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Monday, January 26, 2004
Regular readers of this blog will have been wailing and gnashing their teeth today after noticing the absence of any new entries this weekend. I've already had one email imploring me to get on with it. The problem is, when I sat down yesterday to craft my latest post, I couldn't think of anything to write about. Everything I've done over the last week has been so dull that had I written about it I'd have lost both my regular readers at a stroke. And the world of popular culture has hardly been aflame with excitement recently. Thank God, then, for the return of I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here. For non-British readers, this is a TV show in which a bunch of D-list celebs camp out in the outback for two weeks, eat rice and hope to reap great showbiz rewards, like being asked to endorse toilet paper when they come out. The show is notable this year for the presence of Jordan and Johnny Rotten - or John Lydon as he's been known since the Sex Pistols broke up. His sneering presence is actually quite pleasing, because it will severely piss off all the punks that used to hang around my flat when I was 19. Which is another story. Jordan is an enormo-breasted glamour model, ie the kind of model who doesn't actually model anything except her surgically-'enhanced' self. She has promised to go naked all the time. She was lying. I read somewhere that if any of the leeches that live in the camp pool attach thelmselves to Jordan's boobs, said boobs will explode. Also present in the jungle are Aussie has-been singer Peter 'The Body' Andre, who made a respectable showing in the recent 100 Worst Records of All Time poll on Channel 4; a rubbish footballer called Razor who's scared of heights (which is lucky, coz his career has just plummetted to new depths); and the DJ Mike Read, who is famous for two things: banning Frankie Goes To Hollywood's 'Relax' live on air after discovering it was about, whisper it, sex; and having the world's freakiest and most misguided stalker, Blue Tulip Rose Read. Actually, I find the whole thing wildly irritating, mainly because every time somebody sees a rat, spider or leaf, they start screaming and calling for their agent, as if they didn't realise that there'd be creepy-crawlies in the jungle. When they're not freaking out over the presence of (debatably) lower lifeforms, they're complaining about being hungry because one of them failed the task of eating 3000 termites and they now have to share one baked bean between them. By day two, one of the women whill be crying because she misses her 'usband and kids and has never had to spend a night away from them before. Snot will run down her face as she blubs and says she wishes she'd never come here. "If only," she'll snivel. "If only I didn't crave fame so much and it wasn't so hard to come by." |