It’s Been A While…

Ok, it’s been an embarrassing length of a while. I have no excuses. Forgive me?

The problem with Hucknall is that he never really goes away. He went quiet for a while (much to the gratitude of the soon to be former Mr Minxington, paperwork pending) much like I did, and now can be mostly found talking shite on Twitter (much like I can…)

Mr Minxington and I went our separate ways about four years ago. After I turned 40 and had the worlds most epic midlife crisis not involving the purchase of a sports car, I realised that I’d been keeping a secret from not just everyone else but also myself. The bottom line being, I’m just not a fan of cock. You’d think after 16 years with someone who was in possession of a cock it would have become apparent sooner, but I was far too busy trying to be all things to all people to not actually listen to myself. I won’t bore you with the details, it was a rough old time, and I was more or less the last to know, but here I am, late onset lesbianism notwithstanding, through the worst of the ending of a marriage to someone I really loved and cared for, and ready for a few new adventures.

Times have changed since the days of Old Huck. We were the forerunners of today’s internet trolls, mercilessly ripping into the celebrity culture, carelessly throwing our opinions and incisive wit with splattering precision at the celebrities and wellknown figures of the day without a care in the world. On the old site, members in their thousands joined to vent their collective spleens over their distaste at Kate Lawlers stint at presenting breakfast TV and the actions of G W Bush, or to occasionally give us the fear of a brush with the solicitor of a disgruntled Duncan from Blue… There was some moments of absolute comedic genius, but then the bile and vile swamped the smile and the style, and the whole thing had to go.

Latterly, there was this. An attempt by me to resurrect the basically sound premise of formulating a list of people who could be judged more or less annoying on a scale of Hucknall by the readers, accompanied by some bad photoshopping and occasionally funny things that popped in my head. Even now I still occasionally revisit the Sarah Jessica Parker post and piss myself laughing at “Four Faults”. I don’t even care it was my joke I’m laughing at. It just got stuck under my ribs to occasionally resurface and tickle me. It’s been essential as well, to remember that once I was capable of having a sense of humour. And a voice.

Now and again I get a call to “Bring Back Hucknall”. Until now, the timing has never been quite right. Either my personal situation hasn’t allowed me the headspace to properly consider doing this again (it’s not the smallest of tasks to commit to) or I’ve just not been feeling it for one reason or another.

In the last couple of years, however, things have become SO ridiculous that now seems to be just the right time. Whether Hucknall should legitimately still be the figurehead of fun of this endeavour is one to be debated at a later date, there are certainly newer models who could fill those shoes as the benchmark of annoyance just as well, but for now, I’m going to stick with the original and best, because he genuinely is pretty much middle-of-the-road annoying nowadays, so it should be easy enough to use him as a yardstick.

For the record, all content contained within should be treated as satire and observational comedic opinion. Comments are the responsibility of those that posted them. Not me. So don’t lose your shit and try and sue me. It’s a joke. Mostly for my own amusements. But if it amuses you too, all to the greater good.

Previous posts will remain in situ although I might go through them just to double check there are no dead people on there and remove them, just for common decency sake.

Nominations for additions to the list are as always welcome, please feel free to message me to see your personal annoyance given due consideration.

It is 00.56 on January 5th 2019. Let the resurrection commence.

Because You’re Worth It!!

Merry Christmas Viewer!
As the end of another year approaches, I thought it would be nice to give you all a delightful Christmas Gift. And what better gift than the addition of “The Nations Sweetheart Mk 18” ™ to the ongoing list of people that are more annoying than Ye Olde Favourite Michael of Hucknall.

 

We gotta fight...fight... fight... with people paid a pittance to mind our coats!

 

 

Ok, not my finest photochop, but I was taking instructions from my seven year old daughter.

Anyway, can we have someone new to fawn over in 2011? Maybe someone with… perhaps… some talent? Who can sing live? Who isn’t buried waist deep in music mogul Simon Cowells anus? Obviously that rules out Sinitta, but I am sure her hopes of a comeback died some time in 1989. It also rules out Louis “Just For Men” Walsh, who as far as I know can’t actually sing anyway, although this is merely Hearsay. Whatever happened to them anyway? I know where Myleene and Kim are, but what happened to the others? Poor old Shrek.

So, 2010 wasn’t Chavryl’s finest year.  Whilst one must be careful of making litiginous commentary, it is fairly safe to say her marriage was a disaster, her health took a bit of a pounding, and worst of all, none of her acts won the X-Factor. Poor old Rebecca. She really is very good.  I think you can have too much of a good thing though, and whilst I use that term loosely, I heartily recommend that 2011 should be declared a Cole Free Zone. In fact, I think we should start protesting outside the Houses of Parliament for a total ban on Tweed.y. Things. Yes, Jack, that includes you. You no-mark waste of space. I might go and give Princess Anne’s Lada a bit of a shake and wave a stick at it.

