Whale On

TetleysTLDR: The Summary 

James Whale, the perpetually sneering talk radio host & professional wind-up merchant, has died aged 74.  A mainstay of shouty right-wing broadcasting, Whale spent decades picking on the vulnerable, sneering at the poor & mistaking cruelty for wit.  In this satirical imagining of his afterlife, Whale arrives in Hell and is subjected to a bespoke eternity of ironic punishments: surrounded by the people he ridiculed, forced to listen instead of shout & tormented by the echo of his own nonsense.  Frankly, the only decent thing the man ever did was put The Aardvarks on the telly & now he’s gone, there's slightly more oxygen for the rest of us. 

TetleysTLDR: The story  

When James Whale died, it wasn’t so much a solemn passing as a loud, wheezing harrumph.  One moment he was berating a caller for having the gall to be unemployed and Welsh, and the next, he was facedown in a tub of lukewarm custard, shouting obscenities at an angel. 

Hell, as it turned out, didn’t roll out red carpets. It rolled out Daily Mail editorials printed on asbestos and laced with itching powder. And right there at the arrivals lounge, beneath a giant animatronic Katie Hopkins screaming 'snowflake!' every thirty seconds, stood Satan, holding a clipboard and a very long pencil. 

"Ah, Mr Whale," Satan sneered, adjusting his monocle with a claw. "I’ve been dying to meet you." 

Whale blinked.

"Is this some sort of BBC diversity scheme?" 

"No," Satan said. "This is eternity. You're in Hell. But don’t worry. We’ve curated your torment very carefully bespoke damnation, you might say". 

Satan led him through the gates, ornate wrought-iron things shaped like Margaret Thatcher’s hairdo and into what appeared to be a TalkTV set built by a deranged circus clown. There were neon signs, an endless panel of rabid gammon-faced pundits, and a looping feed of James O’Brien calmly debunking bigotry while sipping tea. Every surface was padded in foam made from recycled Guardian think-pieces.  In the centre of it all stood Nigel Farage, in hotpants and a peacock-feather boa, gyrating atop a Brexit-themed podium. 

"Is this my punishment?" Whale gasped. 

"No, no," Satan said cheerfully. "This is just the green room. Come along. Your segment’s about to start." 

They ushered him onto a stage titled The Cancelled Zone where the studio audience consisted of everyone Whale had ever insulted, mocked, or passive-aggressively patronised on air. There were thousands of them: single mums, trans kids, northerners with vowel sounds longer than their lifespans. And all of them holding scorecards and tasers.

“Today’s show,” the producer-beast announced... “is called Why James Whale Wasn’t Actually Funny, Just a Loud, Sweaty Bully". 

The theme tune, a dubstep remix of the Radio 4 shipping forecast, boomed over the tannoy. Whale, now in a sparkly leotard made entirely of Daily Express headlines, was strapped into a chair that gave him mild electric shocks every time he used the words 'woke', 'liberal elite' or 'common sense'.  Every time he tried to interrupt a panellist, a giant foam hammer labelled CONSEQUENCE walloped him in the face. 

For lunch, he was force-fed tofu and watched grainy documentaries about trade unions and climate science.  His water supply had been replaced with Alastair Campbell’s podcast on loop, and the only toilet was guarded by a scowling Jeremy Corbyn in chainmail, who insisted on discussing mutual aid before granting entry. 

“Why am I being punished?” Whale bellowed to Satan during the mid-afternoon break. 

“Punished?” Satan said. “No, no, we’re just giving you exactly what you gave others: smugness, indifference, and the ceaseless hum of your own voice ricocheting back at you. Karma’s a TalkRadio feedback loop.” 

At one point, Whale tried to rally a rebellion with other disgraced pundits: Piers Morgan, Kelvin MacKenzie, and a shrieking hologram of Enoch Powell, but they all turned on each other before lunchtime, arguing over who was more misunderstood. 

Week three saw Whale transferred to the Boiling Lake of Irrelevance, where forgotten right-wing broadcasters bubbled like dumplings in gruel, shouting into mics that weren’t plugged in. 

Occasionally, the lake burped out the phrase 'It’s political correctness gone mad!' before sucking another one under. 

James tried escaping via the River of Conspiracy, but was quickly overtaken by a ghost canoe piloted by Richard Littlejohn, who kept trying to grope spectral nurses while yelling “It's all a Marxist plot!” 

Eventually, Whale resigned himself to his fate. He began broadcasting to no one, in an echo chamber made entirely of his own ego, where the only listener was a sentient sock puppet called Reasoned Debate, who nodded politely before tasering him every time he said 'immigration'.  

And so, for all eternity, James Whale remained trapped in Hell: surrounded by the very people he spent a career mocking, forced to listen, think, and feel: none of which he’d previously considered a professional necessity. 

And somewhere, in a far-off celestial office, the angels ticked his name off the list and quietly upgraded Heaven's DAB signal.

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