I doubt that I’m ever going to top yesterday’s post, am I?
The temptation is simply never to blog again. If I were Emily Bronte I would hitch up my dog, Pilot and take to the moors in my flimsies, making sure to catch virulent consumption along the way. Then I would die a tragic, early death, coughing and swooning my way to the grave, hanging onto the corner of the CLD (TM) while I make my final utterance for posterity, (probably something rubbish like; ‘Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle’.) before finally expiring in a tragic heap.
I would lie in my coffin, graceful, swanlike neck (topped by a withered, hamster like face) and willowy limbs (ahem) displayed for all to see, while a wake of epic proportions rioted out of control around me. People would reminisce about the days of yore and sing the songs of old; ‘Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep’ and ‘Boom Bang A Bang’ followed by a visit from The St. Winifred’s School Choir singing ‘Grandma We Love You’ in close harmony. Mourners would weep and laugh whilst sipping creme de menthe frappe out of their slingbacks and tossing custard creams from hand to hand.
Later, at the graveside people would sob gently into hankies whilst reminding themselves of that marvellous post I once wrote about decorating your nethers in spangly bits. I would eschew a headstone, preferring instead to go for a neon, revolving sequin that would light up the town for miles around.
It would be legendary.
Sadly, nearly a month of living in the MOD has given me the constitution of an ox, and I am likely to outlive Ray Mears and the Queen Mother combined at this point. It is hard to say which has toughened me more, the constant sub-zero temperatures, the lack of hot water or the fact that I seem to spend half my life with my head up the chimney diagnosing some problem with the fire, which delights in sulking and only coming to life just as we are about to take to our beds.
As I am now a toughened old boot I shall just have to shoulder the burden and get on with things. Nobody feels sorry for toughened old boots. Just look at Gillian McKeith on I’m a Celebrity. Not that I watch it, you understand. I do not watch anything at the moment apart from the wiring, very warily, from a distance. I was however, stunned to see in the newspaper that Gillian has apparently been trying to flirt with Shaun Ryder.
I am almost as fascinated by this as I am by the subject of vajazzles. I once stood near Shaun Ryder at a baggage reclaim at Manchester airport in the wee small hours on our way back from the States. It was the closest I’ve ever come to standing next to a troll. Not one of those cutesy ones with hair and pixie faces. No, more like the ones Terry Pratchett writes about in Discworld. The ones that are hewn from granite and who get wasted on Slab.
He looked like he’d been indulging in a fair amount of slab.
I understand that he is much more clean living these days. He’d have to be really, or he would be the one resting under a neon sequin, possibly one which shouts: ‘Call the cops!’ and ‘You’re Twisting My Melon Man!’ on every third turn. Still, anybody less likely to get their thang on with Gillian ‘fecal matter obsessed’ McKeith would be hard to find.
Although Gillian may be obsessed by pooh, it appears that I am slightly obsessed by Mrs McKeith. I have written about her fondness for pooh here, and in looking at my archives, I realise I have dedicated several posts to her over my long years of blogging. She is clearly a massive influence on my life, albeit in a running away from, rather than a running towards type way. I have rarely, if ever, blogged about Shaun Ryder despite his fondness for causing pigeons to explode, and my fondness for Black Grape and the Happy Mondays.
This set me to thinking of the dilemma over whether I would be more likely to snog Gillian if I were trapped with her in a jungle setting, or Shaun? I don’t really want to snog either of them to be honest, but it seems to be the thing you are supposed to do if you spend more than twenty four hours in close proximity to a raddled ex-celebrity in some undergrowth.
You’d probably get more mileage out of Gillian. I expect her teeth are probably a bit cleaner too. I fear Shaun may be going over to the dark side. I have a vision of the inside of his mouth as something akin to Shane McGowan’s. I hope I am wrong. I do not want to find out through firsthand experience.
Back to the snog question.
I expect, given the fact that my survivalist skills have been being honed over the last few weeks, I would kiss whoever had won the most bush tucker trials and was likely to give me a Hob Nob.
I bet it wouldn’t be Gillian.
Hob Nobs are probably the devil’s work as far as Gillian is concerned. Witchetty grubs on the other hand must contain all kinds of delicious, health giving properties. I suspect she probably sells them in packets in Holland and Barrett with a picture of her on the front, popping one into her open mouth. Mmmmmm. ‘As Chewed on T.V.’
Sean at least looks like he knows what to do with a Hob Nob, even if he can’t remember having eaten one in the last fifteen years due to being chemically incapacitated.
That’s alright though, he probably won’t mind if I nick his, and if he does, he won’t remember five minutes afterwards. Then if he asks me who has had his Hob Nob, I can point at Gillian and run away.
It would be much more interesting seeing them going head to head than tongue to tongue don’t you think?
