Frankly, I’d have preferred to eat dinner in the company of Sarah Palin, Robert Mugabe, Hannibal Lecter and Idi Amin’s festering corpse, than endure an evening with any of last night’s contestants from Celebrity come dine with me (with exemption of Nicky Clarke who seemed lovely).
At least on entering the home of an evil dictator a surly nod of indifference would spare me the pain of the sickening saccharine greetings that last nights group revelled in. “Ahhhhhhhhh, shriek!!! HEY, hello gorgeous! OH, how are you! You look amaaaazing! Fuck the others, lets go upstairs and bum each other, while lying about how wonderful it is to be back in each others company.”
In case you missed last night’s display of shit cooking and crap conversation, the contestants were Nicky Clarke, who is excused from any of my hate. He came across as an all round lovely guy, who quite frankly, didn’t deserve such cretinous company.
. . . and the three cretins:
Caprice. A woman so vacuous, I watched her every upward inflected sentence with trepidation that at any given moment her head would implode like a neutron star pulling all her guests into a black hole abyss.
Jimmy Osmond. Whose fear of food knew no boundary of common sense or proportion. Afraid of everything edible, from talk of sausage manufacture — which apparently made him ‘queasy’ (a word which no self respecting male would utter in his entire life) — to a dead fish “I keep picturing it’s teeth” he said (well now you know how the rest of us feel after we’ve looked at you). I wondered after 5 minutes why he had signed up to take part in a programme dedicated to eating other people’s food every day of the week. That was up until his turn came around and I realised that it was a cunning modus operandi, employed to parade around a dwarf dressed as Elvis and showcase his innovative starter ‘Wedge of lettuce, with killer blue cheese’. Yum yum!
Nancy Sorrell. Last but by no means least is the ‘model’ wife of no longer funnyman Vic Reeves, whose inedible cuisine was surpassed only by her inaffable personality. Her voice had the timbre of a long groan and I struggled to detach myself from the very real possibility that she was a reincarnated Victorian prostitute — probably one of the individuals the Ripper got to, which begs the question, why the persecution of old Jack? He was probably carrying out a commendable public service. Her cuisine certainly had all the characteristics of 19th century gruel. “This mash potato is amazing isn’t it”, she shouted at her speechless guests, who silently swallowed their own sick.
Thankfully, lovely Nicky Clarke left with the victory and the cash for the charity of his choice: Compulsive Hair Touchers Anonymous (I had to get him once), and the only person who left with a shred of dignity was the fantastic commentator who sniped and mocked throughout, reinstating a taste of humour to a largely unpalatable waste of my time.