Now I’ve established Francis Gilbert as the nation’s most despicable curmudgeonly bore, I’d like to show you the first two entries on his blog. This is the man who is attempting to found a doomsaying empire around the fact that he got hit on the head by some children once, when he was on the bus.
TOP FIVE REACTIONS TO THE LONDON BOMBINGS
as featured on Family Fortunes’ Double Money round
- “Fucking hell.”
- “Did you feel that, darling? It felt like the chill of death.”
- “Well, that’s got that out of the way.”
- “Jesus, that could have been Francis Gilbert.”
- “They bombed a bus? Bit of an anti-climax. They’ll be bombing pedalos next.”
- “I hope Francis Gilbert gets through his period of therapeutic meditation soon, and starts a blog.”
From these blog entries, you can imagine him consoling the relatives of the bereaved.
“Yes, that must be terrible, your husband getting blown up on a bus. I got hit on the head by some atrocious yobs, once, and my faith in humanity died an equally messy death as your husband. I’m still grieving today, and my loss only ever gets more profound and agonising. Sometimes I think only my own brilliance gets me through the seemingly endless catalogue of days.”
I’ll leave you with one of his poems, taken from his wonderful website.
Pylons
They stand haunch-shouldered, hands on hips
Skirted by rushing grass and foxglove
Like nannies, with angry pursed lips
Staring at us. Have they no love?
Is it a job and nothing more?
Beneath their metallic glare in June
We, the meadows, the deep forest, the blue air
Hide from them all afternoon.
WHY DON’T YOU LOVE FRANCIS, YOU STUPID PYLONS?
I took my scooter to the Opera this week. It was the first time my scooter had ever been there, and only my second trip. I asked the check-in lady whether she had ever checked in a muddy push scooter at the Royal Opera House before. She said with a wry smile that she hadn’t. She was a pretty, blond Scottish girl. I said that the rest of me was quite smart: I was wearing my snappy black suit which had been such a hit at school. She said that that was a matter of opinion. This put me out, but then I saw her flirtatious smile: she had a soft spot for my scooter. She wrote out on the check-in ticket. “A scooter. Yes, it really is a scooter!!!”
fucking hell
And no doubt the kids who hit him on the bus are in some way connected to those bombings.
As are the pylons……….
No Frank, pylons have no love. It’s not a job for them either – they’re fucking pylons you gibbering toss-piece. They don’t get pissed on a Friday night due to a hard week holding electricity cables up, they don’t catch the bus in the morning, they don’t stare at things, they don’t get job satisfaction, and all because they’re INANIMATE FUCKING OBJECTS.
Oh, and nannies aren’t skirted by rushing grass and foxglove. For one thing “rushing grass” must be some variety of grass completely unfamiliar to any earth-bound gardener, and for another – no-one wears grass skirts any more. Oh alright, Maoris wear grass skirts, but I bet you all my life’s savings of 10p they don’t shove foxgloves up ’em.
It seems someone’s already started polluting Francis’s world. His discussion board has been polluted by the following unseemly posts …
“I show them the toughest gansters that are around, show them what jails they are in. I also tell them how most inmates get sexually transmitted diseases. When they look at me when they realise that there are only males in the jail, it dawns on them its not a nice place. I also tell them the 50 cent 5 cent rule. (its an analogy on the size of your back side when you are in jail- email me if you dont understand)
You see, I also think its how you approach these problems
Mr White”
“Its the first time I’ve ever heard sphincter stretching used as an educational tool.
Do you work at Eton?”
Under the Journalism section is something he wrote for the Daily Mail, no less. It begins like this:
“You might expect John Reid to know a lot about the vile culture of violence that has disfigured our country and made it feel less safe than at any time in living memory.”
Really – any time in living memory,eh? What about the Blitz, you pompous cunt?
Yes. Eton is where I work. Oh, you guys, make me sooooo angry. Grrrr.
