I’m A Celebrity (Reviewer) Get Me Out of Here: Day 10Link button by WP Buttons
Did you read the thing about Boy George? Apparently, he met an escort online, invited him back to his flat so that they could set up a pornographic photo shoot together (bless!) and then took an awful lot of something they shouldn’t and rhymes with smoshmaine. Bizarrely, it all went wrong (I know, I know, I was surprised too), and BG later ended up chaining the escort to a wall and beating him up, because he broke his computer. Oh, the times I’ve done that when a colleague has broken the office photocopier! Luckily, there’s always a Brian-a-like on hand at work to sit me down and explain in soothing tones why violence isn’t appropriate for the workplace. More importantly, why on earth wasn’t Boy George invited to the jungle, hmm? He’d totally jazz things up ‘Armin Meiwes’ style.
Yesterday, the news was revealed that Timmy is second favourite to win ‘I’m a Celeb’. The bookies haven’t been watching, then. A colleague tried to get me to lay off Timmy in my blog: apparently she thinks he’s ‘really entertaining to watch‘. I asked her if, since she was such a huge fan, I could watch his scenes vicariously through her eyes, but she seemed to think that in order to convert me to Timmy-love, I need to keep on watching. A bit like inverted aversion therapy, then. Goodo. On a lighter note, Brian is the bookies’ favourite to get voted off first. I reckon ITV will rig the vote. He’s hardly likely to be raking in the viewers for them, is he? If he wants to stay in the game, he needs to start taking his clothes off and soaping himself erotically next to a convenient nearby waterfall, or behaving oddly enough to warrant a ‘look at that car accident!’ style interest.
Jordan has finally broken her silence (oh thank GOD) and spoken to the media about this year’s recruits. She wasn’t crying out for attention though, just to be clear. The wise one (on all things tit) said that Nicola is a rubbish Glamour Model (rude!) and that she never really ‘made it’ as a page 3 girl. How does one ‘make it’ as a page 3 girl, exactly? I’m assuming she doesn’t mean ‘left behind the sordid world of getting her tits out for cash and got a Phd in Astrophysics’. Naively, I had assumed that once a Glamour Model had bagged herself a footballing boyfriend, her dream was complete. Not so. Presumably, in order to match herself to Jordan’s exacting standards, Nicola must first marry the Peter Andre equivalent (that would be David, so hopefully they will stop hating each other soon), then celebrate with a super-camp wedding (followed by a couple of kids with embarrassing-sounding names) then, as the piece de resistance, she’s got to start her own line of equestrian wear. Good luck, Nicola. You’re standing of the shoulders of giants. Giants with big boobs.
Back in the jungle, not much was going on. I think Brian’s tediousness must be contagious: only Joe and George are immune. Nicola was fighting with Mickey Rooney as per usual, Brian was narrating his way through the day, repeating things unnecessarily, and mediating the debate over how to chop the pigs hooves (sorry: ‘trotters’ – because apparently they aren’t at all the same thing and it DOES matter), Carly was looking pretty and vacuous, and not really breaking the mould, Simon was wistfully lamenting the fact that jungle’s don’t have mirrors, Killroy was being surprisingly inoffensive, Esther predictably kind, motherly and on the horn, Joe was breeding his loveliness and infecting George with his charm, and Timmy hopefully taking a good hard look at himself and realising that he’s not witty enough to make adults laugh, and that the only kids that ever found him funny were a product of the 1980s. The very same 1980s that proved a breeding ground for all things sh*te.
By Nicolette Smith
When not neglecting her social life and educational development in favour of watching televisual detritus, Nicolette enjoys pretending to be interested in her colleagues children and reading books rather than talking to actual people. She is still young enough to be contemplating getting an offensive slogan tattooed on her person, but old enough to rationalise that this is probably a poorly thought-out plan for the new-and-improved Nicolette of the future.