Ow's About That, Then?

Rattle n warble

Right, I know that if you have nothing tidy to say, you should say fuck all but whose blog did you think you were looking at? Doris Day's musings, fearful readers, are thataway.
So, Jimmy Savile has popped his running shoes and gorn orff to the big gold lamé factory in the sky. Cue the inevitable bloody outpouring of showbiz sadness, semi-hysterical celeb quotes, pre-written obits and Daily Mail readers beating their withered and bitter breasts.
Forgive me, though, if I, The Kraken, don't join in. Look, I know the guy's barely cold but, fuckaduckadingdong, he didn't half creep me out. And this freezing and insidious dread was in direct proportion to his marathon running/ fundraising/ cigar sucking. The more he wooed the nation into believing he was the second coming the more I'd feel the need for a frantic scrub in the shower.
Even as a mini Kraken in the 70s I'd recoil from that fucking warble-cum-yodel. Can't say that  feeling's changed much now that I'm a woman in my 40s either. 
Put it down to his hideous self-promotion, his overblown persona, my towering paranoia or just my innate hatred of begging, bowl cut kids in tank tops. In fact, you can put it down to any fucking thing you like. It doesn't change the fact that Savile gave me the shits faster than yak chop suey in the Himalayas (which disintegrated my bowel at roughly the speed of light). I guess, whether you're mourning his passing or not, that won't be happening any more. 
Like I said, Doris Day's musings are thataway.