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Dear Celebrity Big Brother

Dear Celebrity Big Brother, (every night @9ish, 5)

Welcome back, though I think it’s only fair of me to say that a) I was glad to see you leave in the first place , and b) I’m not particularly pleased to see you back so I suppose c) I shouldn’t really have said welcome back. I’ll start again.

Hello. You are back.

That’s better. Right, to business. I’m hoping that you can help me because, after watching as much

A scan of my weeping brain shortly after the 'assault' reveals several 'mind tears'

of your visual enema as I could manage (it was approximately 28 minutes before my brain crept out of my head, dragged itself to the bathroom and sat under the shower, gently sobbing and rocking – you’d violated it you see. You raped my brain) any way, none of that matters, we’ve made up, my brain’s going for counselling and I’ve promised not to leave you two in the same room ever again. Where was I? Oh yes, how you can help me. The thing is that I think, that is I’m concerned, worried even, that I might be, what you refer to as…a celebrity.

In truth I’ve had my doubts for a while – shows like Celebrity Family Fortunes, Celebrity Masterchef, and even the recent BAFTA’s have had me so bewildered about what actually constitutes ‘celebrity’ that I’m in constant fear that I myself might be one of the most famous people in Britain. What if I have a stalker? What if my fans think I’m aloof, arrogant or simply a prick because I ignore them? These are genuine concerns, and they’re only there because the likes of you and seemingly the entire commissioning board of ITV have decided that some cretinous spunk dumpster from Essex who says “Oh my God, I’m so jel” about anything and everything (though presumably it’s always about the same thing – the process of independent thought) is a genuine bona-fide celebrity. I shouldn’t have these concerns, unlike most of these fucktards I’m a normal person and wish to remain so.

Amy Childrens - just like a Barbie doll, but with fewer uses and less brain power

Let me tell you the reasons for my concern. They are manifold so I’m going to use a list. I hope you don’t mind but don’t actually care either way.

  1. I’ve been on TV several times.
  2. I am recognised by several people, probably in excess of 500.
  3. If I google search my name I get several results about me.
Now I realise that none of these results sound impressive enough to justify use of the term ‘celebrity’ – I certainly didn’t think so at any rate, not until I saw the rag-bag bunch that entered your house the other day (and will probably have left by the time you get this). I’m not going to pretend to recognise most of them, so here’s my understanding of who went in and why they’re famous:
  • Sally The Cow – Famous for marrying a man of arguable importance and then doing everything in her power to sabotage his career.
  • Little Bobby Staples – Famous for having pretty hair
  • Tara ‘The Defendant’ Reid – Formerly famous for being a small part of the American Pie team, now famous for her drink, drugs and fanny flashing debauchery. A classy lassy.

"Miss Reid, Miss Reid! You've accidentally covered up one of your breasts." Cries her carer forlornly

  • Paddy Doherty – Famous for being on a reality show about gypsies and being a bit fighty.
  • Amy Childrens – Famous for something called ‘TOWIE’, being jealous of everything, sticking beads and glitter on various lady gardens and having the intellectual capacity of a mollusc.
  • Viscount Lucien Von Trap III – Apparently an actor, famous for being very pretty.

What? You heard that Lucien had had it away with Kym Marsh? That's just Hear Say! Thank you, I'm here all week. Try the fish.

  • Kerry Katona – Originally famous for being in the very first of the 96 incarnations of the pop band that will never die, Atomic Kitten, then famous for marrying Boyzone/Westlife (delete for accuracy) then famous for being famous, then famous for a lack of self control, then famous for being an utter fuckwit, now famous for being a famous fuckwit with no self control.
  • Darren Lion Bars – I know that he’s technically famous for taking photographs of mildly famous people, but you have to presume that in all actuality he’s famous for being a massive bell end.
  • Pamela ‘Not Anderson’ Baywatchface – Famous for being married to Mitch Buchanan, then divorcing him before he started drunkenly guzzling burgers on the bathroom floor.
  • Sickeningly the last thing that Tigger ever saw was a pair of happy morons. If rumours are to be believed they also have coats made from 101 Dalmation puppies and their wallets are crafted from the Little Mermaid's tail.