I hope something gigantic and evil forms in F. Gilbert’s bumbum
“My stomach lurches though when we approach the bar because I recognise the strange person who is lingering behind it. This person is Chinese in appearance and wears a long smock, has a smooth, feminine face and speaks in a very distinctive, husky, high-pitched voice. It is hard to tell if this is a man or a woman. I decide that he must be a man, but I am not completely certain. I recognise him because a couple of years ago I had dinner by myself with the Famous Biographer, and he served us. He was very cheeky. S/he raised his/her eyebrows mockingly at the Famous Biographer and then gave my face and body a once-over, and said, ‘Ooooooh, he’s not nearly as tall and handsome as the lovely man you had last night.’ The F.B. was embarrassed on my behalf, and fumed that this was a very rude comment. He’d had dinner with the son of a very, very, famous actor, now dead, the night before and disliked the implication.
Two years on, the F. B. said to me, ‘Call me old fashioned, but I like to know someone’s gender when I’m talking to them.’ Nevertheless, he steeled himself and asked for us to be shown to our table. The waiter disappeared — and didn’t return. Reddening in the face, the F.B. led us to our table anyway. Fortunately, we were served by a nice Lithuanian waiter for the rest of the night, and all went smoothly.”
There are so many good things about this I don’t even really know where to start. It’s like it was written by a superpowered humour android from the year 2015 and sent back in time for safekeeping.
Great Scott! is the man for real?
The VERY FIRST THING you see on his blog entry is an embarrassment of riches. I love this from a recent field trip:
“He was staring at me, his face emerging from the rock, his cheeks covered in silky moss, his lips puckered green and glistening, his eyes sad and tearful. I stared back him at him, amazed. I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t expected to go on what I felt would be a mundane tramp around the Cheshire countryside to find something, someone alive in the rock. He was so human that I wanted to talk to him, to ask him what it felt like to be trapped and yearning in the rock for so many centuries, looking down on this wooded escarpment, watching the hikers, the birds, the leaves, the sky, the clouds, the stars drift by. It was his sadness that grabbed me.”
Of course, Gilb isn’t talking about a real human! Or even a tramp, mundane or otherwise. He is using metaphor to describe The Green Man, which is a thing drawn on some rocks. God, he’s good. This isn’t just HISTORY. COMING ALIVE. It’s making seem more interesting than they are by applying human characteristics to them. Fucking genius man.
“Why are you so sad, Mr. G?”
“Oh, I just went for two-sies and for a moment l let my educator’s imagination wander away with me. Suddenly I had anthropomorphised the ordinary brown stool into a scampy, frowny-faced water goblin, and I had the horror of imagining it drowning Oh! drowning! In a turquoise tsunami of fetid water and Bloo Loo. ”
“Your brain is indeed both nature’s blessing and God’s own curse, Francis. But you shoulder the burden so gracefully. Let me take you into my mouth.”
“How do I know you are even real? You could be another imagining of my terrible, wonderful brain.”
“Oh Gilbert, this world just wasn’t meant for one as beauiful as you.”
Also- use less adjectives. Ass-clown.
That’s right, beauiful.
Never mind Log, Heat love you and gave you **** out ***** for the first LotP.
They did namecheck “the fabulous JLC” though. I’m not sure if they’re watching the same Bristolian skinbag of shit and wank that I keep seeing on my telebox though.
“I hope something gigantic and evil forms in F. Gilbert’s bumbum”
This sounds like it’s a variant of the “Man goes into a bar with a frog on his shoulder” joke. Perhaps the bumbum came first and F. Gilbert is the outgrowth?
“Speedwolf said,
July 13, 2006 @ 11:04 am
Never mind Log, Heat love you and gave you **** out ***** for the first LotP.”
Shit out of cunts? Disgusting.
Fucking hell, the Yob Culture forum reads like a Daily Mail editorial . . .
It does, yes. I’m Elsie Snibbets, though. I’m trying to develop a character that will feel welcome there. A passionate but confused lady who is out of tune with her children, who she considers to be yobs. It’s hard work, though – every one of your posts has to be hand moderated. It’s almost like he’s scared of people flashmobbing his place, or something. And looking at the recent additions to his forum members…
I am Viktor, a man who fled his native Azerbaijan because of Azeri chavs, and claimed asylum in this country (
Loving ‘Niggers Out!’, though.
