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Cyril Smith
Liberal MP and jovial figure of fun, instantly recognisable to generations of Britfags.
Noted during his lifetime for his "larger than life personality" (oh the hilarity).
Now remembered rather differently.
Biography
Smith was born in Rochdale, Greater Manchester on 28 June 1928, and at 22 years old (and 50 stones in weight) was elected as a Liberal Party councillor on Rochdale Council, in 1966 he was made Mayor of Rochdale and awarded the MBE in the Queen's Birthday Honours List, then elected as Liberal MP for the whole Rochdale constituency in the 1972 General Election. In 1988, at the tender age of two and half tonnes, he was knighted so that's Sir Cyril Smith to you, matey, and due to having eaten all the other nominees he was appointed as Deputy Lieutenant (i.e., appointed by HMQ as her personal representative in the vicinity) of Greater Manchester in 1991, retiring as an MP and declining a Lordship that very selfsame year in order to spend more time with his food.
Rather like another noted 'jovial uncle' figure, Smith was a "lifelong bachelor" who shared his home with his mother (Mrs Eva Smith) until her death in 1994 when he sat on her. Although unlike that particular person, he had to wipe his arsecrack with a rag tied to the end of a bargepole. He died on Friday 3 September 2010 aged 82 years, but didn't fall over because his pendulous abdomen kept him upright, so no-one realised until he started to rot. It then took three men four days to dig a grave measuring 14ft x 16ft x 6ft, his coffin was a spare shipping crate, and the entire local fire brigade had to be called out to lower him to his resting place, but he still got wedged in the aperture and so everyone had to jump up and down on his sticky-out gut until he went pop and finally sank out of view. And there the matter rested.
But what was not generally known until the UK went peedo-barmy was that, rather like Earth's splendorously luminescent satellite the moon, he had a dark side that no-one ever saw.
Actually, scratch that...
... it had actually been known about (but ignored) since 1979, when a local underground 'zine printed a tale dating from the unreformed 1960s during which decade Smith had spanked and sexually abused teenage boys in a hostel he had co-founded, a yarn which was plucked up and recirculated by Private Eye magazine the same month. Smith was police-investigationed but not prosecuted. How very odd. For the rest of his days, Smith was too busy eating to deny, but Lib Party leader Sir David Steel commentated: "All he seems to have done is spanked a few bare bottoms." Truly, the past is another country and they do things different there.
After Savile had kicked the bucket, Smithy's former targets came out of the woodwork in droves. One said that Smith had pwnt him "very, very hard" and he was left boo-hooing like a babby.
Liberal Democrat leader Nick Clegg (who, by the way, was a protégé of Leon Brittan's at EU HQ, isn't that notable?) uttered: "I am deeply shocked and horrified by these terrible allegations and my thoughts are with the victims who had the courage to speak out."
He was still too shocked to put pen to paper two years later, as Smith's sore-arsed victims were puzzled to discover when Clegg repeatedly failed to answer letters from their lawyer. Perhaps someone will administer the smelling salts and Clegg will be restored to his usual camera-hungry cumslut self. Get well soon, Nick!
But then .... Tony Robinson (not Baldrick, instead a former Special Branch officer attached to Lancashire's Filth in the 1970s), said that a big fat bulging file setting out Smithosexual testimonies (which the police claimed was "lost") was actually kept safe in his safe in his office until suddenly sequestered by MI5. Robinson said that the spooks asked him to send it to their London address.
So WTF was going on there, exactly? Blackmail? Protection? All is shrouded in an impermeable veil at present.
Meanwhilst publicity-pushing of the fat man's manifold misdeeds presented a dozen more one-time targets of Big Cyril's 1960s spankery.
Scotland Yard detectives on the Elm Lodge squad police were curious about claims that Smith had somehow managed to fit through the front door to the London guest house of guilty. Perhaps he used the world's biggest shoe-horn and some Swarfega. A spokespolice put forth: "We can confirm Cyril Smith visited the premises".
This sent journalism scurrying to the library to check out Smith's long-forgotten autobiography and, lo, they were not disappointed as they used highlighter pens to pick out following paragraph:
—Smith himself | ||
Yes, you read rightly: Cyril appeared on Uncle Jimmy's show, the same televisual flaunting of peedy patronage that had guested Glitter and Starr with retarded loli laid on as backstage hospitality. Sadly, footage has not yet emerged, so you'll have to imagine it, if you can picture all that concentrated pure paediness being beamed at you from your set.
It has since been insinuated that Savile and Cyril knew each other way way back in the past, long before Clunk-Click. This is not only possibly, but quite probably, when you come to consider that they lived in each other's Manchester backyards for a couple of decades and were each repeatedly protected by the same bent locality-cops. So let's just agree that it's true.
Obviously, this story is completely implausible since it would require another human being to be able to fit in a room that already contained Cyril Smith.