    Edwohn – Even I know these two crazy Irish bastards, genetically engineered by the finest Gaelic scientists as revenge for making their nation host Eurovision 15 years in a row. They’re famous for achieving a new level of mediocrity on a ‘talent’ show that already excelled in this department and being generally irritating. Still less annoying than Bono though, sorry Irish science guys.

Now I think you can probably see why I’m confused. I’m at least as famous as half of these buggers. Admittedly I’m not married to someone famous, but I have said hello to Mel Gibson (before he was a Jew hating racist mental case) and once shook hands with Michaela Strachan – and when you combine that with all the other stuff it’s a fairly compelling case I think you’ll agree.
Any way, that’s why I’m worried so if you could just answer me these three simple questions I can either stop worrying because (as I hope) I’m not a celebrity, or I can at the very least fire my agent (do I have an agent? Make it four questions) for not telling me I’m a celebrity in the first place.
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  1. What exactly is the cut off point for ‘celebrity’? Would, for example, the man who waxes David Beckham’s (where am I going? Balls or car, balls or car?) wife’s moustache (fooled you) be classed as a celebrity?
  2. Do I have an agent? If so could you please tell him to call me
  3. Am I a celebrity? You make the rules, you make the call!
  4. If I’m not then how come these no-marks are? Maybe you should re-name it Been On Telly Before Big Brother? Or ‘If You Watch ITV2 You Might Recognise Me But Probably Not Big Brother’.

One of the people who is probably a die hard example of those who are not my fans, but I can't be sure until I know if I have fans, or people who are intentionally not fans or if no-one really knows who I am. God I'm confused.

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Please let me know ASAP, I’m sick of trying to avoid people who probably have no interest in having their picture taken with me.
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Thanks,
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R
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PS – What were you thinking with Brian Dowling? Oh dear, oh deary deary me.
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PPS – Seriously, look up the word ‘celebrity’ I think you think it means something else.
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Dear Made in Chelsea

Dear Made in Chelsea

Dear Made in Chelsea, (E4, Mondays @ 10pm)

Writing this letter is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do – not because what it’s saying is difficult to say, quite the contrary, if ease is equated to shooting fish in a barrel then tearing you to shreds will be like punching a shark trapped in a phonebox – no it’s going to be difficult because of your show itself. So vacuous and vapid was the entire enterprise that I find myself sat here, mere moments after the end of the show, struggling to recall a single thing about it.

Was it about Chelsea football club? Maybe, I mean the tall skinny lad was struggling to score…No! There was no shooting of poor people.

Was it about Chelsea Clinton? Well I certainly recall that there were a lot of irksome youngsters with an overwhelming sense of self importance and ridiculous names, but none of them had an American accent so it wasn’t that…

I know what it was. It was a reality show set in a private gynaecologists office on the Kings Road. That doesn’t sound right, but I just have this overwhelming memory of seeing a hell of a lot of c**ts.

I kid, of course I remember what it was about. Nothing. It was a duller than plausible sneak peak into the empty lives of the rich and mind numbingly self involved ‘socialites’ of London’s second fanciest suburb. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t expecting great things – I’ve seen ‘The Hills’ the other soft scripted, sorry, reality show on which MiC is ripped off, sorry, based – and my hate gland started to twitch the second I saw those  Abercrombie and Fitch promo’s of yours. The thing is though that you’ve gone too far. You’ve made it so awful, included so many things to scorn that I’m overloaded and started to question my own worth as a human being. I hold you in such disdain that I’ve almost come full circle.

I almost love you.

Almost.