If she does in fact go off to the States to be subtitled as a judge on the new American version of the X-Factor, that will at least give us some respite from her omnipresent self, although I am sure her L’oreal contract will never allow her to be too far from our eyes, and of course ITV 2 are BOUND to run American X-Factor, but then they also show “The Only Way Is Essex” so there really is NO need to turn that channel on unless you happen to want to watch the Corrie Omnibus, and while we are on the subject if it is true that Kerry Katona has been given a 3 year ITV deal – WHY? DEAR GOD WHY? I may just delete the whole channel from my EPG. (Thats Electronic Programme Guide, fact fans…)
Anyway. Chervil Cole. Happy Christmas and welcome to the world of being More Annoying Than Mick Hucknall.

 

Don’t Panic!

If there's anything around here more important than my ego, I want it caught and shot now!

On the 6th May 2001, the author Douglas Adams died. He was best known for writing “The Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy” which is, in this bloggers humble opinion, one of the best trilogies in four parts ever written. If you are not familiar with this work, it started life as a radio series, was adapted into book form, tv form and more recently film form.

“Hitchhikers” enthusiasts often argue over which was the better media and no-one is ever right. They all had their merits, but the main merit was the fact that Douglas Adams was the hoopy frood behind it all.

He really knew where his towel was.

As a work of comedy science fiction, it is yet to be bettered. But even Adams imagination could not have possibly conjured up the concept that just a mere 9 years and 360 days after his death that one of his main characters in the series would come to life and end up in charge of his country of birth.

Daphod Clegglebrox, the two headed megalomaniac that is currently residing in Downing Street, where he has a personal masseur for his ego and another one for the cock attached to him. Everyone loves a happy ending. Shame that we aren’t very likely to get one.

Now, those that know me well will know that I am about as far from being a Tory as you can possibly get. But then, a mere 8 months ago, you might have thought you could say that about the Liberal Democrats.

It was coming up to the election, the televised debates were provoking massive response up and down the country, and Gordon (The Gone-fer) Brown was looking decidedly sweaty and uncomfortable about his long term future. “Nick Clegg – The People’s Good Egg” was making a huge impression, and showing up the other two quite spectacularly.

Poor Old Gordon. He wasnt a bad Chancellor, all things considered,  but as a PM he lacked charm and personality, which in this media controlled age seems to be an important quality to have. After devastatingly attractive  good looks of course. We are but a fickle nation.

That’s how Anne Widdecombe got elected and I defy anyone to tell me otherwise. J/K – she’s a proper godber.

I think perhaps had Cheryl Cole been up for election it would have been a very different story and outcome for the country. We would have felt a lot more like we were worth it, pet. And a law would be passed that allowed you to chin a cloakroom attendant whenever you wanted. Missed opportunity there.

Obviously this rule of thumb was disregarded where it came to David Cameron because he didnt get enough votes to be an outright winner. Mostly because he is a Tory and people can still remember the last time they held power for far too long.

But those who had decided they didnt want Brown and didnt think the Lib Dems could cut the mustard, added to those twelve people who own the top 96.7% of the countries wealth between them, DID vote for DC and so he had a bit of a headstart when it came to negotiating for making a coalition.

So, Gibbering Gordon was dropped faster than Katie Waissel’s Grandma’s incontipants, packed up his red and white spotted hankerchief on a stick, and the newly formed “Con-dems”  gave each other a “high-five, on the side, up above, down below, very sorry you’re too slow!”, and moved in together like the Morecambe and Wise of the New Millennia.

Whereas the rest of the country rubbed their eyes in disbelief, rubbed them again just to check, pinched themselves to make sure they werent actually dreaming this hellish scenario, and then began to make plans involving a long queue, Beachy Head, and springy shoes.

And now we begin to see the fruits of our voting powers. Decimation of the public services our country was once so proud of.

Financial squeezing of the poor, and the not very well off, while those at the top with the big coin merely shrug at the loss of their child benefit.

Students being the first but surely not the last to  riot at being forced into so much debt that they will need to become Prime Minister in order to clear it once they graduate.

And of course the insult to injury of Smarmid Macaroon proudly proclaiming himself to be happy to be seen as a “Child of Thatcher” – The aforementioned Thatcher being former Tory PM “Iron Lady” Margaret Thatcher-Milk-Snatcher, who will go to her grave in the sure and certain knowledge that the nation will embark on a week-long period of delighted square dancing at the announcement of her demise.

And perhaps some spontaneous Zumba.

Those of us who do not view her with honey-glazed eyes will have no doubt considered this announcement by Daphod as something akin to political suicide on his part.

