Friday, March 20, 2009

I sleep in the kitchen with my feet in the hall

Friday, March 20, 2009
'When Wendy Richard was diagnosed with cancer for the third time in January 2008, she decided she wanted to make a film to help other people in a similar situation....her husband John explains why Wendy would still want it to be broadcast even though she died last month.'

I did not watch this program, entitled 'To Tell You the Truth' last night, but I'm pretty sure the answer is that even as her rotting corpse is ingested and shat out by Mr. Lowly Worm, the spirit of Wendy still craves attention like a sixty-a-day man who has been inexplicably nailed to the floor of his tasteful Dollymount apartment craves a fag. I have it on good authority that Ms Richard was a self-important, rude and insufferable bitch. I will not be going with the 'speak no ill of the dead' bit here.

She can fuck off. Jade Goody can fuck off. Nuala O'Faolain and Denis Potter can fuck off a little less, having made some kind of positive contribution to the world. But this latest cunt-list trend for tediously chronicling the final weeks of life contributes fucking nothing, to nobody. You're scared? You're concerned for those you're about to leave behind? You're 'brave'? Fuck you. We're all scared. We're all concerned for those we will leave behind. And unless we're curled up in a corner shrieking 'It's just not fair!' for our closing six months, we're all deemed 'brave'.

Used to be when one's 'famous for being famous' career was on the wane, one could stubbornly attempt to shoehorn oneself into some Channel 5 soft porn presenting post. Not no more. Now we're going to have ex-Big Brother contestants injecting themselves with smallpox, eating the poo of leukemia sufferers, and rubbing themselves off of lepers, all in the hope of contracting something fatal but long-lasting enough to justify a couple of seasons of deathly documentary. And that's a good thing, because at least they're going to die. But I don't want to watch it or read about it or accidentally become aware of its existence through this new media osmosis. So when Peter André gets ebola of the foreskin, please refraining from leaving a comment to that effect in my box.

Yeah, you can have that straight line.

17 Johns and Janes for the comment whore:

Pyjamas Cat said...

my old manager was a wanker. Found out he died. Grand.

Radge said...

That cunt Katona is getting divorced from some plumber. Some shitty cable channel is currently making 'Kerry Katona - The Divorce.'

Cunts.

Sarah Gostrangely said...

Find it hard to invoke sympathy for dying celebs. I mean, they're going to die anyway, we all are, what's the hoohah?

This thought alone makes me want to get up in the morning. Sometimes.

Rant on, Gimme.

Red Leeroy said...

I wonder when Endemol are going to do a version of The Running Man?

gimme a minute said...

Pyjamas:
That showed him.

Radge:
She was getting her tits done on our telly the other night. Not an image I wanted burned on my retinas.

Sarah:
I'm still waiting for the front page coverage of the other relatively young people who died in sports related incidents this week.

Red Leeroy:
Or its sister story 'The Long Walk'. That's some reality TV I would watch.

Radge said...

I pity your telly.

gimme a minute said...

Radge:
My telly has seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion, Celebrity Come Dine with Me...

Time to die.

Andrew said...

For a brutal second there I thought you might be going a bit far. Then I realised I don't have a clue who Wendy Richard is and don't give a fuck either.

I wonder when it was exactly that the tabloids and Z-list celebrities simultaneously learnt of this new phenomenon called 'death' and realised how lucrative it could be.

Mick said...

Attention-seeking cretins. Good post!

gimme a minute said...

Andrew:
You see, now I just want to figure out how to go too far.

And I reckon you'd know Wendy's reanimated corpse if you saw it. She's your one off of 'Are you being served?' and 'Eastenders'.

Mick:
As an attention seeking cretin myself, I do see from where they come.

Oh for a bleughable disease.

Conan Drumm said...

How very dare you conjure an image of Peter Andre's Ebola-ridden foreskin in my mind. Now I have to pour neat Cilit Bang into my ears to purge the horror.

gimme a minute said...

Conan:
Here's some horror for you.

Medbh said...

Why the fuck did I click on that?

gimme a minute said...

Medbh:
Ha! Lot's wife.

Poor Lot's wife, with no name of her own. Those Old Testament guys weren't big blamers.

Manuel said...

the title, that song, what is it? I had some drunk punters in the restaurant last week singing it.....i would have told them to knock it off but for their huge manly knackerness.....

gimme a minute said...

Manuel:
It's 'Workingman's Blues No. 2' by Bob Dylan. A different song, with a similar line maybe?

Manuel said...

no, it was the very same tune......so hard to believe that they knew a whole song let alone a bob one.....

 
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