But like Gillian McKeith is almost a doctor and Patrick Kielty is almost funny, almost is the closest point to being the very least of something. You fall just short of being my very least favourite thing that I like. Still, at least that puts you at the top of the very large pile of things I dislike – I hope that’s some consolation.

I presume you’ll want to know why you’ve hurt me in this way. Actually I presume that you care less about that than you do about the herd of Wombles slaughtered to clothe your women, but I’m going to tell you any way. So here’s my top 5 things that made you such awful company for an hour – read and learn!

5. Fresh in at five is the general level of unattractiveness of the major players. I’m not shallow and care little for beauty (when you’re as gorgeous as me it pays not to expect the same from others ;)) but when I’m being told that these are, in fact, ‘the beautiful people’ I expect a little more than Bond villain in waiting Frederik, the bastard off spring of an ill advised menage-a-trois betwixt Rocky Dennis, Thor and Susan Sarandon.

Susan Sarandon was left exhausted and ashamed.

4. New at four it’s the ridiculous names. Is this what happens when you get so rich that you consider Waitrose to be a discount shop? You get so bored that you start to make up words to call your children? Binky? Caggie? Funda? Chess Set? Note to posh sorts – you don’t have to tick every box in order to get pauper’s sh*t thrown at you.

3. Straight in at three is Amber. Oh Amber, I’m sure that when you started your little jewelry business you had nothing more than a dream in your heart and a hundred grand seed money from Mummy and Daddy. As detestable as Chess Set and her ‘Girl About Town’ diary may be I think they probably called it right when referring to you as a socialite and ‘it’ girl – unless you’ve got a weekend shift at the BP garage that you’ve not told us about.

2. Just being kept off the top spot is that introduction. Bless you programme makers, bless you all. Adding a quote at the beginning made me think I was about to watch a Chelsea based version of ‘The Wire’. For all of four seconds. Add to it the V/O of Alison Moyet wannabe Caggie telling us how hard it is being rich (a line I’m sure is ripped off from another “I’m a Young Rich Twat” show I’ve thankfully expunged from my memory) and what you do very effectively is set the scene for the pomposity-fest that is about to follow.

1. And topping the charts from now until the end of time is the conversation. My wordy wordlet. To paraphrase Churchill (the tubby PM, not the car insurance dog) Never, in the whole history of television have so many words been used by so many poshos to say so very little. An hour you were on screen, an hour, and in that time not one thing of substance was said. Not one thing that could even pass as a conversation. If these are the preliminary rounds of the world self involvement championships then I have to say it’s an incredibly strong field. Then again, the one conversation that wasn’t about themselves exposed why. When you think Charles Dickens wrote Winnie the Pooh it’s time to get your tubes tied and end your genetic line right there.

Ollie, butch as ever, frets about his split ends.

Pocahontas' decision to bring about peace through tickling had more than a touch of Ken Dodd about it.

I’m sorry if I’m being harsh, but it was a real struggle to make it through. I’ll finish on a positive note though – there was one moment of intrigue, suspense and surprise (what we who frequently watch television refer to as ‘watchable television’) and that was when Ollie, played admirably by Pocahontas went out for date night. My money was on a gay S&M club, gay hardcore trance bar or some other establishment where he might be able to find some ‘rough trade’. Nothing wrong with that at all, that’s certainly not my point. I’m sure, however, that you can imagine the collective gasp from the 19 people still watching at this point when he met a human woman – and I nearly collapsed when he talked about doing sex on her.

So there you go,  vapid, vacuous, empty, soulless and most certainly without heart, but with a solid 45 seconds of shocking and watchable TV. You might want to focus on that 45 seconds and build around it.

Almost Best Wishes

R xx (one on each cheek)

PS – Is Spencer really Spencer, or is he Ricky Gervais after lipo and lobotomy?

PPS – Get them to talk about money. We paupers do actually find that part of richness interesting – we want money, we don’t necessarily want fur, to play Polo in The Hamptons or to make sex at someone so posh you can practically guarantee that their family tree meets several times on the way up.

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