So can we safely assume that there is some form of Vogon origins within this doubleheaded manbeast? After all, Vogons don’t think, they don’t imagine, most of them can’t even spell, they just run things. And if we don’t hitch a ride soon, you won’t need the guide to tell you just how unpleasant they can be. They already destroyed a planet today, and that always makes them a little… eeee!

As things get progressively worse, we should perhaps look to the Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy for inspiration on how to cope in these troubled times.

It says “What to do if you find yourself stuck with no hope of rescue: Consider yourself lucky that life has been good to you so far. Alternatively, if life hasn’t been good to you so far, which given your present circumstances seems more likely, consider yourself lucky that it won’t be troubling you much longer.”

In the name of people, and freedom, and democracy, and stuff like that, I hereby kidnap myself, and I’m taking this ship with me. Whoo!

Don’t Panic.

What Would Paul Mckenna Do?

"Cupboardy"

 

Firstly, massive apologies for the lack of recent updates, I’ve been right poorly in the chesticles and have not had the strength or willing to write anything bigger than 140 chars, via my phone, whilst flopping around on the couch coughing until I turn purple and more than a little bit of wee leaks out. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, we all piss ourselves when we have a chest infection. Don’t we?

Right, then.

And I don’t mean it leaks out of my mouth either, before the anally retentive come amongst us questioning my sentence structure. I am still ill, mkay? Just be grateful you’re getting anything.

Munchkin made me a card earlier, which she had painstakingly written inside “Hope you get better”. Me too. I don’t fancy the alternatives much.

Paul McKenna can’t make me better. Only the baby Jeebus could perform that sort of miracle. He would lay his hands on my fevered chest, and say “Rise, from your couch of unwellness, my child, and you shall breathe without restriction once more”. Then I would leap up feeling stronger than Mr Strong at the World’s Strongest Mr Man competition, sing The Mikado without stopping for breath, pull a lorry 400 yards with barrels strapped to my feet and the world would gasp with amazement.

He can’t make me thin, either. (I’m back to Paul Mckenna again by the way, I’m sure the baby Jeebus could “Let me apply the Dyson of Divinity to your rampant midriff, my child, and you shall wobble no longer”.)

I know he can’t make me thin, because I tried to let him. He’s also failed to make me rich, failed to make me give up smoking and failed to make me think he’s a superhero.

If he had brought out a book that was entitled “I Can Make You Wish You Were Never Born”, then we might have been getting somewhere.

Now, to say you can make someone do something, well, that’s quite a claim. It also takes the responsibility away from the person who is endeavouring to journey down the path of self-improvement. (Did I mention there’s a new Argos opening within walking distance of my house? The Laminated Book Of Dreams ON MY DOORSTEP!)

If he had for example, entitled the book “I can make you empower yourself to a level where you can control your eating disorders and not shovel 15 Galaxy Ripples in your face by the day” – then that would at least give some responsibility for self care and self improvement to the self who wanted to do it in the first place. But no, he takes ALL the credit. “I DID IT! ME! YOU JUST DID WHAT I TOLD YOU TO DO! ITS MY GLORY, NOT YOURS!!!”

Which kind of spoils the results a bit, should they prove to be successful. “Oh great, I lost 17 stone, THANKS BE TO PAUL MCKENNA!”

He possibly wields more power than Jeremy Kyle, Uri Gellar and The Great Suprendo COMBINED! (That would make a marvellous photoshoppertunity – I must create that spoonbending golfball licking usedtobonevictoriawooding monster…)

Screw Scientology, let’s all join the cunt cult of McKenna. We can get a big house, turn it into a commune, get dirt under our toenails, grow beards, screw everyone and meet after the evening meal to share and ruminate upon the various Tomes Of McKenna. Then we can take hallucinogenics, and our Master will come amongst us, bind us hand and foot, and describe in glorious technicolour what a Galaxy Ripple looks like all covered in VOMIT POO AND CAT HAIR. We will be thin in no time, and will be able to more freely go out amongst the people, and teach them the way to the Truth. We will however be a non-profit making organisation, that won’t be a problem will it, Mr McKenna? I mean, if you genuinely want to help people… Even the Jehovah’s Witnesses give out their literature for free! Not sure about the Moomins though. You have to pay through the snozz to be in their gang.

What do you mean you charge eighteen billisquillion to attend one of your seminars? But people can just get the book for £7.99 from Amazon and all good bookshops! Dontchathink you might just be OVERINFLATING IT A BIT?

