First published after Fitz watched Big Brother for the first time…..Day forty three of The Big Brother House. And a sheet metal worker from Reading has got her head stuck in the cat flap whilst looking for wet wipes to remove the yoghurt from a wetsuit she’s been wearing in the salad crisper of the fridge. Meanwhile the Scottish female impersonator with the morbid fear of cheese has started to drink toilet duck and he’s only in the series because he got a golden ticket after eating one hundred and thirty six bags of pork scratchings. In the kitchen, Chardonnay from Essex, who is studying to be a doctor but is more qualified to be a door stop, is drying her hair in the toaster after a fight with Hector the weightlifting nun.
Television has changed since the days of Gus Honeybun! In my day you only saw people like this in the headlines of the local news and then not in person, just a police artist’s impression. I am I the only one to think that television has found new depths of social torture and deprivation or am I just getting old?
But Big Brother is nothing new, back in the seventeenth century you could slip the guard of the local asylum a couple of groat and go and watch the committed lunatics to point and laugh. Today you just switch on Channel 4 and all life is there, unfortunately.
Yes, I admit it, I’m getting old and so I have decided to recapture my youth by taking a leaf out of the younger element of Plymouth who I saw while sitting in The Astor Hotel on The Hoe after lunch. I go to the Astor because if you ask nicely they will cut your food up for you.
While staring out on the placid sun bathed roadway I beheld the future, a flash of gleaming metal, just for an instant… as it tore past doing sixty. It excited and inspired me… so I’m off out to enjoy myself by joining the new craze that is sweeping the young and trendy things like me. I’ve bought a 1.1 Vauxhall Nova and stuck wide wheels on it. I’ve ripped the strip lights out of the fish tank and wedged them under the sill of the car and am now trying to find the bulbs from the Christmas Tree which I will drape around the windscreen. Next I am going to weld a four pound jam tin onto the exhaust and drive flat out up and down Royal Parade in second with my baseball cap on backwards. I was thinking of taking my shirt off but the So Solid Crew medallion gets snagged in my sports bra and to be honest the world doesn’t need to see my well upholstered torso. To drive one of these beasts you do need a Jack Russell body matched with a Rotweiller mentality, I’m more your Standard Poodle.
On a serious note, if I’m going to be killed by one of these vehicles while crossing the road could somebody please promise to move my body under the wheels of a decent car, a BMW or Jag will do. Think of my families embarrassment in the Coroners Court as the evidence is read out that David FitzGerald died as a result of being struck by a W reg neon illuminate supermarket trolley driven by someone whose IQ automatically gives him entry to the Big Brother House.
Word Up
Fitz
