|Welcome to Richard Littlejohn's mind|
“A minute’s silence for the earthquake and tsunami victims? Dacre, load my pen with the extra-strength poison - I’m feeling the hate!” exploded the cabbies’ poster-boy for bigotry and spite. “Right, here goes: my wife’s grandfather, who is long dead, was tortured by sadistic little sons of heaven, who are also long dead, in the name of a brutal microzoology-crazed emperor who is also long dead. This, of course, grants me the automatic right to feel as much blind personal hatred for Japan and every single one of its hellish spawn as my grandfather-in-law would if he wasn’t dead – all the more so, in fact, as the little yellow murderers are all sitting pretty on the piles of hard-earned British cash you and I had to hand over just for a bloody television that works.”
“Or is that the chinks?” he mused. “Doesn’t matter. They’re all the bloody same. Where was I?”
|This sort of devastation is much preferred by Mail readers|
“I’m as sensitive as the next man, as long as the next man just got out of Pentonville and back into his minicab,” he seethed, as millions of readers who swear they only buy the Mail for the quality of its sport coverage feverishly stroked their prejudices to a frenzy. “But I draw the line at not launching enough ICBMs to make the earth’s crust to crack wide open and drag the entire subhuman yellow race back down to hell in a handcart.”
“And I will not cease from mental strife until Rumbelows returns to our high streets once more, its shelves filled with honest British tellies made by Rediffusion, Pye and English Electric whose buttons fall in when you press them,” he added patriotically.
Mr Littlejohn then went on to rant about EastEnders not accurately reflecting the multicultural reality of the East End of London which, in his mind, lies under a permanent pall of smoke from billions of poppies burned by a teeming horde of bomb-carrying al-Qaeda terrorists.