Well then maybe we will just have to look elsewhere for a spiritual leader – if that’s the way you feel about it. I’d rather it be Bill Bailey anyway. He won’t force me to imagine my favourite food EVER all covered in horrid things. He will just tell me about how a  squirrel and an elf had a race and the pixie queen gave out galaxy ripples to everyone to mark the golden anniversary of yesteryore. And he’s got more hair than you. Fuck you, Mckenna. Fuck you! If I want to be thin, that’s up to me to achieve and YOU aren’t going to take all the credit! HA! Howd’ya like them apples? And cupboardy is NOT a word and I won’t look into your eyes, I will look AROUND the eyes.

I’m Less Annoying Than Mick Hucknall! No 2. Bob Carolgees!

Now Officially Less Annoying Than Mick Hucknall!

 

So, after writing that Cilla post earlier, I got to thinking. A long time ago, Bob Carolgees was interviewed by some website or other and said that his career low was finding himself on the website version of 1000 People More Annoying Than Mick Hucknall. At the time, I gave a little internal cheer and had a moment of pride that we had beaten down all the abuse he got on Tiswas, all the days he stood in the pouring rain doing outside broadcasts for Surprise! Surprise! and stuffing his hand up a stuffed dogs arse for a living. 

HOWEVER.

Those days are pretty much over. Bob now owns a candle workshop place near Delamere Forest, and sells very pretty candles for a living. He is no longer largely responsible for various infections being spread like wildfire around playgrounds while horrible children justify their spitting at a classmate because “that dog on the telly did it”. Indeed, his new website (which is linked in the linkydink thing on the front page) gives you lots of useful tips, like “how to use an ornamental candle as a candle, without using it as a candle” (I won’t spoil the joy if you go visit, but it basically involves fitting a tealight shaped hole in the top and using tealights instead of the actual candle. Damn, I spoilt the joy, visit anyway.)

As you may recall, Mark Kermode became the first person to be deemed less annoying – and frankly, I am pondering a rethink on that because I sent a nice email to point out it was 1000 people more annoying and not fifty and I don’t think he cared because he didn’t correct himself later.

But for now, Bob Carolgees, will become the second, (and that’s an exclusive honour, I still have a lot of list to fill,) person deemed OFFICIALLY less annoying than Mick Hucknall.

I designed this on his website, and am actually toying with sending him it. But once you do one... They'll all want one.

No, I haven’t gone mad, and no, you can’t make me change my mind.

SURPRISE SURPRISE!

Chun-Li's granny taught her everything she knows...

 

Ello Chuck!

Surprise Surprise! It’s Cilla Ere!

She used to be simple Priscilla White, until a magazine error turned her into Cilla Black, which she liked better and stuck with. A bit like a reverse-Jacko, if you will.

Once upon a time she was a pop singer from Liverpewl, working class through and through who was in the right place at the right time for the whole Merseybeat music scene to kick off. Then she got older, and turned into a TV presenter and pantomime horse, fronting such eighties delights as Blind Date, and Surprise Surprise.  

You kids today know NOTHING about suffering. You get Ant n Dec and Graham Norton for your Saturday night televisual viewing pleasure. We children of the 80’s and 90’s suffered Cilla, Roy Walker, and Larry Grayson doing The Generation Game. And we didnt have Ipods to block it all out with, or 200 other tv channels to choose from. 

In your day, “Graham” is the guru of re-invention from a shitty life that Jeremy Kyle calls upon to dish out therapy and advice to his wayward toothless guests. “Our Graham” was a voiceover from behind the stage that introduced the half-witted contestants on Cilla’s Blind Date and gave us reminders of their tedious unfunny responses to the questions posed by the person looking to choose a potential match. If only they had been realistic and not scripted responses.

Cilla “And here’s our Graham, to give you a reminder”

Graham “Will it be Number 1, overeager,  face like the back end of a bus but goes like a train? ”

“Or Number 2, reasonably attractive in a kind of vacuous way, but invariably will turn out to be completely frigid when left alone with you for more than 5 minutes?”

“Or will it be number 3, The joke contestant that has the best personality of the three, but will make you take several steps of recoil backwards when we pull the screen back due to the large fungus she has growing on her forehead and the fact that she’s medically classified as a dwarf and has one leg shorter than the other? Oh yes, and she smells a bit musty.”

“”Hapless Fool, the choice is yours!”

At least the poor chooser might have had half a chance of finding the right one of the three instead of having to choose from a load of insipid sucky uppy clichéd sales-pitches interspersed by the geriatric studio audience whooping to order.

I’m digressing again aren’t I. This is supposed to be about Cilla, which it kind of is. Sort of. She is annoying though, isn’t she? 

My brother used to do a very passable Cilla Black impression before he hit puberty. He once scared me by phoning me up and uttering those immortal words down the phone, and just for a brief moment I believed him. Cnut.

I can’t imagine there would be anything more disturbing than having actual real life Cilla knock on your door with some long-lost relative or other that you hadn’t seen for 20 years (probably with good reason) to surprise you. Well, unless she was accompanied by Carolgees, I suppose. Fortunately those days are now well and truly over.

