If I hear any more about the trials and tribulations of Preston and Chantelle I swear I shall wreak bloody murder upon both of them.
In this day and age where the merest rumour of a celebrity breaking wind has most of Fleet Street rushing round to capture it in a metaphorical glass jar, I am stunned by the column inches devoted to such a vacuous and pointless pair of Z-list pricks.
Are they / aren’t they / has he / will she / do I give a fuck? Frankly -no.
I mean – the fact that I hate the whole concept of celebrity aside – we’re hardly talking Posh and Becks here are we? No, we’re really massively not.
Firstly, we’re talking about a man with a charisma-bypass who we know primarily as a pedler of relatively inoffensive mod-revival indie/britpop horseshit. His legendary charm and wit was never more clearly demonstrated than on Never Mind the Buzzcocks some time ago when at the first sign of a bit of a ribbing, he got all pissy and stormed off the show. He’s the kind of person you actually hope was bullied at school. Oh, and Preston, apart from being a shithole in central Lancashire, is his surname, not his first name. The cunt.
Secondly we have a woman who entered the Big Brother pit of despair dubbed a “non-celebrity” and for whom in my eyes at least, little has changed in this respect. The fact that Chantelle describes herself as “the new Katie Price” says more on this subject than I could ever hope to – I mean in terms of aspiring to anything in life, that’s just fantastic – she actually thinks she’s bigging herself up by saying that! It’s like wanting to be “the new Kerry Katona”, it’s just so low on the aspirational scale as to be achievable by all and sundry with little or no effort.
And just for the record, when it comes to reasons for mothers visiting Scandinavian nations; the only reason “mum’s gone to Iceland” is that she’s a fucking pikey and it’s where she belongs, saving money on your food so that she can spend the rest on supermarket own-brand fags and scratchcards.
L