Ooh I see Frankie has made a couple of new posts to the messageboard. One of which points to the infamous review:
http://www.francisgilbert.co.uk/journalism.php?id=33
hmm, I preferred “Pylons”…
i only realised last night that he’s must be talking about something like this in his scooter post
i was almost sick into my bath
I’ve joined as EyelessPete, a middle-aged Yorkshireman whose own attempts to clean up the anti-social types in his neighbourhood were led to his being arrested by politically-correct police.
I’ve just read his review of ‘Law of the Playground’. Effectively his point is: ‘boo hoo! Boo hoo! Some children were naughty in my class and it was rather disruptive’. One is tempted to ask what the FUCK this man is doing in teaching? My mother has been a teacher for nearly 30 years at the very school which spawned the Law of the Playground, and the only time she has been ‘traumatised’ by anything a kid has done is when they’ve shown her the scars of their self-harm.
Francis Gilbert’s mother clearly breast-fed him to an advanced age, and probably talks to him to this day in a baby-talk voice.
I do think that Franksis Gilbet might be a small bit cunt. GOd love him.
Reading another of his poems, Loving Him to Bits, gives us UNDENIABLE EVIDENCE that Mr Giblet is indeed a flaming bummer:
I take him apart
Section by section
Tessellation by tessellation
And unravel a mosaic
Little pieces of multi-coloured glass
Fragments of lapis lazuli
Shards of emerald and amethyst
He’s all in bits on the floor
And then I put him back together
Again
Painstakingly place
Every tiny little filament
Of glass and precious stone
Into the latticework of his frame
So that he is once again
The stain-glassed window
That shines so many different lights
On my life
This I do every day
Constantly
Often in the space of a minute
Or a second
Also, I saw LotP last night, and a little bit of wee came out.
A bummer, or cripplingly autistic. Either way he shouldn’t be working with kiddies.
What a twat.
Why does he talk about himself in the third person! What a cunt.
Why are all his blog posts so … gay. Its like, they are half sentences from some stupid fucking cunt novel. For example
He was staring at me, his face emerging from the rock, his cheeks covered in silky moss, his lips puckered green and glistening, his eyes sad and tearful.
What the fuck sort of blog entry is that? Thats how it starts, like hes some character in a fucking Toliken novel or whatever and hes about to bum a green troll or somthing. It might go like this “He was bent over, ready to get bummed. I unzipped my pants and shoved my fucking scooter up his arse!”
And what about his fucking so called ‘poetry’. It sounds like he just shit out a load of random words and though “Oh how fucking deep and meaningful I am, I must post this on my big wankfest blog so I can show the world how better than it I am” If this is the sort of cunt that can teach out kids today, then no wonder they are so retarded!
For example.
The galleon
Sometimes in the night the soft scratch of a twig
And the rain pinching the pane makes you wake to find
The farmhouse rocking like a galleon’s rig
Through the darkness. The fields part as you leave the world behind
What the hell? Its just about absoluty nothing at all. I think its unfinished, which is kinda cool, maybe he wanted us to finish it. So I did. here it is
The galleon
Sometimes in the night the soft scratch of a twig
And the rain pinching the pane makes you wake to find
The farmhouse rocking like a galleon’s rig
Through the darkness. The fields part as you leave the world behind
Then I got bummed by aload of sweaty seamen all
Ridding scooters.
I was bored in Waterstones yesterday, and had a brief look at ‘Teacher on the Run’. What I saw sickened me. Anyone who uses an acrostic poem (which spells out ‘Mr Gilbert’) to keep his students in line deserves it all.
Over two weeks later, I’m pleased to report that my cunning plan to destroy his message board by posing as the Yorkshire Ripper has made excellent progress. Not only did I forget to post, I forgot having the idea in the first place. I was reminded of it briefly as Log’s party the other week, but then I fell asleep in the garden, and have only been reminded again by reading this comment thread, which I forgot that I had already posted on.