As I sit here, in Crusty Hall, reading the summary of recent news stories typed out by my faithful houseboy, Chu Me, I am pleased to see that Karen Matthews, mother (using the term loosely) of Shannon Matthews and human Panda, has been found guilty in her trail for the kidnap of her daughter.
I always thought there was something stranger about Karen, 33 (yeah...right!). It wasn't just the bags under her eyes, the very strange accent - which she should have really kept to herself, or the fact that the only image I can remember of her was her trussed up in a Parker that was two sizes too small.
I remember watching a programme while the whole malarkey was going on; it was a documentary following the "heartache" of the family during the search for Shannon. Most of the documentary was filmed at the home of the family. I never knew that so much synthetic fibre could gather in one place without a serious static-electric tragedy....but apparently so.
Owld baggy eyes was scuttling about in the nerve centre of the search (i.e. the lounge) and in the distance I could see the....the ..... what is the collective?.... the skid-mark of chavs entering the kitchen for another can of cheap lager from the top of the microwave. Yes, every conceivable style of ill-fitting, nylon tracksuit was on display that night, finished off by that icon of fashion, the Burberry baseball cap.
But praise be to God, the documentary finished on the conclusion of the scandal, that is, up to that moment when Shannon was found.
What more fitting end to such a gripping documentary than the sight of all the neighbours - still adorned in synthetics and with some fat bloke - who looked like he should own a kebab shop - celebrating with a community hug around an open fire/gas barbecue, miming and crying to Westlife's cover of Michael Bublé's " Home".
Crusty has never prayed so hard for a gas bottle to develop a leak, reach out to a naked flame with open arms and solve a social housing crisis in one fell swoop in all her life, than she did that night.
I always thought there was something stranger about Karen, 33 (yeah...right!). It wasn't just the bags under her eyes, the very strange accent - which she should have really kept to herself, or the fact that the only image I can remember of her was her trussed up in a Parker that was two sizes too small.
I remember watching a programme while the whole malarkey was going on; it was a documentary following the "heartache" of the family during the search for Shannon. Most of the documentary was filmed at the home of the family. I never knew that so much synthetic fibre could gather in one place without a serious static-electric tragedy....but apparently so.
Owld baggy eyes was scuttling about in the nerve centre of the search (i.e. the lounge) and in the distance I could see the....the ..... what is the collective?.... the skid-mark of chavs entering the kitchen for another can of cheap lager from the top of the microwave. Yes, every conceivable style of ill-fitting, nylon tracksuit was on display that night, finished off by that icon of fashion, the Burberry baseball cap.
But praise be to God, the documentary finished on the conclusion of the scandal, that is, up to that moment when Shannon was found.
What more fitting end to such a gripping documentary than the sight of all the neighbours - still adorned in synthetics and with some fat bloke - who looked like he should own a kebab shop - celebrating with a community hug around an open fire/gas barbecue, miming and crying to Westlife's cover of Michael Bublé's " Home".
Crusty has never prayed so hard for a gas bottle to develop a leak, reach out to a naked flame with open arms and solve a social housing crisis in one fell swoop in all her life, than she did that night.
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I think she deserves life - for calling her daughter Shannon.
ReplyDeleteOphelia