It’s like he’s found Katie Hopkins’ fucking playbook under a pile of her discarded bollocks pellets.
Why bother working your arse off trotting around doing mundane promotional interviews with those cunts on The One Show, when you can just say something inflammatory to some obscure publication, light the touch paper, then bask in all the free publicity whilst the money rolls in?
It works like a charm every fucking time in our ultra sensitive, outrage consuming society.
It’s like he’s almost jealous of the attention Weinstein et al are receiving, but knows he’s duller than a copy of Geometry Weekly so jumps on the band wagon by defending them.
Look, even I’m doing it right now! It can’t be helped. When the fucking inspiration for The Head from Art Attack opens his Jackie Stallone bile slit to spew out yet more arse gravy, you’re compelled to comment, like your fucking nan who’s come up to visit from the south coast and has seen her first brown person.
Maybe he just resents time itself and he’s taking it out on everyone else. After all he looks like a Spitting Image self fulfilling prophercy or the bloated corpse of a depressed club land lookalike, recently pulled from the ocean.
He’s a fucking before picture to Quentin Tarantino’s after, the chubby pretentious cunt.
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