You can tell your career is at an end (and nearly your life) when you start to show up on those adverts that want you to buy an insurance policy that will pay out a lump sum after you die to help your loved ones cope with the expenses of a funeral, while you get the benefit of a pen, or a carriage clock, or an M&S voucher to thank you for joining.

Give it a couple more years and she’ll be jumping into Dame Thora’s stair lift wearing an electric slipper and incontinence trousers. But she’ll at least have Dale Winton there to give her a hand on and off. He won’t be wanting to give her a hand at the other end though, I don’t suppose.

She is a shining example of how to grow old disgracefully. While she was married, she was always dressed like a ginger Margaret Thatcher, nowadays, more likely to be falling out of some bar or other on the arm of Paul O Grady or Dale, in skin tight leather pants and a batwing sequin number.

Being from Merseyside myself, I would like to say how proud I am that one of Liverpools daughters went on to be such an internationally reknowned superstar and celebrity.

I would like to. But I’m not going to. Tara Chuck!

 

 

 

Katie Jordan Price Andre No Mooooore. Lewis No Moooore. Linwood No Mooooore. Skye No Moooooore.

Peter wonders if he slightly overdid it on the "Insania"

 

Poor Katie Price. Well, I dont mean poor in the lack of money sense, because she must have plenty of that stashed under her reinforced mattress, but, poor in the sense of how the mighty have fallen. Fortunately for her, her mighty fall will be cushioned by her mahoosive mamoogas, provided she falls forward of course.

She had it all in the palm of her hand. She couldn’t reach much of it due to her tits getting in the way – but stood proud as a shining example of how to market yourself, your family and every little miniscule detail of your life, and make lots of cash. Many will try and fail to achieve the results she has achieved. Who needs credibility anyway? Or an actual honest-to-goodness talent? That’s so last century.

Personally, I consider her to be a wart on the arsecheek of humanity. A really itchy wart that won’t buckle to the usual treatment and refuses to be accidentally knocked off, for fear that she might actually bleed.

What could possibly be more humiliating than being dumped by Peter Andre? Other than being married to him, obviously.

And that wedding dress! GOD STREWTH! You would think when marrying a man who is one letter away from being named after a leading brand of toilet tissue, you might think twice about wearing a dress that is more often seen atop a waiting to be liberated bog roll, attached to a doll, sitting gathering dust on the cistern or bathroom window ledge of an old persons toilet, next to the Yardley Gardenia flavour talcum powder and matching bath cubes. 

But now, the floral scented fairytale seems to be coming to an unpleasant and even more tacky than the wedding end. The worm, has, as it does, turned. The footmen have turned back into mice, the carriage back into a pumpkin, and the fairy godmother is having a damn good cackle at how it’s all turning out. The glass slipper, is now firmly on the other foot.

Pseudo-Ken-doll Peter has unceremoniously dumped Psuedo-Barbie-KatieJordan, and scarpered for the hills. And now battle must commence. The media have firmly come down on Peter Perfects side, the public who have been watching the endless reality shows about their marriage nod fervently and say things like “He’s such a good dad, and how he put up with her I will never know…” and I am sure Jeremy Kyle will be licking golfballs in agreement. Katie has been ripped into left right and centre for her conduct, her parenting, and her behaviour within the marriage.

In front of her very eyes, and excessively enhanced busom, her perfectly crafted illusion of marital bliss has crumbled. So what does she do to defend herself, and put her side across? Gets interviewed by Piers Morgan and uses her recent miscarriage to rubbish the rumours that they didn’t have sex for the last two years of their relationship. Tastefully done there, KP. You clearly are nuts.

She has, I fear, really shot herself in the foot with that interview. She came across as just as callous, uncaring, and shallow as people would believe that she is from her other media exploits, and lowered the bar even further. If that were at all possible.

If this were just about her and Pretty (Nauseating) Peter, and there were no children involved, then it might just about be forgivable or bearable that she sold their lives as a way to make an income. But ever since children have been involved, their lives too, have been subject to story after story after story, without their permission, or understanding of what is being done to them, and how little their privacy has been respected. That goes WAY too far over the border of acceptable parenting.

We the public DO have to shoulder some of the responsibility for that, as purchasers and funders of the magazines and books that she has gratuitously filled with her presence for far too long now. If there was no demand for the product, there would be no value, and thus no product to sell.

But her children are unlikely to realise that their opulent and overtly trashy lifestyle are being funded by their own daily lives. The youngest two may well grow up to realise eventually, and fight back themselves, but can Harvey? Will he ever have the emotional capability and maturity to appreciate just how much he has been exploited in the name of cold hard cash?

