THE DIARY OF PEREGRINE PRICK – The Most Punched Man in Showbiz.

“It doesn’t matter if you LOVE me or HATE me so long as I keep getting money..”

EXTRACTS EXPLODE EXPLOSIVELY IN THIS EXPLOSIVE MEDIA DIARY

Monday

It’s been 3 months since my dramatic departure from the TV show I was brilliant on and I’ve received numerous job offers including one from a Mr P. Wilderness to strap sandbags to my legs and throw myself off the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

More promisingly a group of super wealthy, super important people approach me to run for President of ALL Media – a post which does not and never will exist – but after being plied with a rim job the company of these mover-shakers becomes rather pleasant and I take cocaine with them. Over the course of four hours we take breaks from grinding our teeth, tapping our feet and staring maniacally into the distance to explode in spittle flecked monologues about how brilliant we all are. My phone pings with texts from powerful celebrities the whole time I'm there.

The most disagreeable offer – insulting to a man of my cultural significance comes from a Mr W. Anker who connects on social media simply to tell me to ‘Fuck off!’ – thus proving the old adage - If you haven’t got anything nice to say, try a career in the media! “I’ve got 1.6 million followers” I respond to Mr Anker. “You’ve got 3 and if you put the initial of your first name next to your surname it reads ‘wanker.’ He messages back ‘kill yourself.’ An hour later it's still going on.

Having run out of prospective family members of Mr Anker to insult I decide my time is immensely valuable and pad upstairs to guest on a podcast where I give a deliberately ridiculous defence of something awful that's happening in the world – its incredibly easy for me to do as my huge wealth protects me from any consequences ever. Everyone on the pod loves my robust defence of a cunt behaving like a cunt. “He’s a cunt” I passionately argue. “A cunt is a cunt. What do you want him to do? Not be a cunt?”

Wednesday

A message is directed at me on social media criticising my clearly correct views on [ insert your own hot topic here.] Whilst I like and am close personal friends with The Archbishop of Canterbury, the message isn’t from him so I ignore it. I glance again, assuming it must be from The Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland – another genuine pal but it’s from someone styling themselves ‘Handsy Rim Job III.’ "Fuck off the telly you powder keg tosser!” the message reads. I roar with laughter. Even obscure, minor Royals are desperate for my attention!

Thursday

I’m dozing, jet lagged in my home office when I awake startled from a dream in which I said something deliberately controversial on TV and no one cared. In the dream I demand an update and am informed by the producer that no one has reacted at all across all media platforms and that I am ‘tedious.’ I call up some top grade pornography on my laptop and masturbate to climax before writing an article for a major tabloid condemning pornography as ‘the foundation of all evil.’ After struggling to name a scapegoat I settle on ‘The King of France’ – I’ve no idea if he’ll sue but someone [other than myself obviously] must be held responsible. An hour later my agent calls. The paper loves the article and want to sign me to a weekly column and if I decline will publish over 100 photos they have of me not standing next to powerful and wealthy people. I call the Editor, a close, personal friend and tell him if he dare expose me there’ll be ‘no more chocolate sauce.’ We both know what I mean and I accept the offer.

Monday

A famous person has died. What great friends we were. God I’ll miss him.

Tuesday

I sign a deal with a top broadcaster to host a breakfast radio talk show built entirely around me having conversations with idiots. There’s apparently no staff Anti-Bullying policy in place either so I’ll be able to behave monstrously. “Get me a coffee” I bark at some young intern on my preliminary visit. He goes red like he wants to hit me! If you can’t take the banter stay out of the kitchen!

Thursday

Four shows in my radio show’s going great guns and it’s great working for my old boss who once delighted me by saying I was ‘the most unpleasant person he’d ever met’ but there’s just one nagging problem. Every day my coffee tastes of piss. Before the show I send staff to the outlet on the corner to fetch me coffee and every day it comes back tasting of piss. At the end of the show I call my two assistants into the Green Room and holding up my coffee cup, challenge them directly. “Are you pissing in this?” They both deny it so I demand a station-wide piss test there and then.

Friday

My piss test guy at the lab calls in live with the results whilst both my assistants sit gagged and tied to chairs in the studio as I taunt them with a screengrab of the pre-written reference I will email industry wide to completely destroy their careers. Incredibly there was piss in my coffee but neither intern is a match. I exhaust myself with a tirade of invective before a thought strikes me. I call ‘Bin Guy’ – a close, personal friend from the newspaper days and tell him to go directly to the coffee outlet and get piss samples from every barista employed there.

