and Martin Daktari will easily put a stint in down the West Coast of sub-equatorial Africa, shooting poachers in the eye with our air rifle one day; helping out on farms and nautical stations the next.
With a slant towards transitioning to that quieter life, I’ve looked into two job opportunities that appeared on my Twitter timeline today. One, by this very platform, is to join them as a growth engineer in their marketing department. Such descriptions are announced without irony now. I have asked them to send details of their laboratory, how it is equipped, Bunsen burners, flasks of dilute hydrochloric acid etc. Then just below it, one for Head of Communications @racehorseowners, as they put it. The strap line for the job was “to use all available channels of communications to promote and amplify the ROA’s communication strategy.” What, I wondered, could you say if your vision for communications went beyond the existing channels of communication? How could it possibly be communicated without revealing that self evident flaw at its centre? Again, no immediate response, but if they come back and show me that they’re serious about the job, I’ll think about taking the application to the next stage.
The world, through globalisation I say, is close to boiling down to its very essence, and to date just a few prescient souls like Little Richard have possessed the wherewithal to work out that the only route to real success is to communicate shite to the ignorant. How else do you explain a success story like Christianity? Or even a sub-class of the cult, like eating turkeys for that matter? Perhaps he is a genius?
Unfortunately the rest of us have begun to see that it’s the only way to get ahead too. And whereas previously people like Richard of Babylon usually become extinct through ubiquity, like little Terry Wogan, this seems no longer to be the case. He’s more than just essential to the lives of morons, he is the new Pied Piper, because he provides for them a glimmer of hope that he’s leading them to the land where they all want to live.
Should that be the case, the world will end of course, mainly because there’d be no one left to drive the ark; from the drones we will find only navigators, administrators and animal feed. Add to the equation that I will have shot anyone claiming animal husbandry skills before they are ever piped on board, and you have to acknowledge that I’ve got a point.
Dickie White's Diary 