So, a new series of “Celebrity Big Brother” commences this evening. I was made aware of this when The News told me on my return home from work. I sincerely hope that nobody was found murdered or kidnapped today.
As is the custom with most multisyllabic words at present, “celebrity”, derived from the Latin “Celebritatem” and meaning “condition of being famous” is now simply Celeb.
Celeb rhymes with pleb.
I normally do not know who many of these famous people are, but am able to match some of them with the same specimens I witnessed in Heat Magazine (false everything-tan, hair, eyelashes, boobs) when I made the mistake of going to a hair salon in the centre of town. Note to self: Highlights take ages. You will get bored. They will offer you reading material. It will make you sad. It is also (maybe) notable that I happened across Celebrity Mastermind the other day and did not recognise anybody on there either.
Spending time with family over Christmas I was forced to watch British televisions most inexplicably popular program- Mrs Brown’s Boys. For the first twenty minutes I managed to politely sit and flick through one of the many recipe books I received this year. My whole family are laughing out loud at the “jokes”. It was as if a five year old had written the script and eventually I blurted this out loud, using words that were way less polite. I did not wish to insult anybody, but I can suppose that I was merely reacting against the insult I felt had been inflicted upon myself when it was assumed that I would find something likened to a nursery rhyme played out over half an hour by bad actors funny. My sister then chose to declare that the problem was simply that I did not like anything and that she and the rest of the family were the fortunate party in their liking of things. She did not say it like that though, she kind of dribbled and went “God, like, just cos we like, like stuff and you, like, don’t”. So I point out that she is the thirty two year old who has been to zero concerts, gigs, comedy events, in fact anything other than a package holiday really and that, well, I have been to loads of things because I do like loads of stuff. Yeah…take that Dumbo! She totally ignored me and carried on playing Farmville on Facebook with her phone.
I had not been on Facebook for days as I disabled the App from my phone and did not wish to fire up the computer at my Dad’s in order to tag my family members in their smelly “onesies” opening yet more Thornton’s chocolates and comedy slippers. When I got home and set eyes upon the news feed for the first time in days I noticed that an awful lot of people seemed to be commenting on a status update by an old work colleague. She was informing us that a certain restaurant had been closed down after only maybe a year of business. Every comment was of sadness for the closure of such a lovely establishment. This place was in the centre of one of England’s typical market towns,…chain pubs in all directions, dried puke and George at Asda brand polyester knickers litter the alley ways between. If you went in there you got served by a friendly enough but decrepit looking old waitress who promptly went and stood outside the front for a fag in her uniform once your order had been taken. This was not The Fat Duck…they served pasta and pies and things. I pointed out that I was not surprised because when I went there, they got our food wrong three times and then brought out some raw chicken. Again, my perfectly valid point was ignored and everyone carried on with their “yeah babes I no like it was such a nice place babes wernt it babes”. Sigh.
I’m no genius. Far from it. But sometimes I feel like Homer Simpson in the episode where he gets the pencil stuck in his head. Help me.