I am Yvette Fielding and I claim my £10

It has been noted previously in the annals of this blog, here, to be precise, that I do on occasion resemble the grande dame of supernatural television, Yvette Fielding.

Exhibit a: Yvette Fielding

Exhibit B: Me

I cannot tell a lie.  It is true.  Even I have noticed the resemblance.

Previously, my father was the one who commented on it.  Recently my friend’s husband commented on it.  It seems that as the months and years pass I shall inevitably morph into an uncanny looky likey and be able to forge a whole new career  by simply looking like a startled bush baby and swearing on live television.

Frankly it’s not much of a stretch, and if it brings in the moolah, who am I to complain?

There are worse jobs I could do (to paraphrase Stockard Channing erroneously):

• Coal miner
• Sewage expert
• Nursery nurse
• MP
• Hazlett seller and all round expert on cooked meats
• Dentist to the stars

There are worse people to looky like:

• Cliff Richard
• Jeanette Krankie
• Jedward
• Danniiiii Miiinogue

and let’s face it, the woman has longevity.  I remember her on t.v. in some lame children’s programme about a sea side boarding house, long before she shot to fame on Blue Peter.  She has not been off the screen in about thirty years, and she’s still going strong.  The woman even has her own satellite television channel.  Like Roy of Wroxham and his Are You Being Served style department stores, she is gradually creeping into our daily consciousness to the point where we will not be surprised to wake up one day and find out that she has staged a coup and is running the country wearing a big hat and night vision goggles.

But why talk about this now? I hear you cry.  What new evidence has come to light in the Yvette/Boo paradigm that makes it pertinent to today’s society?

Good question.

I love trashy television.  I cannot get enthused about things like the X Factor or Britain’s Got Drivel or whatever.  They’re far too excruciating for me.  It’s just too embarrassing, and I can’t be doing with all the whooping and bursting into tears.  It’s not snobbery.  I have no moral high ground.  I worship at the feet of Gok Wan and would pay good money for him to man handle my bangers into submission.  I thrill to the sound of that weird gingery god Ray Mears whittling himself yet another chopping board out of a sustainable, hand reared beech tree.  No, I love trash, but it has to be strange trash. 

My latest discovery was over on Living Channel late one night this week when I could not sleep.  They were showing a programme entitled: ‘Yvette and Karl: Down on One Knee.’

It is an ‘at home’ with Yvette and Karl, her husband and ghostly partner in crime.  I loved it.  Moreover I have found more evidence that we are indeed one and the same:

• She shrieks and wails and moans, and makes a bloody big fuss about everything. Just like me.  She cannot even buy a packet of biscuits without having a nervous breakdown.  I do enjoy a good crisis.
• She has terrible trouble with her hair. Just like me.  We are bad hair twins.
• Karl, her husband sneaks off and buys ill advised Porsches. I need only mention the Floosy to draw your attention to the similarity
• They are getting married in Las Vegas, bling stylie.  Just like we did.

So not only am I Yvette, but it looks like Jason is Karl.  I wonder if you get more money doing two for one on looky likeys?  I’ve always wanted to work with him.