Sunday

I get into an explosive row with a caller live on air. “I’ve got opinions too but I don’t make such a bloody fuss about it” the caller explodes. “Well – you’re not me. And I’m rich and important” I explode back, clearly winning the exchange.

Thursday

President Moron agrees to an interview provided it takes place on a rickety, wooden bridge suspended above Niagara Falls. We will both have swords and will have to shout to be heard above the roar of the water. I agree instantly but am surprised he’s said yes given how tough and incisively critical I’ve always been toward him [apart from the first time I interviewed him when the chocolate sauce literally flowed like Niagara!] It’s bound to be explosive – I remember the time he threw a live hand grenade at me when I asked why he was so prone to saying things that only appeal to nutjobs and racists – fortunately my ex-assistant Ruhan was happy to sacrifice his life by diving on it. It was hell to clean up all that remained of Ruhan's career but the ratings were incredible – hence The President upping the stakes. At Niagara, if either of us falls we will plunge to our deaths. I immediately text The President a photo of my anus. My phone pings seconds later with his rejoinder - a photo of his anus with my face and tongue photoshopped next to it. I roar with laughter. It will be chocolate sauce all round.

Monday

I’m mic’d up and prepping to interview the most powerful man on Earth and exchanging robust banter with the President’s security detail. One of them – Trey – has just said he wants to fight me one on one with ‘no witnesses, no cameras’ and squeeze my head till it bursts, when one of my team appears to tell me we have a big problem. The President has just been scrolling through my social media feed and seen literally hundreds of critical posts by me, one of which calls him ‘a demented freak show with Everest high mountains of dandruff on his padded shoulders.’

Trey marches me into a dressing room, strips me naked and pushes me into a shower cubicle for a confrontation with President Moron.

“What the fuck is this?” The President bellows, inches from my face. “I don’t have dandruff – look at my shoulders. Do you see any dandruff?”

“I was talking about your suit” I splutter as water sprays in my face.

“You are FUCKING contemptible” he screams.

“Look, are we doing the interview or not?” I demand.

“Yeah, we’ll do the interview. Right after you rim me.”

“I’m not rimming you. You rim me.”

“I’m the fucking President.”

“Not anymore you’re not!”

“Well I’m better than you!”

“Mr President” I say, changing tack. “Have you farted?”

“Get your nose down there and you tell me Peregrine!”

This was getting me nowhere.

“Mr President, you’re the richest, most famous, most brilliant man in the world – society would collapse without you – it would be an honour to taste your chocolate sauce but I’d much rather put you on television to give people the benefits of your whip sharp insights and wisdom.”

The President turns the water off.

We face each other, dripping.

“Ok” he says and shoves past to go choose a wig from his locker.

The President sits down for the interview and things deteriorate immediately. It’s a truly fascinating encounter throughout which I display immense courage – even when things turn even more nasty I continue to ask robust questions like “we’re both powerful men but which of us has the bigger garage?”

“However big your garage is Peregrine, mine’s bigger.”

“Well what’s yours in square feet?”

“I don’t know but its bigger than yours.”

The President at one point starts saying “I know you are but what am I?” in response to every question and his eyes become black holes of entitlement. In a display of incredible charm and journalistic talent I skillfully resort to my trademark flummery and ask how his golf game’s going to get him back onside.

He launches into a lengthy anecdote which we will later cut entirely before I put to him the question everyone in the world can only dream of being able to ask. “How? Just – how? And also – why?”

His resultant threat is somewhat terrifying but he and I know both know its for show. It’s the mark of a genuinely close, personal friendship that I can challenge him on camera like this. I roar with laughter at his threat to utterly ignore every message I ever send him for the rest of his life. It’s seriously great TV. We arrange to meet afterwards for chocolate sauce. But The President doesn’t show.

Tuesday

The President’s TV meltdown is big everywhere – helped a great deal by his own social media posts claiming I carefully edited the trailed clips to make him look like an ignorant moron lacking any of the skills or character traits a man elevated to his position should as a bare minimum have. I can’t believe what’s happened. I genuinely thought we were friends rather than just two narcissists using each other. No sooner has the trailer [which I label ‘explosive’ to disguise its banality] been released than I receive a text from another famous person, which proves again how popular and important I am – “Peregrine, your new trailer is brilliant. You just rinsed The President!” texts Dylan Enlightenment-France. I roar with laughter and text back “thanks.” No sooner have I pressed send than another 3 texts arrive – all from famous celebrities – all of them proving how important my presence on the planet is. I’m a beacon for banter and its chocolate sauce all round!

Wednesday

I become aware that another powerful celebrity has been telling The President his chocolate sauce is richer than mine. I go to Defcon One and challenge him to a taste test on social media. He immediately accepts. All we need now is The President.

