Yes Ma'am, No Ma'am

Whatever you say, Ma'am

You know, it's the deference that I can't frigging stand. The publicly dripping deference. Problem is that the nation has been oozing the stuff over the Jubilee weekend and chief forelock-tugger of all has been the vile Nicholas Witchell. 
I'm sure the boy Witchell is a fine journalist - fuck knows he's been doing it for long enough - but what makes me want to plant a bomb in my own brain is his giddying level of obsequiousness. Christ, watching him file a report on the royal doings is like watching a text book-perfect definition of arse-licking. It's a miracle that his nose isn't smeared with Queenly outpourings.
And, OK, the Queen and her dysfunctional family need to be reported on - otherwise how will we keep an eye on how they're spending our money? - but does it really have to be in Witchell's hushed and revered tones? Whenever I see him I'm reminded of Dickens' Bob Cratchit, rubbing his hands over and again as he begs for money or mercy. Witchell looks like the 21st Century version, except I can only assume he's crawling furiously to secure either a gong or his next story. I mean, heaven forfend that the royals should be offended by Witchell's lack of breathless adjectives. What in the fuck would he do the next time he has to report upon such globe-shaking events as the Queen taking a dump?
I've only known one other person to be so deeply crawly and I used to work with him in a magazines department. He was equally as sickening. In fact he was even worse than Witchell, actively rubbing his hands obsequiously whenever the new editor walked into the room. Jesus, I recall one afternoon when the old and new bosses were together and this grease bucket actually hopped from one foot to another and rubbed his hands as if he was trying to make fire with his fingers. Put him and Witchell in the same room and fuck knows what could happen. They'd out-fawn each other and create a black hole into which personal dignity would be forever lost.
So it can only be a good thing that the Jubilee celebrations are at an end. Witchell must be exhausted after a long weekend of gabbling royal superlatives and cow-towing on the banks of the Thames. Fuck knows, I'm exhausted from watching him. And there's only so much more tugging that his hairline can stand.