Enemies of Reason Poundshop potshots at the media moral maze.

Jeremy Kyle: Clarkson/Littlejohn cuntery

It's hard to put into words the bubbling rancid soup of loathing that gurgles inside me whenever I see Jeremy Kyle's rat face, but I'll give it a go. Imagine being smacked in the face, repeatedly, by the child you hated most at school - the most weaselly little bastard in the entire school, who always bullied you and always got away with it - except that instead of a hand to slap you, he was using a dog turd covered in acid that simultaneously burned your skin off and rubbed shit into the wound.

I don't think I've really got across how much I hate this man, but I've given it a try. Anyway, apart from his godawful Jerry Springer-style* TV show - in which he SHOUTS at people who wear sportswear and have tattoos and facial piercings and tells them to LOOK AT HIM - there's now a book. A fucking book. And a book that immediately reminded me of another loathsome tosspiece. I think you can see what's going on as soon as you see it.

Ugh. Just look at the sewer-pipe-sucking little parasite, hands in pockets, the vastness of Great Britain behind him. Look at him towering over the entire country. Leave aside, for a moment, the title of the book. It reminds me of someone else. Not just this rum old cove

who has mastered the art of 'looking a bit peeved on a book cover, occasionally next to a random animal'. No, I mean this man:

Ah, there we are. Yes, pop those two books next to each other and it'd be hard to know which one I'd want to take a dump into and then set on fire first. Both with the map behind them; both with the Clarksonian 'looking a bit peeved' expression on their deeply unpleasant faces.

The Amazon page for that Littlejohn book, by the way, contains a wonderful selection of reviews from readers, for example this one:

'Littlejohn's Britain' is the third instalment of the eclectic 'Littlejohn Mysteries', and arguably the best yet. As the novel commences we are reintroduced to maverick sleuth Richard Littlejohn; a straight-talking, no-nonsense freelance detective who stops at nothing to get answers. But Littlejohn has changed: no longer the bright-eyed optimist he once was, the events of the previous book, Murder at Mbongo Hall, have left him embittered and disillusioned with the job he once loved. However, it's not long before an anonymous tip-off from a civil servant draws Littlejohn deep into the heart of a political conspiracy which goes all the way to Downing Street.

Tightly written and highly exhilarating, 'Littlejohn's Britain' rockets along at the pace of a runaway train and never lets up. From the initial discovery of the dead prostitute ("She had it coming," a gruff Littlejohn observes with peerless humour) through to the unspeakable evil of the government's nefarious 'recycling' scheme, every turn of the page brings a shocking new twist which will never fails to excite. In particular, the climatic showdown atop the London Eye is worthy of literature's finest.

'Littlejohn's Britain' is rife with the trademark humour which has already made the series a modern classic ("bloody speed cameras!" should be the nation's new catchphrase), but it also explores a darker and more sinister side of Littlejohn's past. Tales of drinking, debauching and even a fleeting homosexual encounter are all gradually peeled away as the story progresses to reveal a complex and ultimately tragic character. With the addition of some truly horrific villains -- the scheming 'Two Jags' Prescott, PC-gone-mad Trevor Phillips, and psychotic gay Johann Hari -- the recipe is complete, and the result is some of the greatest work ever committed to print. 'Littlejohn's Britain' is simply a masterpiece; essential reading for anyone who can handle the action.

I do recommend a visit there, if you've got time. But yes, it's clear to see what Kyle's going for. He wants Littlejohn's crown of cuntery. He's even nicked Prince Littleintellect's catchphrase! The scandal of it. I bet Dickie's mightily fed up with that** - some other clown daring to try and ape his majestic Bonkers Britain fuckwittery.

I think what must have happened is that Kyle has decided he's not enough of a hateful motherfucker, and wants to really go for it. But how to achieve that level of scumdom? There's only one way - try to turn into Littlejohn. Now I have no idea of the content of Kyle's book, but the press release isn't encouraging:

In You Couldn’t Make It Up Jeremy tells us exactly what life is like inside the ‘crazy celebrity circus’, complete with the rollercoaster ride of his accidental TV career and all the highs and lows of his personal life. Read how he really feels about his fellow celebrities; how he’s coping with the minefield that is middle age and being a modern dad; uncover what Jeremy thinks about the true state of the nation and what he’d really like to do to our politicians!

Probably SHOUT AT THEM A LOT IN FRONT OF A BAYING AUDIENCE OF AMOEBA. Or CALL THEM NAMES. Or say CALL YOURSELF A MAN? LOOK AT ME! YOU, PAL, ARE WORTHLESS. Or something like that.

Anyway, I know all this because Kyle is coming to a bookshop near me soon to sign copies of You Couldn't Make It Up, and I saw the signs up earlier. I think it would be fitting if I turned up and started SHOUTING AT HIM from the sidelines in a RASPY GRATING LITTLE VOICE, but I think the best thing to do would be to be nowhere within a hundred-mile radius of the dreadful little squirt, for fear of catching whatever vile disease it is that makes him such a toad.

A bookshop, though. A real bookshop, full of authors, and lovely books, and wonderful things to engage, and entertain, and delight. And so who do we get down to represent the wonders of literature contained within? Jeremy Sodding Bloody Kyle.

End times.

* I saw, for the first time in about five years, the Jerry Springer Show, on TV yesterday. Incredible. The episode was entitled 'hillbillies and gay men in shorts' but failed to live up to the intellectual promise. They even ring a bell now so the contestants know when to try and bundle into each other past the bemused security guards. When the 'hillbillies' were on stage they were playing sheep noises. Subtle, it ain't.

** The cable channel 'Really', which I've thankfully never seen, launched itself with the slogan 'You couldn't make it up'. I imagine Littlejohn, if he ever came across it by accident while surfing through the Florida cable TV channels, would be rather narked.

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