Fuck Philip Schofield.
Fuck him. Fuck him and his hair. Fuck him and his trustworthy, inoffensive
face. Fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck him for being born. Fuck him for existing. I
curse every individual atom that comprises the bastard. Fuck absolutely everything about him. Fuck everything
he represents, namely; blandness, cleanliness, common-sense, status-quo. Fuck
everybody who likes him. Fuck the insipid wastes of space who cling on his
every word. Who wouldn’t miss an episode of This Morning, as though it were
some life-saving treatment. Fuck Philip Schofield and fuck This Morning. They’re
apparatuses of the regime. Their goal is to reinforce and perpetuate the
aversion to and distrust of critical thinking so endemic in our society. Their
goal is the destruction of measured response in favour of kneejerk populism.
But wait! Mama-mia! Here-a come-a Gino with a recipe
for you, ah? A little wink for the camera, a little saucy banter with the
guests. A-try, a-try – you like-a that
a-don’t you? A-good-a fucking pig a-you are.
Enough. Gino would dump a full bottle of Domestos into your Puttansca, prancing and kissing his
fingers all the while. Molto bella,
he whispers into your ear as you convulse, foam spewing from your locked jaw,
your rapidly bluing lips. Fuck Gino and fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck that other
numbskull whose name I can’t remember. Fuck Keith Lemon. Fuck them all, but
most importantly, fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck him with something big and jagged
and smeared with fresh dog shit. Fuck him and his manufactured, cynical charm.
Fuck your gran. She’s never had an opinion she didn’t first hear on that
grotesque fucking show. Your granny is wanker, and so is your grandad. So is
your mother. So is your dad. Fuck Philip Schofield. He has skeletons in his
closet. He uses the slender ribs of dead children to pick morsels of their raw
flesh from his teeth, which become gnarled and sharp when there aren’t any
cameras around.
He has skeletons
alright. Acts of unspeakable horror. He could tell you things that would make
the most ardent and unrelenting of sadists vomit with despair. He would have
Gilles De Rais rending his rosaries. Fuck Philip Schofield.
Remember that mob of
fuming cretins who burned down the home of a pediatrician? I lay the blame for
that squarely at Schofield’s cloven hooves. He is the figurehead of that
culture of shrieking idiocy. It emanates from him. His job is to stir it up. He
is here to encourage mindlessness. His banality is a truly dangerous banality.
His banality is the syringe, filled with unthinking, outraged acquiescence,
that hangs from the cortices of his slobbering audience.
It’s not their fault.
It’s his. He doesn’t want what’s best for you.
Spread the message. We
are to be watchmen in this blackest of nights. We must work tirelessly if we
are to depose his tyranny. We must strive to usher in a new dawn of
enlightenment. Tell your friends and family; Philip Schofield is not your friend.
Philip Schofield means you harm.
Philip Schofield exists to make you unaware of your chains. Philip Schofield
grows fat, like a lamprey, gorging on your misery – misdirecting your
frustrations, offering the illusion of discussion via premium-rate call-ins.
Dangling shriveled, poisoned carrots before your obese, but somehow malnourished
face. Offering you cash prizes and holidays through insults to your
intelligence. He wants to fuck and eat your children. He perches like a Baphomet
on a throne made from screaming, bleeding babies – their limbs broken and
re-set at agonizing angles. He shits their own digested blood back into their
permanently wailing mouths.
Philip Schofield is
consumed by his contempt for you.
The goal of This Morning
is to soften your minds into putty through sheer tedium. To render you
malleable. To confect extreme responses that bypass reason. To ask the wrong
questions of the wrong people. To manage
your expectations. Fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck Dom Littlewood. Fuck Vanessa
Feltz. Fuck anybody who has ever been a guest on his horrible show. Fuck Ant
and Dec. Fuck Shane Richie. Fuck that other cunt I always mistake him for,
whose name I don’t know.
Fuck his charity work.
The harm he has caused, and continues to cause, far outweighs the handful of
ICU’s. Media charity events are a disgrace. I’d like to take out Pudsy’s other
eye and torture him to death. Pudsy is a devious, lying shitbag. When nobody is
looking, Pudsy places shards of broken glass into the food of the terminally
ill. Schofield, giggling all the while, encourages him. He put half the kids in
these wards, sprinkling pellets of polonium into pots of Petis Filous with one hand,
stroking his scabby, gnarled dick with the other. Philip Schofield sows pain
and humiliation wherever he goes.
Fuck Philip Schofield. Fuck Pudsy Bear. Fuck
Dawn French. Fuck Red Nose Day. Fuck Noel Edmonds. They are abscesses on the
gums of starving children, ejecting balls of stinking pus and growing like evil
fruit.
They are agents of fascism. They are the prison guards of soulless,
blank-eyed tabloid hysteria. They are Snow Patrol. They are Keane. They are
Coldplay. Philip Schofield wants you to think he speaks on your behalf.
He is
the malevolent force that guides the angry mob.
He is Big Brother.
He is
atrocity in the name of “justice”.
Fuck Philip Schofield.
