The public persona of Simon Schama is that of an affluent and scholarly sort of man, the sort of man that belongs to the National Trust. This, however, belies a terrible truth that will shock fans of his unique style of history programming; for after all of the pomp and syllables have subsided, there today remains a deeply troubled man.
Unable to find television work after his ‘A History of Britain – By Simon Schama’ series of documentaries left our screens, and shunned by the academic community for making a ‘cunt’ out of himself national TV with his effeminate narration of our great British history in which every fourth word sounds like an innuendo, the self indulgent Schama turned to drink and drugs, and casual sex with welders, frequenting the same-sex wine bars of Merthyr Tydfil in a desperate search for ‘derriere’, as he preferred to describe it.
One day whilst idly knocking back half-pints of gin and um bongo at his favourite haunt and lamenting the continued success of the “high profile but lowbrow” David Starkey, and the fact that Microsoft Word won’t allow you add the word cunt to spell checker dictionary, Schama spotted a handsome and rugged chap walk through the door accompanied by a camera crew. “It’s Ray Mears!” exclaimed Schama to himself, rushing to the bar to wait for an opportune moment to strike up a conversation and ask Mears his preferred method for handling a big chopper.
“What can get you, sir” asked the barman. “A hair of the dog I think please barman. What can you recommend?” replied Mears.
“I always find a Bloody Mary does wonders for you after night on the piss, dear” said Schama, sliding down the bar towards Mears.
“Really, what goes into a Bloody Mary then?” enquired an intrigued Mears.
“Phillip of Spain!” blurted out Schama, grabbing his victim by the arm as he cackled with laughter. “Hi, I’m Simon Schama. Don’t mind my little bit of blue there. Let me get this drink for you.”
“Very kind of you, Simon. I’m Nigel Blower, pleasure to meet you.”
“Oh. Not Ray then. So, what does a hunky specimen like you do for a living then?” said a dispirited but not discouraged Schama.
“I used to be a corporate highflyer where my job was to book myself holidays all over the world, fly there and then get pissed, but I’m out of that racket now. These days I present my own television series where I review same sex wine bars in different cities around the country. Same sex wine bars with Nigel Blower it’s called, you might have seen it on QVC in the early hours after they’ve run of shit to sell?”
… Several drinks into the afternoon and as the conversation flowed, Schama soon got over his disappointment that he wouldn’t be rubbing sticks together with Ray Mears in the woods when he learned that learn that Nigel’s nickname was ‘The Blowfish’. Wild with lust at the prospect of buggering a man that is deemed worthy enough to have been bestowed with that nickname, Schama promptly invited him back to his to bedsit.
“Sorry Nigel, I know it smells like the underside of the Jolly Green Giant’s foreskin, but its home, and with my Argos catalogue rendering of the Magna Karta standing proudly in the corner on its display plinth, it has a certain air of dignity about it” said Schama, as he carried Nigel over the threshold.
“Please, let me get your coat, Nigel. What can I get you to drink?” said Schama, as he placed Nigel on the fold out sofa bed.
“Oh… it must be about Pimms o’clock wouldn’t you say, Simon?”
“Can I be part of your team?” asked Simon seductively, after returning with the drinks to notice that Nigel was wearing a branded polo shirt from an online poker company”
“Oh no, I’m afraid not. You can only be part of this team by qualifying online. It’s an exclusive club.”
“Perhaps we shouldn’t be doing this then, Nigel” snapped Schama, throwing the drinks to the ground, clearly establishing himself as the ‘lady’ in their illicit rendezvous. “Perhaps I should find myself a better man, a man that would let me be part of ANY team that he was in”. And as he sobbed uncontrollably on his knees Schama struggled through the tears to say “how do I know you really aren’t Ray Mears, and this isn’t all just some terrible trick?”
“Listen Simon” said Nigel sternly, grabbing an ear with each hand as he shoved his penis into to the now convulsing Schama’s mouth and states in his best TV presenting voice…
“Hi, I’m Nigel Blower, and I’m inviting you to be part of Team Ladbrokes. Both pipes!”