Saturday

I get a call informing me a powerful celebrity has refused to do a video message endorsing my new talk show. Memories flood back of my big break in journalism – when I appointed myself editor of my school newspaper at eleven years old – the youngest editor in the school’s history and the Headmaster’s subsequent refusal to also make me Head Boy. I paid two boys I had zero respect for to find his address and go through his bins – luckily they also had zero respect for themselves and agreed.

The bin search turned up nothing of interest but we did discover The Headmaster playing golf naked in his back garden when his wife and three children were out. The moral parable of the Sword of Damocles is of course that what may appear to be a life of luxury and power is in fact fraught with anxiety, terror and death and it certainly proved true in the Headmaster’s case! I successfully held the photographs over his head for a year until as Head Boy and Editor of 'The Peterhaus Over-Confident' I had secured £11,576 in payments to not publish the photos and been awarded every single prize on offer in school.

The Head sadly committed suicide a month later – I led the tributes with a 68 page memorial edition, then one week after the funeral, published the photographs anyway. His wife sued but I successfully argued that despite being unable to produce a single member of the public who had shown any interest, it was a matter of public interest if a man responsible for the education of 1,200 children liked to play golf naked. The Head’s wife countered that it was in the privacy of their family home and that our campaign amounted to harassment. I lost interest at this point, threw a 5 pound note at her for damages and walked out into what I was disgusted to find wasn’t a scrum of reporters. I resolved that whatever I did from this moment there would be a scrum of reporters around me, notebooks and recording devices in hand, desperate to hear my views. It could still happen.

I call Bin Guy and tell him to target the powerful celebrity. I wonder what foibles will be uncovered. Everyone has them. Mine is to lick chocolate sauce off freshly printed production stills of Terry Geneva's Naked Lumberjack show. Luckily my friends are many and powerful and no one will ever find out.

Monday

Ratings are huge for today's show, largely thanks to my interview with Michael Intentional-Bigot – all I have to do is say the word ‘Dagenham’ and twelve minutes later every people of every country in the world have been eviscerated. 90% of everything he says is easily refuted which is why I allow him to spew forth unchallenged. Social media goes crazy with millions demanding anyone who disagrees with Michael’s views be hanged and millions more clamouring for him to be hanged for expressing them. I check my bank balance.

Tuesday

I accept The President's challenge to a live ‘Phone Off’ on American TV. The concept – we both turn our phones off and have to survive with only each other to focus on for seven minutes, after which we switch our phones back on and see which one of us has the most ‘likes’ on social media and comments from powerful celebrity friends – relies on us responding to a series of onscreen images as conversational prompts. We begin covering familiar ground – domestic policy, middle east flashpoints and I clearly win each exchange before the screen changes to an image of Her Late Majesty, The Queen. I cum immediately. Without even being erect. The President counters with an anecdote about his state visit to Britain and how he “shot so much bean juice” over the Palace wallpaper he couldn’t sign any autographs for the people he pays to ask for his autograph for 6 whole weeks.

“I knew her better than you, Peregrine” he claims.

“You didn’t know her at all.”

“Then why did she invite me personally to visit her?” he snarls.

“She didn’t invite you personally. She invited you in accordance with your then position as The President.”

“She said she was very pleased to meet me”

“She said that to everyone. She even said that to me” I bluster.

“She was incredible” he laments.

“Irreplaceable” I offer, feeling my balls revive. A further 90 seconds of platitudes is all it takes and I climax again, followed shortly by The President.

The show ends with us both in such a bad way we forget to turn our phones back on and I’m completely exhausted. I don’t even properly know two of my own children but God help anyone who ever finds the calendar I keep in my loft of The Queen.

Saturday

I walk into my local bookshop to ask if they need any copies of my books signing and find another powerful celebrity doing the same. He shows no interest in me whatsoever, which I decide means he loathes me and I initiate a social media feud.

“I saw you in the bookshop signing copies of your own books. Sales a bit slow?” I post on social media then wait impatiently for his response. 12 minutes later he still hasn’t responded. An hour later, still nothing. My many and powerful followers leap to my defence and begin to message him directly – ‘Hey Peregrine sent you some banter’ one says. ‘When are you gonna respond?’ voices another.

I call his agent next day.

“This is Peregrine Prick.’

‘Yes?’

I condemn his prize author’s cowardice and demand to know when he’ll be replying to me.

‘He’s got better things to do’ the agent yawns and the phone goes dead.

