Stereo Radio Types
Somewhere out there, in the world that is known as “The World”, there is a big, fat, ugly, smelly office block with a sign on the door. The sign reads (well no, a sign cannot read because it hasn’t got the capacity to do that task but likewise the sign couldn’t, say, ‘say’ something because it hasn’t got all the bits and pieces to speak so let’s start the sentence again). These words are printed on the sign (that’s much better, thank you) ‘The Department for Stereo Radio Types’.
In The Department for Stereo Radio Types, lots of grey and dead-eyed ladies and gentlemen work ceaselessly creating new, and hopefully loved by the public, Stereo Radio Types. We all know the kind of thing: single mums are only single mums because they want a council flat (scroungers), black people all smoke drugs because that’s what they do (criminals), young men whizz around in Vauxhall Novas because they have too much time on their hands (ASBO badges of honour) and big, fat, ugly and smelly capitalists all wear pin-striped suits, smoke big, fat, ugly and smelly Havana cigars and have wads of cash hanging out of their pockets.
The Department is very proud of the work they do (‘cept for the last one, obviously) and often send out memos to BIG organisations reminding them of their sterling work and informing them how they can sneak a few cheeky stereo radio types into their stuff.
And so we get happy, smiley Mormons cuddling up to friendly tigers and unicorns because everyone and everything loves happy, smiley Mormons. And we get bouncy, jovial bobby-coppers because everyone loves bouncy, jovial bobby-coppers. And we get pallid, wasted looking mothers with ninety-seven children, all eating McDogpoo burgers because pallid, wasted looking mothers with ninety-seven children are too busy with yet another refugee from Iran or Iraq or Turkey or Braintree going for the century. Shameless hussies.
But in the far corner of the Department for Stereo Radio Types, in the basement, hiding behind all those boxes of old papers and scripts for Bernard Manning, is a little old man beavering away. He’s been at the Department for years, more years than anyone can remember. He’s been there so long that everyone has forgotten that he’s there. Bless him. He’s become very bitter. Very, very bitter because he created the very finest Stereo Radio Type: the bearded, black hatted and cloaked, bomb carrying Anarchist.
So now, this long forgotten little chap seeks to make amends. Whilst all his colleagues, including the dungaree-wearing, lesbians and blousey gays Stereo Radio Types creation Teams have all been reassigned to the Muslim Myth Creation Super-Team, he continues in his own little task, destroying his own finest piece of work. How many people bother voting these days? Who cares about politicians? Who gives a flying fart about the Royal Family?
Our little old man in the corner is doing a fine job. Yes, he is.