Archive for July, 2009

What Would Paul Mckenna Do?

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , on July 25, 2009 by MrsMinxington
"Cupboardy"

"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.

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

Posted in I'm Less Annoying! with tags , , , on July 18, 2009 by MrsMinxington
Now Officially Less Annoying Than Mick Hucknall!

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.

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!

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , on July 18, 2009 by MrsMinxington
Chun-Li's granny taught her everything she knows...

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.

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , , , on July 15, 2009 by MrsMinxington
Peter wonders if he slightly overdid it on the "Insania"

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

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , , , on July 12, 2009 by MrsMinxington
Not Sponsored By Cillit Bang.

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

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , on July 11, 2009 by MrsMinxington
"I'm sure there was two apples!" "Hang on a sec..."

"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

Posted in I'm More Annoying! with tags , , , , , , on July 11, 2009 by MrsMinxington
"Katie, baby, can we have thetan two veg for dinner tonight? Can we, can we, pleeeeeease?

"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.