If ITV make a new series, they ought to come take a look at my girl

So I better come up with some cheerful shit now, huh? You grabby grasping gargoyles will be wanting some contrast here in the House of Gimme. Enough with the downer posts, dolt, let's go with the happy fucking clappy. Or just the happy clappy. Because if it's fucking clappy then it's probably pretty unhappy, right? Not that I'd know, I never got the whole promiscuity thing together and have therefore remained boringly venereal disease free, even during those six weeks when I was single back in '95. Yeah, I'm a serial monogamist. You didn't know that about me? I cannot fucking bear to be alone.

I have strayed from my intended point which was: fuck off. I'll be happy when I want to be, you joyful jackals, and today I want to go with a death. I just love to speak ill of the dead, because there's no way that they can come and get me.

The last of the Big Three took out his diaphragm yesterday and just like with The Beatles, those guys popped off in order of greatness. (You know Ringo's gonna go first, right? That fucking cheerful chump McCartney will fucking outlive me, the frog chorusing cunt.)

Clarke was a visionary, no doubt, and I will be forever grateful to him for his contribution to one of the greatest movies of all time, but feel me folks, this guy could not write for shit. Seriously. His ideas were stunning, occasionally beautifully in their complexity and insight but his prose was that of your most boring drunken uncle at the funeral of his own pet hamster. The dialogue, oh good fuck but it was some of the most embarrassing shit I have ever read. Heinlein and Asimov were no fucking Amises, or indeed Gimmes, but I don't believe that even the offer of a fully-functioning, three laws of robotics obeying, blowjob performing android would have been enough to entice either of these lads to write anything remotely as turgid as any random paragraph in a Arthur C. novel. 2001? Fucking fantastic film, particularly off your box in the front row of the IFC, but no amount of Morocco's finest would make the novel anything but a heartbreakingly tedious slog.

Yes, a visionary, uh-huh, fo sho. But just like I don't really care that Dylan is a bit of cunt or that Kubrick was a crazy, Clarke's being a visionary matters not a jot to me. If the fucker couldn't write then he shouldn't have been a fucking novelist.

There's more to this story, peeps, this post has a real point outside of the besmirching of a great man by a tedious tosspot. This point pertains to the evil of the media and my pathetic intellectual laziness. I was convinced up until yesterday that our Mr C. Clarke was a kiddie fiddler. I feel like a tit. Because I once heard a rumour related to a red top rag story, and took it as gospel and carried it round in my head for years and years. What a fucking tit I am.

Apologies, Arthur, for the fuck all that it's worth. You crap writing seer, you.