Celebrity Big Brother 2012 - Julian Clary; Last One Tossed Off

As one reclined on the leather couch in Litten’s – the bar here at one’s beloved Crusty Hall - the lush natural fabrics of one’s Masato ensemble draped deliciously over the rich, soft hide and one’s back supported adequately by the plumptiously filled Jake Canuso embroidered scatter cushions, one - for some inexplicable reason - pondered the events of the Celebrity Big Brother house.

One cast one’s mind back to when this season all started and recalled when the celebrities (‘celebrities’ being used in its broadest sense, of course) entered the infamous reality house for their period of televisual incarceration. The customary insistence when such programmes are created - and the dreaded word ‘celebrity’ is used - to pluck any old duffer, that has had so much as one column inch in a tawdry periodical, out of the ether had certainly been maintained .

Prince Lozenge Bolognese – a rather fragrant and delicious poppet - being the perfect example of this ongoing practice. Apparently, from what one has heard, he has appeared on our television screens before! One is sure he has … and how very nice for him. However, Chu Me’s former love interest, Tess Tickle, has also appeared on television (a local news report, where she was seen buying a nit comb from the village chemist, Annelise Stules-Hoffen, in a rather unflattering pair of dungarees, tan brogues and gingham) but make a celebrity of her it most certainly does not!

Enticed further, one was horrified at one stage of the inaugural extravaganza when one sat open-mouthed - a crystal clear meandering of gin flowing down one’s chin as a result of the dropping of one’s jaw - and dripping upon one’s exposed bosom, “Jimmy Saville?!! In a leopard skin print??!! Good Lord! One thought he was dead … and wore nylon?!”

It was then that one’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, informed one it was actually Coronation Street’s Julie Goodyear. Upon closer inspection one realised Chu Me was, in fact, correct; the sagging bags under the eyes, the hair with the texture of Hessian wallpaper and her mouth masticating a large ball of gum as if her life depended on it (one has read chewing of gum is a good way to maintain the tautness of the jaw line … looking at the Bulldog-esque jowls of our leopard skin print diva, she clearly needed to chew a lot harder … and purchase significantly more gum).

Other celebrities – worthy of the title – were introduced one by one; the lovely Coleen Nolan, the delicious Martin Kemp, the glamorous  Julian Clary, the adorably delicious Cheryl they’ve-killed-‘Ev Fergison … and the rather tottylicious TeamGB Ashley McKenzie who, after the performance of the British team at this year’s Olympics, is not a mere celebrity but a Judotastic star!

Then, as one feared, it all started going down hill.

A young, handsome poppet called Mike Sorrentino, who had opted to refer to himself as The Shituation, or some such fancy. An abdominal expanse you could bounce a conker off but all the personality and appeal of overcooked pasta.

A rather odd looking poppet, called Jasmine Lennard, who if the Daily Mail is ever to believed is 27 (however, her face, bony lallies and the overall appearance of a lanky streak of piss in designer frockage, suggested a typo had occurred and those two digits were, in fact, destined to be reversed). Jasmine is apparently a lover of both the man-biscuit and lady-garden and she has even dated Simon Cowell (which has certainly drained the life from her, poor thing). She also has a son to American musician Seth Shift y’binz. (however, if Seth put his bins out after 9pm, then I for one would wholly support him in leaving them where they were until they’d been emptied!)

An attempt at glamour was made with the introduction of Danica, who as one understands it is an ‘international lingerie model’ (Essentially meaning she flashes her knickers to the world).

Danica (which sounds more like the brand name for a range of kitchen units) clomped enthusiastically into the house, as did another model, Rhian no-relation-to-Percy Sugden. Rhian has been a page three girl and has flashed her baps over many a glossy, such as Zoo … indeed, many Nuts have been grabbed (in more ways than one, one suspects) by young heterosexual males wishing to finger through the pages until they come upon her picture, in the privacy of their bedrooms.

Finally, Samantha Brick (who, coincidentally, from what one has observed, has the complexion of a breeze block). Samantha was the journalist who claimed her life was difficult because she was so beautiful. Having seen the amount of spottage on her facial epidermis, her crooked mouth and gammy eye, one fears her case is rapidly being lost in the law courts of aesthetic appeal. Many gentlemen who have come upon her in bars, restaurants and even the streets of our bustling metropolis have whipped out their wallets and insisted on paying for her, simply because she is earth-shatteringly gorgeous. If any of those men have been watching Celebrity Big Brother, there is sure to be a line longer than any Marks & Spencer returns queue, with all of them having an eager desire to have their money refunded, without so much as a quibble.

All in all, the show was reasonably entertaining and if viewers didn’t know that Julie no-I’m-not-Jimmy-Saville-in-a-leopard-skin-print  Goodyear was a national icon, famous for being the landlady of the Rovers Return for 25 years, 70 and disabled, then they certainly do now … the woman never shut up about it!

One also understands from newspaper reports that, since the show has ended,  Danica Knicker-flasher Thrall has had blazing rows with her boyfriend but, thankfully, the model, who apparently has made her name taking money and gifts from rich men, is receiving consolation from multi-millionaire hotty Prince Lozenge Bolognese. One suspects the words ‘ching’ and ‘ker’ have been involved, though not necessarily in that order.

