John Profumo has died, aged 91.
It was all a bit before my time, and not the sort of thing I'm too interested in as a rule. However, the passing of a man who fucked it all up just because he couldn't keep his knob in his pants should not go without mention here.
In 1963, John Profumo set the standard for generations of future Conservative politicians by shagging a call-girl then denying it to his wife, friends and Parliament. His lies brought down the Government, most of whom were lying twats as well, all shitting themselves in case the crap that Profumo had heaped into the desk fan would hit one of them on the way out. In the confusion and ensuing court case amazing details of the lives of several senior public figures were spread out all over the newspapers, boosting sales of treble gins in bars the length of Fleet Street. Even more significant for newspaper sales were the rumours and speculation that surrounded the facts. 1963 was the year, and the Profumo Scandal was the affair, that taught the British Press (and therefore the world – we lead the way in this sort of thing back then) the way sell newspapers by whipping up a scandal on a slow news day. The court case was an immoral-earnings number for some poor patsty who was accused of procuring the tart for Profumo and several other men with wives and interesting jobs. The trial never ended as, egged on by his friends, the defendant killed himself.
The tart that Profumo buffed was a busy girl - the list of her other men included Russian Spies and, some claim, the Queen's husband. Prince Phillip. The dirty whore. Nobody can really be sure because she changed her story each time she sold it (as tarts tend to do) and Profumo never spoke of the affair in public, citing the 'great pain' it caused him (presumably in his bollocks every time his wife remembered what he'd been up to).
After getting sacked, Profumo spent the rest of his life being very rich and doing a lodda work for charidee. My mate used to live in his old house too.
My sympathies would go to his wife, but she died a few years ago, thereby missing out on the chance to dance around on his grave in retribution for all those years of making her look stupid in front of the entire world.
Christine Keeler survives, and continues to tell more outrageous lies about what really happened in return for money. Her book, is generally accepted to be made up.
In the absence of anything more interesting to say about this sleazy, lying old toad, here's some pictures of his bird sitting on a chair wi’ nowt on.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Christine Keeler!
