This week brought the sad news that Keith Floyd has finally conked out after a lifetime of drinking like a pissed fish and smoking like a laboratory beagle. I have previously written about my affection for the old git, which raises the question of whether this little-read snicket of the interweb has somehow become cursed. I often brush off the heather-flogging gypsies in Covent Garden - perhaps the angel of death has been summoned to use these ramblings as a shopping list? If Jarvis or Luke Haines go next then I'm calling in Doris Stokes.
By all accounts Keith's last TV appearance (which he was settling down to watch when my evil eye polished him off) being interviewed by that rancid bully Keith Allen was almost unwatchable. Obviously on death's door, he raged against the TV chefs that prospered in his wake while he, in his own addled opinion, got shafted. Whilst this is a sad last gasp for someone who made a genuinely significant contribution to British TV, better that be his final appearance than this assault on common sense:
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