“The world's second well-dressed philosopher, the first being me.”
Oh, felicitations. My name is Brian Sewell, have you heard of me?
No? Then I suggest that you broaden the general scope of your awareness.
I have existed since time immemorial. I was architect to the pyramids, I was Da Vinci's mentor, I remember when the first troglodyte put chisel to stone and produced history's first sculpture. And today, I will guide you through this article, the only article on Uncyclopedia about the greatest work of art ever created: Myself.
The column running up the left-hand side of this page like an Ionic column is directly modelled upon one found upon Wikipedia, whence the entire design of this website takes its inspiration. On the whole, the halls of Uncyclopedia are decidedly uninspiring, as they are all carbon copies of the halls of Wikipedia, itself a less than vaunted website. Moreover, the so-called humour of Uncyclopedia, or Uncyc as it may be referred to by the common plebeian, is little more than middlebrow, barbarous philistinism.
Being, as I am, the Ancient of Days, I recall when the noble Jonathan Huang, better known by his nom de guerre, Chronarion, last of the great Medicis, put finger to keyboard and began to form the once noble order of Uncyclopedia, which alas in latter days has been overrun with the kind of proletarian ruffianship that currently fills the once sacred galleries of the Louvre.
However, to return from my digression to Chronarion, he was a great eccentric. Amongst other things, he did not care for women. He cared for them so little that he couldn't even try to sire an heir and for the last ten years or so of his life he knew that he was the last of the line- that there was no other Chronarion to come- and so in a sense he gave up.
He said, "I shall enjoy the life I want to lead- have always wanted"- and retired to his talkpage. His talkpage was in an alcove where there is now an altarpiece. He woke at midday, the bells of thought chiming long and in that very moment, through that door, came a donkey, bearing paniards of fruit: peaches and grapes.
And the languid hand of Chronarion, still half asleep, would pluck a peach from the basket and, juice dribbling from his chin, make of it fulsome breakfast. Nothing much else happened for another five hours- and then at about 5 o'clock in the afternoon, it was dinner time. And in came dinner and the Ruspanti. Now the Ruspanti, I have to explain, was a worthless coin, the equivalent in Florence of a farthing- the ruspe- and they were so named because they were worthless boys: all boys, naughty boys, lascivious boys, willing boys.
This article is beginning to assume a decidedly lowbrow atmosphere
I think I need to contact that removals company whose number I dialled last week.
- *Beep, beep ... beep, beep.*
- Oh, felicitations. My name is Brian Sewell. Have you heard of me?
- ... Then I suggest you broaden the general scope of your awareness. I ...
(Sound of phone being put down)
- *Beep, beep. Beep, beep.*
- Oh hello, my name is Brian Sewell. Have you heard of me?
I 'ave, yeah.
- Oh good, then the general scope of your awareness must be at least passable. You are a removals company, are you not?
Er, yeah, we are.
- Marvellous; I was wondering, can you remove proletarian frippery, nouveau-riche vulgarity, anti-diluvian rivultry, second-century eclecticism which panders to the lowest common demoninator, Dadaistic exhibitionism, middle-brow Plebian ruffianship, sweeping generalisations upon the authenticity of the Flemish masters, and the anachronistic notion of semantics?
Yeah, yeah we can do all that.
- That would be beyond satisfactory. I think your dutifulness is to be applauded. Prithee, what is your name, young man? I imagine it's something ghastly like Deso or something similarly pedestrian.
It's er, Norm. Norman Thompson.
- "Norm"? I should have realised.
Is there no limit to my genius?
Do you see? All that was required of me was to phone up a removals company and before you know it, I've civilised humankind. Now all I need to do is have my minions bring me the head of that cheap Francis Bacon imitator Damien Hirst, then manufacture a time machine and ensure that Banksy is aborted. By this juncture, I shall be due for tea and scones at the House of Lords. I will, of course, avoid the House of Commons, as it is far too bourgeois and gauche - or (as brevity is the soul of wit, as the immortal bard stated) far, far too common.