Fallen upon my Head

This one has been a tad humbling to listen through. Let’s get the elephant in the room all dressed up for company before inviting him to tea. When you put things onto the internet, you never expect anyone to actually listen to it. Hearing these so many years later is, honest to fucking god, humiliating beyond my wildest dreams. I feel shattered. Be careful what you put online, kids, because one day it might be used on a hit podcast.

Anyway.

We hear lots of examples in this episode of why The Lancasters suck more than your mum does on a Friday night. Beating up that poor guy’s family at the start, plus hiring that York guy who I don’t even recognise. Clearly my name carried more weight in the family than his (which we all knew already). Might look to hire him whenever I get let free.

On top of that, Henry (aka “Rupert Murdoch Jr”) hacks answer phones and takes advantage of old women. Surely there isn’t anything worse that that slimy, despicable shite of a man would stoop to.

But, wait! There’s more!

Due to some internal conflict in The Lancasters that had been bubbling beneath the surface,

Henry wanted Hastings out of the way. Somehow he’d heard that I wasn’t living my best life at that moment (maybe he listened to my podcast, ugh) and sent Hastings in to take advantage of me (not like that, Hastings, please I’m out of your league). I, of course, am extraordinarily remorseful for having done that, have been a model citizen in prison, and have worked through all of my anger issues and am ready to be released into the wider world.

And all of this shitty behaviour is all apparently because (get your tissues ready) Henry’s family was forced out of town by that sycophant “Gawking” George. Boo hoo. For once in my life, I’m going to change my mind and say that I agree with Elizabeth from a couple of episodes ago. At least you lived to be fucked up by it and now live the cushiest life of us all. Don’t try to claim our pain for yourself. You don’t fucking know what it’s like to live a hard life.

Then, finally, as dessert, we’re served a delicious-looking ice cream sundae, dripping in chocolate sauce, covered in hundreds and thousands with a giant frozen SHIT placed neatly on top.

You might not be aware of what I’m talking about if you got suckered in like an ignoramus: this email from “Richie” at the end.

There’s no way in the flying fucks of hell that they have access to Richie’s email address. She might not have had many skills, but she was the most meticulously anal person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. There’s no way her email was hackable, and there’s no way these chumps have access to it.

This is the final piece of evidence on top of a pile of horseshit of things that just don’t make any sense. This is proof that they’re lying about all of their evidence, and Richie is just a fucking useless blowhard who blew so hard that she exploded into a puddle of mediocrity.

I’m calling it now. This whole show is a fucking lie.