Thursday

Roger Mouth-Penis hosts a huge party at London Booze Box. I’m greeted at the door by a powerful celebrity who says ‘Fuck off Peregrine!’ and decks me with a punch. I roar with laughter and curl up in a ball on the carpet until security taser him. Inside I know its 50/50 whether the next person I meet will love me or hate me but amazingly its Mouth-Penis himself who oozes over dribbling urine down his legs – he famously never wears trousers and welcomes me with a handshake so warm he’s clearly just handled 'it.' “You took a good punch there Peregrine, but you know how much I love, admire and respect you” he gushes. He then moves away and doesn’t speak to me again.

I gladhand [or gland-hand in the case of Mouth-Penis!] the assembled guests until I’ve divided the room and got the people who hate me on one side and people who love me on the other. I stand in the middle shouting banter at them all until a powerful female celebrity breaks ranks and tries to silence me forever with a stiletto heeled shoe. Silly madam – yes ‘madam’ – that’s the phrase I’m going with to describe a woman in the year of our lord 2022 – has obviously had too much champagne. I roar with laughter at the blood in my hair as her footballer husband restrains her and in so doing accidentally kicks, headbutts and elbows me in the face. One side of the room jeers, the other roars approval. I ask all of the powerful celebrities to come on my talk show. ‘Of course I will Peregrine’ promises one, ‘Love to Peregrine’ offers another. The next day I call their agents. All of them say no.

Friday

The big show goes well. Afterwards I call the team into the studio and forbid them to make eye contact with me. “Well done. We made the show” I say then add a warning. “You are all alive ONLY because I’m allowing it.” They stare silently at their feet as I switch into jokey banter mode. “Go out tonight. Enjoy it! But don’t forget your lives now revolve around listening to me, a certified turd burglar.”

Sunday

TWAT NEWS invite me to guff about the Queen and what will be her unsurpassable legacy. God her resilience makes me hard. And her sense of duty. Being obliged by birth to do a job she never even had to apply for and doing it for so long without ever saying or doing anything interesting. I can’t even imagine the coverage if I die. We sit in a tepee littered with betting slips and pass an hour farting into our pyjama’s. Afterwards I get drunk in a bar with the England cricket team. They recognise me and make me stand further away. God bless you Ma’am.

Wednesday

Damm. A powerful celebrity [and close, personal friend] has announced he will be doing an interview on our rival channel with Jerry Fuckburger. Fuckburger predictably takes to bragging about this coup on social media. ‘Bet Peregrine Pricks annoyed about this’ he says. He’s right. I am annoyed. But I don’t tell him that. I call the powerful celebrity and tell him what we found in his bins. He sobs hysterically for a full minute before agreeing to take his chances with me instead. Fuckburger is distraught! You’d have to work hard to find a man more petty and vindictive than I am I joke, like it’s a good thing!

Friday

The President calls. He’s 90% sure he’s going to announce something but he doesn’t know what. “I need attention Peregrine” he says. “What can I announce?”

“Just say something crazy” I advise.

“It’s too predictable Peregrine” he whines. “I want to give the people something they won’t expect”

“Say something rational..”

“I’m building a Death Star, Peregrine” he interjects.

“Mr President..”

“I had my weapons guy sketch it out. It’s happening.”

I put down the phone. This is chilling. The President with a Death Star he can fire at the press of a button. I immediately envision a scenario where it’s me against him. Live. For the fate of humanity. I call The President’s personal number and pitch the idea. He cuts the call as an assistant is irrigating his anus but I can tell he’s onboard. The ratings will be incredible.

Saturday

A new up and coming powerful celebrity shakes my hand at a high profile event. “It’s an honour to meet you. WOW – even your handshake is robust” he tells me, then introduces me to his wife Smolensk with the words “She’s your biggest fan, Peregrine” – a fact she then confirms by gripping my hands and saying “He’s right. I’m your biggest fan!” She then shows me her vagina followed by a snap of her home office, which has photos of me plastered all over the walls. Even a man as needy for approval as me can’t help being slightly alarmed. Even more so as she leans in close and tells me her husband happily wears a mask of my face everytime they ‘make boogie.’

Tuesday

My new interview explodes explosively with fifty times more idiots wanking over it online than watching on TV. My recent interviews with controversial author Lachlan Duce, professional arsehole Snooze Michaels and a man who believes a gerbil called ‘Megatensil’ runs the world from his laptop, have all been watched by millions on Nude Lube, with shorter, half-second clips entertaining millions more on HUGE, WANK and FUCK OFF!

It all temporarily distracts from a world revolving around the naked pursuit of power and money. Those with neither need people like me to engage their brains with inconsequential guff and its only fair i'm afforded power and wealth for providing this service. This is the long term future for a world with me in it. Everything will get shitter and I’ll be at the forefront.

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