Anyhoo … one was rather delighted to see that the very elegant Julian Clary was victorious. Though one was quite surprised Martin Kempt didn’t win, one was chuffed as punch Julian came first. Bravo dear!

Samantha Brick - Beauty or a Beast? Dame Crusty Ponders.

One was perched elegantly on the edge of a bar stool in the Badger’s Snatch, catching up on the local gossip in the village with the landlady; one’s dear friend Fanny O’Dour.

All appeared to be well and all of the local businesses were avoiding the recession that we are constantly being told we are on the cusp of; Mr. Peppercorn’s butcher emporium was certainly thriving. This came as no surprise, as he has the most meaty, mouth-watering sausage one has ever set one’s eyes upon; encapsulated in a gossamer thin sheath. One can chomp on it for an age without feeling so much as a hint of gristle between one’s teeth. Seasoned deliciously, it always leaves just a hint of saltiness as it slides down the back of one’s throat.

Pat Tissery’s bakery establishment had also seen a surge of eager shoppers grabbing her crusty bloomers while they were still warm; sniffing them, blatantly, as they rush down the street to hide them in their pantries.

The only piece of scandal was that Mr. Craddick had escaped from his cottage in his pyjamas again. Due to a catastrophic failure of drawstring knottage, his bottoms had dropped round his ankles while he was buying a head of broccoli at the village greengrocers. A charge of exposure was averted (thankfully) when the local magistrate explained that by the time any passers by had made the effort to look at what was desperately trying to “hang there”, the outcome would have simply been a case of public exhaustion, of which there were no appropriate statutes. Mr. Craddick’s only defence was that it was a very cold day.

Anyhoo … as one sat sipping a rather refreshing flute of chilled Pere Ventura Tresor Nature, Fanny was wiping the rim of her bucket when she suddenly asked, “Oh, and what about that Samantha Brick, Crusty? Can you believe it?!”

“One has heard her name mentioned, Fanny dear, but one couldn’t tell you who on earth she is.”

“Hang on! I’ve got some copies of the Daily Mail under the bar that need to be thrown out.”

“Only some, dear?” one questioned.

Fanny opened the pages and showed one the pictures of the woman that was creating such an international storm.

“There. That’s that Brick woman.” Fanny said, as she pointed at the images.

“Goodness!” one replied, “Brick, you say? Are you sure her surname isn’t double-barrelled … and Shithouse hasn’t been removed from the end of it? Quite a sturdy girl, is she not?”

One’s faithful houseboy, Chu Me, sat next to one, licking the crust of a, particularly large and hairy pork scratching. He glanced across at the photographs and sniggered, hunching his shoulders as he did so.

“Now, now, Chu Me! Let us not pre-judge. Let us first examine the extent of this individual’s self-professed outer deliciousness.”

Reading the article, it seems Samantha feels women hate her for no other reason than her ‘lovely looks’. She is of the opinion that her beauty is so intense that it has caused men to rush up to her with flowers, offer to pay her taxi fares at the drop of a hat and waiters to refuse to allow her to pay her bar bill; all because of her self-proclaimed gorgeousness.

One sat and gazed upon the pictures laid out on the bar counter as the golden bubbling elixir of Catalonia passed one’s lips.

At first one thought there was a look of Anneka Rice about Samantha. The sort of look that may have been achieved had Anneka let herself go. There wasn’t the same delicious smile, clearly, and she appeared to have split-ends any diviner would have been desperate to get their hands on to start dowsing for water immediately. Nevertheless, squinting one’s eyes and turning one’s head from side to front, side to front … very quickly, the resemblance was there.

The body – in unflattering clothes – certainly didn’t support her case of womanly beautifulness and with her kite (a Geordie phrase for stomach) expanding underneath her mid-riffular section of fabric, one couldn’t help remind oneself that one must catch up on the goings-on in Eastenders, since the malicious murder of Heather Trott.

The rather ample and mighty oak-like lower limbs protruding from below the hemline of her frockage almost led one to believe she was an athlete, or some such fancy … a shot-putter perhaps?

Then one’s eyes lowered to, what one thought were, a pair of club feet, before one realised that there were just an unfortunate choice of chunky shoes that the poor poppet had mistaken for fashion (if only she had had the foresight to consult one’s gloriously talented fashion powerhouse Masato, she may have learnt a valuable lesson).

All in all, the assembled package was not in the slightest bit desirable.

Furthermore, she had claimed that at soirées, men would flock to her; enchanted by her beautiful looks. Having looked at the evidence, one would suggest this has nothing to do with her looks at all. One knows only too well, when the gin-goggles are on … it’s any port in a storm for most men. Plus, we have all been to such functions and we all know just how warm these occasions can be. Judging by the armless frock she was wearing in one shot - one could not forgive any man, woman … or, indeed, family pet for trying to be within range of her bingo wings, in order to get the chance of a cooling breeze each time her arms stretched out for an oven-warmed vol au vent.

Needless to say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder and, as our poor poppet Samantha looks into her opaque mirror, one can offer only sympathy to her for the fight she so clearly has against her cataracts.