If you want to handle this in a dignified way, Jordan Katie Price, stop doing what you are doing, right now, take your millions and go live quietly in the country with your horses and your kids and BE a responsible parent. It’s really not too late to cut your losses and run.

Never going to happen though, is it? Not until we, the public, stop buying into this shit and turn our backs on it. But at least our backs may hold out for a lot longer than yours will, if you dont get a reduction, and soon.

You know something – I WANT to feel sorry for her, I really do. Unless she really has NO emotions whatsoever, how can she possibly go through all this and come out unscathed? I am not really that surprised that the marriage has failed – how high are her emotionally protective walls? Is there not one tiny chink in that armor anywhere? How can she emotionally connect with anyone, her husband, her kids, when she cannot reach out to them and show her vulnerability?

It is a real shame. For her kids, for all of them. Having financial comfort means nothing if you don’t have the loving warmth of those around you to enjoy it with. If the guard doesn’t come down soon, there won’t be anything left but a bitter shell of not very good memories, and no-one around to share the reflections.

Anthea Turner & Grant Bovine

Not Sponsored By Cillit Bang.

 

In about 27 minutes, from time of commencement of writing, it will be EssexGourmet’s birthday.  As a special birthday treat, I proposed that she nominate today’s annoyance, and she thought hard for about twenteen seconds and then twittered “ANTHEA TURNER AND GRANY BOVEY!”

I hope that the Y should have been a T or I might be writing about the wrong generation of Bovey’s here – let’s hope not, because if she was actually married to Granny Bovey that might make this retch-inducing pairing at least rate as “slightly interesting”.

So, Granthea. What a truly adorably nauseating couple they make. She, the “perfect housewife”, and he the multi-squillionaire property tycoon.

Let us just for a moment take a loving and adorable look at Wikipedia’s entry for Anthea.

Under career, it states  “Turner joined BBC Radio Stoke as a comedic writer inspired by father Daniel who once told her the meaning of life was grapes.

Turner shot to fame at the age of 21 after her father burst onto the set of her radio show claiming that turner was one of the forefathers of the Brothers Grimm and progressive modern Jazz. Luckilly for Turner, Thomas’ interruption on the cold July morning attracted huge attention of Scania Childrens Books. From this point on Turner decided that she would concentrate her efforts on being a red engine. Frequent oil changes at this crucial stage helped turner into a lake.”

Now, I can’t help but think that someone MAY have altered that somewhat from it’s original commentary.  However, what we DO know is that she used to present Blue Peter, for which you need to have a squeaky clean character sheet (I’m looking at you Janet Ellis for your OUTRAGEOUS “getting pregnant without a husband” stunt, and you, Richard Bacon, for your “KIDS TV PRESENTER TAKES DRUGS” downfall.

It’s just a good job no-one ever found out about Simon Groom’s secret love affair with Goldie and the fact that he was the biological father of her puppies, including Bonnie, her successor as Blue Peter dog*, or the fact that John Noakes had to smear Vicks Vapour Rub under his eyes to invoke the copious tears he shed when informing the nation of the passing of Shep.**)

Her relationships with Bruno Brookes and former husband Peter Powell registered little on the scale of tabloid hysteria.  Unlike when she accidentally ended up a little bit on fire while making an outside broadcast involving pyrotechnics and a stunt driver – if you haven’t seen this, it’s totally worth a look.

They couldn’t have given her a better opening line to say – “If you want something to happen to you…”

Luckily for us all***, the damage was only minimal and despite temporary hearing loss and some burns, she lived to fright another day and take a payout from Auntie Beeb, or more accurately OUR BLOODY LICENCE FEES.

But then, some time later, she embarked on a liason with Grant Bovey, who left his then-wife Stellar, changed his mind and went back, and then changed it again and went back to Anthea. They married and were largely ridiculed for posing with Cadbury Snowflakes during their wedding photoshoot for OK Magazine.

Had I been writing this at that time, I would have ridiculed them too. Cadbury Snowflakes were utter wank-on-a-stick, and they should have posed with Galaxy Ripples for at least a little credibility.

Having spent some time on the GMTV couch with Eammon Holmes (and don’t sit there looking smug, arse-face,  your turn is coming…) who called her “Princess Tippy-Toes” and loved her so much that he demanded that she be sacked or he would quit (tough choice there, Martin Frizzell), she got the sack and then moved on to bigger and brighter things like, presenting the lottery sometimes, and… telling us all how to fold our tea towels.

Sadly, recently Granthea’s empire was attacked by something called the credit crunch, (I don’t think that’s something from the Cadbury’s range… maybe Nestlé?) and he had to give his entire business back to the bank. Boo-bally-hoo. My heart bleeds purple piss on their behalf. So they went on Hell’s Kitchen to make some pocket money. And didn’t win. HA HA HA HA. YOU SUCK. You would have thought with Anthea’s flame grilling skills they would have been a shoo-in but sadly not.

