And here's to you Mr Robinson. Jesus!

By Withered Vine, Our Fashion and Tittilating Tales Correspondent

bilkoThe Editor asked me to pop round to see Nick Robinson in his sick bed, and pass on the condolences of the channel on being publicly humiliated by Alecsammin. (He knows I like to visit men in bed.)

I was shocked to see how the poor man has changed so rapidly. "Slaphead", as he is frequently referred to down here in the Smoke or sometimes "the self-fellating Mr Nick Robinson of the BBC" is a broken man.

As he cried into my bosom (I do hate soggy bras!) he told me the whole terrible story.

"I had a deprived childhood", he started, so I settled down on the bed anticipating that he would fill me in, in as boring and repetitive way as most men do nowadays.

"My parents couldn't afford to send me even to a semi-decent school like Winchester, so I had to go a Direct Grant one. I became an instant Tory at the age of 8, when the Labour Government abolished that status, and the school fees rose, thus cutting my source of disposable income."

At this point I dozed off, though I vaguely remember him describing his rise through the Tory ranks. Actually, I've had more of the Tory ranks rising in me than he's had hot dinners.

When I awoke, he was still describing how political journalists have to do favours for politicians to get stories, and what a massive favour he had done Cameron by selling the idea that Cameron's appointment of a criminal like Coulson was fine because the PM needed Coulson's "finger on the pulse of the common man", instead of the reality was extending two fingers at the common man.

His reward came when the Treasury slipped him the confidential information that RBS were moving a brass plaque to London, that Scotlandshire would lose billions of corporation tax, and that he could humiliate Alecsammin in front of the world's media, destroy splittism, and be the world's most famous journalist.

"How was I to know", he wailed (drenching my bra yet again) "that corporation tax isn't levied in that way. I only did politics and Economics at Oxford. I don't know anything about that stuff, and it turns out neither did the Treasury. Sammin spent seven minutes - SEVEN MINUTES! - humiliating my ignorance in front of the entire world. Of course, I tried to get back at him by smirking that he hadn't answered my question, but then bloody Peston leaked that I was the one who got the Treasury story and that what we had done was illegal.

"Then that bastirt James Cook makes it even worse by saying something true! He's a BBC employee, for fu*ks sake. They're never supposed to do that.

"And now, those damned Scotch police are onto it, and Coulson and I might end up sharing the same cell"! He burst into tears again.

alba braNormally, my bra is removed within a couple of seconds of approaching a man's bed, but mine had now disintegrated through the effect of his acrid tears. Throwing the sad remnants into the bin, I grabbed a couple of teacake wrappers as a substitute (a fashion idea I might adopt. I bet no one else has thought of it!) and left his flat, while he sobbed quietly, curled up at the foot of the bed.

As I left, the words of that Simon and Garfunkel song played again and again in my head, though they seemed a little changed.

And here's to you, Mr. Robinson,

Jesus loves you more than you will know.

God bless you, please Mr. Robinson.

Lords have got a place for those who pay,

Hey, hey, hey

Hey, hey, hey

.

We'd like to know a little bit about you for our files

We'd like to help you learn to help yourself.

Look around you all you see are sympathetic eyes,

Stroll around the grounds until you feel at home.

.

And here's to you, Mr. Robinson,

Jesus loves you more than you will know.

God bless you, please, Mr. Robinson.

Lords have got a place for those who pay,

Hey, hey, hey

Hey, hey, hey

.

Hide it in the hiding place where no one ever goes.

Put it in Westminster with your career.

It's a little secret just the Robinson affair.

Most of all you've got to hide it from yourself.

.

Koo-koo-ka-choo, Mr. Robinson,

Jesus loves you more than you will know.

God bless you, please, Mr. Robinson.

Lords have got a place for those who pay,

Hey, hey, hey

Hey, hey, hey

.

Sitting on a sofa on a Sunday afternoon.

Going to the candidates' debate.

Laugh about it, shout about it

When you've got to choose

Every way you look at this you lose.

.

Where have you gone, Mr Scotlandshire,

Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.

What's that you say, Mr. Robinson.

Fu*king Scots have left and gone away,

Hey, hey, hey

Hey, hey, hey


Related Articles

Wikipedia : Nick Robinson


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