Now I’ve established Francis Gilbert as the nation’s most despicable curmudgeonly bore, I’d like to show you the first two entries on his blog. This is the man who is attempting to found a doomsaying empire around the fact that he got hit on the head by some children once, when he was on the bus.
TOP FIVE REACTIONS TO THE LONDON BOMBINGS
as featured on Family Fortunes’ Double Money round
- “Fucking hell.”
- “Did you feel that, darling? It felt like the chill of death.”
- “Well, that’s got that out of the way.”
- “Jesus, that could have been Francis Gilbert.”
- “They bombed a bus? Bit of an anti-climax. They’ll be bombing pedalos next.”
- “I hope Francis Gilbert gets through his period of therapeutic meditation soon, and starts a blog.”
From these blog entries, you can imagine him consoling the relatives of the bereaved.
“Yes, that must be terrible, your husband getting blown up on a bus. I got hit on the head by some atrocious yobs, once, and my faith in humanity died an equally messy death as your husband. I’m still grieving today, and my loss only ever gets more profound and agonising. Sometimes I think only my own brilliance gets me through the seemingly endless catalogue of days.”
I’ll leave you with one of his poems, taken from his wonderful website.
They stand haunch-shouldered, hands on hips
Skirted by rushing grass and foxglove
Like nannies, with angry pursed lips
Staring at us. Have they no love?
Is it a job and nothing more?
Beneath their metallic glare in June
We, the meadows, the deep forest, the blue air
Hide from them all afternoon.
WHY DON’T YOU LOVE FRANCIS, YOU STUPID PYLONS?