Apparently Anthea has also had to take on a few sponsorship deals from cleaning products to help make ends meet. Surely no-one in their right mind would either buy a product advertised by Mrs Bovary or indeed believe that she need do anything other than waft her way through the house to turn it into a sparklingly hygenic establishment? Is it only a matter of time before she turns up on QVC hawking  microfibre mopheads???? What a sorry moment for the world that would be.

More annoying than Mick Hucknall?

More annoying in fact, than if you were to run the London Marathon backwards with  Mick Hucknall residing between your thighs singing “Money’s Too Tight To Mention”and causing severe chafing and friction burns with his wiry hair and gravelly tone. THAT’S how annoying they are.  

Disclaimers…

* – may not be true

** – may not be true

***  – may not have really meant luckily. Insert your own choice of alternative from the following, unfortunately, disappointingly, distressingly.

 

Happy Birthday ESSEXFACE!!!!

(VISIT HER SITE! LINK OVER THERE! If you happen to be on the front page, if not, it’s www.essexgourmet.co.uk)

Two For The Price Of One – The Cheeky Girls

"I'm sure there was two apples!" "Hang on a sec..."

 I’m a large Abba fan. I may have mentioned this before, but if I haven’t suffice to say that they have always formed a large part to the background theme music of my life. A fair proportion of their songs were and still are classic songs. Very few people will flick on to VH1, when they are having a “Let’s Play All The Abba Songs Special Day” and not instantly recognise the song that they hear, and more often and not know most if not all of the words. “Take A Chance On Me”, “Chiquitita”, “Winner Takes It All” , “Waterloo”, familiar to all of us above a certain age and once again in the minds and play lists of the young thanks to the success of “Mamma Mia”. 

There are, I suspect, very few of us, who in a nightclub full of grannies gagging to be, well, lets not go there, but you can imagine, you know the sort, usually frequent  sixties and seventies nights where there’s always guaranteed to be a group of extremely drunk men out on a stag night who have a secret bet on as to who can pull the ugliest/oldest slapper there.  

Anyway, there are very few of us, faced with that situation, would not hear the opening bars of “Dancing Queen” and be ON that dancefloor, instantly transported back to when we were 17 and thought we could actually dance, even though our handbags kept interfering with our elaborate steps, shouting our way through the chorus and believing ourselves to be Dancing Queens.

“What the HELL are you going on about now, you silly tart?” I hear you cry.  Either that or it’s the sound of wistfully nodding heads hitting ample busoms repeatedly in quick succession.

Well, anyway, there was ONE particularly dreadful Abba song. Dreadful for several reasons – one, because Bjorn sang it, and he was my least favourite, because he looked like one of those lucky troll dolls you could get from tourist shops, they had different costumes (I always wanted the ones in wedding costumes), which was fine and lovely if you were a doll, but not so appealing on a pop icon.  Secondly, because it is lyrically outrageous.

However, for the purposes of this article, I shall attempt to recreate, in textual form, my own version of the song – and hopefully the Cheeky Girls will come along, read it, and do a cover version. Fuck “Touch My Bum” – this is a pop classic in it’s own right.

Two For The Price Of One – The Cheeky Girls Version

He had what you might call a trivial occupation
He used to be the Lib Dem Spokesman for Education
He had Sian Lloyd in his life

He didn’t want her for a wife.

He read the matrimonial advertising pages
The cries for help from different people, different ages
But they had nothing to say
At least not until the day
When something cheeky he read

This is what it said:

If you dream of the girl for you
Then call us and get two for the price of one
We’re the answer if you feel blue
So call us and get two for the price of one
If you dream of the girl for you
(If you are dreaming of someone who might just touch your bum)
Then call us and get two for the price of one
(Why don’t you call us and we’ll touch it till it goes all numb)
We’re the answer if you feel blue
(We may be the answers to your problem, a chance with we two)
So call us and get two for the price of one
(Why don’t you call us and you’ll get two for the price of one)

He called the number and a voice said, “Gabriella”
The voice was husky and it sounded like a fella
He was amazed at his luck
That he might maybe get a fuck.
He said, I read your ad, it sounded rather thrilling
I think a meeting could be mutually fulfilling
Why don’t we meet for a chat
And you could show me your twat

I can’t forget what I read

I’ve got a twisty head

If you dream of the girl for you
Then call us and get two for the price of one
We’re the answer if you feel blue
So call us and get two for the price of one
If you dream of the girl for you
(If you are dreaming of someone who might just touch your bum)
Then call us and get two for the price of one
(Why don’t you call us and we’ll touch it till it goes all numb)
We’re the answer if you feel blue
(We may be the answers to your problem, a chance with we two)
So call us and get two
(Why don’t you call us and you’ll get two)
For the price of one…

She said, I’m sure we must be perfect for each other
And if you doubt it you’ll be certain when you meet my mother (She writes all our songs, you know)

 

All rights reserved for the Cheeky Girls. The right to make your ears bleed, the right to make cheesy eurotrash popshite that would embarrass even Samantha Fox, the right to pose in what we believe to be provocative but the wider world believe to be QUITE FUCKING WRONG photographs, and hopefully at some point, the right to remain FUCKING SILENT.

