Fuck Philip Schofield

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.