Saturday 7th June – Gillian McKeith in the Hotseat

I was scanning my stats list for my weekly question time when I noticed a worrying trend.  Although interest in Celine is still flourishing, I am also experiencing a worrying flurry of questions about Gillian McKeith.  I have no idea if she has a new series out at the moment, or whether, as someone posted in my Celine blog, that Gillian is trying to boost interest in her self, programme and new products by posting questions about herself on the internet. 

It may be seasonal, with people’s last ditch dieting attempts to squeeze themselves into this year’s summer bikini in time for a fortnight roasting on a Spanish beach prompting them to take such an interest in the scowling Scottish one.  Anyway, never one to shy away from a challenge, and having spent much of the day ferrying small children to and from parties in a catatonic state and not having had a chance to edit my psychotic thoughts on the subject I thought we’d start with a brisk trot through a week’s worth of Gillian related questions.

It may not seem like much, but some of these have come up several times. I also ignored the ones which just write ‘Gillian McKeith’ and leave it at that.  I don’t know whether this is a cry for help, a shout of jubilance or a bout of incipient nosiness, but I felt that such a broad spectrum enquiry was way beyond my capacity as a social critic at the given time.  I’ve only watched two seasons of her show, and then I lost heart.  Mainly because although I enjoyed watching the tiny termagent, it made Jason feel ill and meant he had to go and sit in the garage for half an hour until it was over.  Greater love hath no man…

Anyway, for those of you who are not familiar with Gillian, who is a peculiarly British invention, I will set the scene.  Gillian is a fierce Scottish nutritionist of middle age and dubious qualifications.  She has a television show which features severely overweight people who like to eat pies more than is good for them.  She hunts them down (and this is no exaggeration), by leaping out at them in the aisles of supermarkets or stalking them in public places, where she takes great glee in haranguing them, abusing their weight and dietary habits and then telling them they will die if they don’t do exactly what she says.

 

This public dressing down is followed by a trip to their house where she rifles through their kitchen cupboards in an apoplexy of rage, berating them for the fact that their salad spinner is stuffed full of mini mars bars and that the closest they’ve come to a vitamin in years is watching a banana rot in their ‘fruit bowl’.  She then takes them somewhere where they have very large trestle tables and lays out exactly what they eat in a week, which to be fair to her is usually an eye popping amount of shite.

 

After this she makes them pooh into a Tupperware box, whereupon she dons her rubber gloves and a sour expression.  She rips the lid open, shows the nation the pooh in question, usually with an expression of evil glee and then tells us that just by looking at this pooh that the person who produced it is only minutes from a hideous death, and only Gillian can save them.  She also mentions that the pooh smells quite bad.  Apparently this is not normal.  I’ve seen a lot of pooh in my time as a parent, and I can honestly say that I’ve never come across a sweet smelling pooh, but clearly Gillian, as an expert in the thrilling world of excrement, knows better.  We must bow to her superior judgement.

 

By now the victim is a quivering wreck.  It is at this low point that Gillian produces another trestle table, this time filled with nutritional delights such as beetroot smoothies, ginseng pies and omega three stew with mung beans and seaweed.  She invariably forces the person to try one of these hideous concoctions at which point they then gag and try to run away.  Gillian lassoos them, ties them to the table and tells them off for being rubbish because surely everyone with a brain is relishing the thought of waking up to alfalfa surprise for breakfast rather than buttered toast and a large cappuccino.

 

Then follows several weeks of intensive bullying over food and exercise during which time the person being bullied cries over pictures of Big Macs and has to be forcibly restrained from eating the biscuit aisle in Tesco.  At the end of a month they are always to Gillian’s ever lasting credit, at least two stone slimmer and quite chuffed.  The means do not justify the ends, at least to me anyway.

 

So, as you can see, opinion is polarised on Miss McKeith.  Like twiglets she’s a love it or loathe it sort of thing.  I admit to being fascinated by her in a car crash watching kind of way.

 

Right, after that lengthy preamble, here are the questions of the Luxembourg jury.

 

Does Gillian McKeith really eat all that?

 

Judging by how miserable she looks and how much she shouts I would say ‘yes’ to that.  I expect she gets double helpings.

 

Who is the father of Gillian McKeith’s children?

 

He prefers to remain anonymous, for safety purpose.  If I were to hazard a guess I expect he’s either a) nervous and long suffering or b) a real man’s man with a hairy chest who speaks in a deep booming voice and goes out for sausage sandwiches when nobody is looking.

 

Gillian McKeith sandwiches.

 

I think you’ve got the wrong Gillian McKeith there.  I don’t think Gillian approves of sandwiches.  They’re far too frivolous, and easy to make.  If you don’t have to pick the ingredients at midnight or pay Ray Mears a million pounds to hack them from the side of an Amazonian termite mound with his axe and then cook them for three days in a cast iron pan at gas mark four it’s probably not her bag.

 

Gillian McKeith hideous.

 

Is that a statement, or are you looking for verification?  I can’t say she’s hideous, because she’s too entertaining for that.  Her hair is always in very good condition, I’ll give her that.  I can say that were I of the lesbian persuasion (or shopping round the corner as my friend says!) that she wouldn’t be my first choice of bedfellow.  I do wonder if she’s got the same stylist as Celine Dion.  I really think that someone’s out to get her.

 

Questions to ask if I ever meet Gillian McKeith.

 

1. Do you have the same stylist as Celine Dion?
2. Have you ever cracked and hidden under the duvet eating a king sized Mars Bar whilst dribbling with delight?
3. Do you keep your pooh in Tupperware containers in your own fridge?
4. Are there any vegetables that you really can’t stomach and that you just pretend to like for the purposes of televisual magic?
5. Have you ever knowingly eaten Spam?
6. Have you ever smelled a nice pooh?
7. What does a nice pooh smell of?

 

Gillian McKeith eats her children.

 

I don’t think that can be strictly true.  She isn’t a praying mantis.  I believe she isn’t much of a fan of red meat, so unless she gave birth to mackerel or a couple of tins of chickpeas I would say that you are probably fibbing. (I once had a dream where I gave birth to triplet string beans, but that’s just by the by)

 

Is Gillian McKeith an alien?

 

Harsh, but it’s a distinct possibility.  Next time she’s on t.v., watch closely to see if she drinks her alfalfa smoothie using her index finger.  That’s a bit of a giveaway.  That’s how I worked out that Mork really was calling Orson.

 

Dark chocolate Gillian McKeith.

 

I believe they do her milk and white chocolate flavours too.

 

What do Gillian McKeith’s children eat?

 

Whatever Gillian McKeith tells them to by the looks of her.  I wouldn’t want to come across her in a dark alleyway that’s for sure.

 

Why is Gillian McKeith?

 

Good question o’ philosophically minded one.  I believe she was an invention of the marketing department for Tupperware to boost falling sales due to a decline in the popularity of Tupperware parties.  Since people have seen her storing pooh in Tupperware containers sales have shot through the roof and the share price has tripled.