Bugger off, Cheeky Girls. JUST BUGGER OFF!

 

 

 

Tom Cruise

"Katie, baby, can we have thetan two veg for dinner tonight? Can we, can we, pleeeeeease?"

 

Once upon a time, in yesteryore, many teenage girls swooned and drooled big puddles of drool because this hot new actor Tom Cruise had become a huge star due to appearing in lots of lovely Hollywood movies. Even the teenage boys liked him a bit, because Top Gun was a manly GRRR of a film where Tom flew big scary aeroplanes and was a hero, totally nonplussed by the presence of bogies at four o’clock.

Personally, I get pretty plussed by the prescence of bogies at any o’clock and have to blow or wipe, but maybe I’m just faddy like that. In BabyMinx’s case, a bogie at any o’clock is just a delightful minature snack, in the same way that bathwater is the most refreshing beverage in the whole world, but I am sure (or at least hope) she will grow out of that particular way of thinking.

Anyhoo. Those little girls, and boys, grew up. They grew and they grew. Unlike our hero, who had stopped growing when he was kneehigh to a grasshopper and probably would have needed paint can stilts or built up shoes to see over the top of the grasshopper at all. Our hero, was in fact, what the clansfolk of my paternal homeland would refer to as “wee”. Terribly handsome, but incredibly “wee”.

He never really floated my boat, it has to be said, mostly because I was already taller than him by the time I was 5 – but some of my school chums thought he was the bee’s knees – or at least was able to lick the bee’s knees, never quite sure of which. I went off Nik Kershaw when I was 11 for the same reason, when the Smash Hits Annual (or that other magazine that was a bit like Smash Hits but’s name escapes me – but not Look In) posted a celebrity height chart, with various celebrities in silhouette with their various heights in a police line up stylee, and poor old Nik Kershaw was languishing down the short end with Prince.

I would have probably married him up until that point but those dreams were cruelly and irrevocably shattered, and at CHRISTMAS of all times. Still, his greatest hits album still gets the occasional play for a quick trip down halcyon day memory lane. If anyone can explain to me what the feck he was going on about in “The Riddle” please do let me know, I’ve always wondered. It’s like Dali in 45rpm vinyl form.

Anyway, what we teens standing knee deep in lakes of our own friends saliva were unaware of at that time was just quite how barking Tiny Tom would end up appearing to become over time. Much as I would like to spend several paragraphs waxing lyrical about the whole Scientology thing, Im really not that versed in it, and I quite like my kneecaps and I cant afford any major court cases. Tom Thumb likes the lawsuits, it seems, so I do have to be careful to remain entirely factual (which of course stating that hes about 2 inches tall completely complies with.)

I would not DREAM of suggesting that the whole Scientology thing is an elitist cult where only the rich can reach the highest echalons of it’s dizzy peak of excellence. Although the thought of Tombo reaching the dizzy peak of ANYTHING without some very grippy shoes or without teetering on the shoulders of a tower made mainly of members of the LA Lakers is alien to me anyway (ha, alien, see what I did there?) But apparently, he’s pretty high up the whole Scientology – (I can’t think of the word that I need to accurately describe such a structure, and I am not sure they would find the words I am coming up with appropriate – Jelly, Compost Heap, Dung Pile,) but THING, anyway.

But I can say, that I found the whole nonsensical public displays of tiny bouncing with glee after pulling Katie “Joey” Holmes and getting her knocked up quite nauseating, hopefully without fear of being beamed up to a waiting space ship to have my entrails removed via my nose. There is nothing more lovely and beautiful than two people who have fallen in love, it is sweet, it is joyous, it is a thing of great treasure. And then there’s Tom Cruise bouncing around on Oprah’s sofa like a two year old that just discovered that if you put a kitten in the toilet, it makes this GREAT squeaking noise.

So, here he is. On the list. If I suddenly disappear, and then come back and start extolling the joys of Thetanism and telling you that Old Ron L Hubbard went to the cupboard to slip Poor Tommy a bone – firstly, have me shot, and secondly, know where I have been. If I don’t turn back up, you know who to blame.