The big question this week is: ‘Should Giles Coren be bound, gagged, shackled and sentenced to life imprisonment in the torture block of the sexual offenders’ wing of Black Beach maximum security prison in Equatorial Guinea, there to become the plaything of Mad “Mamba” Mbigawanga, the Man-Rapist Giant of Malabo?’
Well, obviously, when you put it like that, the answer’s obvious.
The big question this week is: ‘Should Giles Coren be bound, gagged, shackled and sentenced to life imprisonment in the torture block of the sexual offenders’ wing of Black Beach maximum security prison in Equatorial Guinea, there to become the plaything of Mad “Mamba” Mbigawanga, the Man-Rapist Giant of Malabo?’
Well, obviously, when you put it like that, the answer’s obvious. We all hate Coren, those of us who know him, those of us in the media especially, because his very existence is such a maddening repudiation to one of the precious few consolations in this vale of tears: that real talent goes unrewarded.
Look at Jeremy Clarke. OK, so he has a Speccie column rightly worshipped by those in the know, among them Hugh Grant, apparently. But it’s not like Jeremy Clarke’s a household name, is it? He hasn’t got one of those stupidly paid mega-columns in the Mail or the Times. He doesn’t get fish-finger manufacturers ringing him saying, ‘Please Jeremy, please be the next Cap’n Birdseye and allow us to buy you a fleet of BMWs.’ He doesn’t get a 60,000-plus Twitter following just by swearing a lot and telling us what he had for lunch at his latest blowout with his new chum Michael Winner. He doesn’t get paid to go on primetime TV series where all he has to do is eat and get drunk and burp for Britain’s entire male student population to want to give up shaving so that they can all be that little bit more like him.
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