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hehehe ! just my colour and real size too !
x
Whistles “weet weel” sexy rubes 8)
sexy bastird huh :)
To me, Chanelle and Ziggy seemed more “on” this week than “off”. After all, as Ziggy reminds us constantly, he is “very fond” of Chanelle. Very fond indeed. If I was Chanelle, I wouldn’t be too overjoyed at that description of their affair. “Very fond” is the sort of blasé way I might reminisce about an old cardigan I’d left in a pub. “Oh, it’s a shame I lost that,” I might sigh absent-mindedly, “I was very fond of it.”
Emotionally, Ziggy is by no means a robot. He has the capability to love passionately and insanely. We saw that this week when Molly the dog arrived and Ziggy’s knees literally buckled under him, his speech temporarily robbed, his eyes swimming in two teary pools. Ziggy is definitely more than very fond of Molly. That’s real love.
It’s the type of love that makes you do a half-hour detour to reach the shop with the special biscuits the bloody thing prefers. The sort of love that has you crying like a fool in vets’ waiting rooms, then presented with a bill that could have bought you 14 nights in Mustique. The sort of love that has you using a secret language of grunts, yelps and wibbles that only you and they understand.
Ziggy loves Molly. And Molly loves Ziggy too, although when they were first reunited and Ziggy was dressed like Seth Armstrong from Emmerdale, she didn’t quite recognise him. But then Ziggy did the silly “Mooooollyyyymollyyymoo” noise and Molly went wild and wanted to lick Ziggy half to death. Meanwhile, people all over Britain with muddy hallway carpets and gnawed sofas covered in pet hair wiped tears from their stupid sentimental eyes. Not me, obviously. Ahem, other people.
Molly is a Shar Pei, which means she has wrinkles and furrows in her fur. She has one deep wrinkle between her eyes not dissimilar to the one I’ve developed over the last 50 days through the stress of watching Charley. I’m not sure what to do with it. Botox? Grow my fringe longer? Put a thong over it and try to pass it off as a bum crack? Obviously, Charley fans say I talk out of my ass all day anyhow.
When I get angry emails from people defending Charley, it makes me quite jealous because I just don’t feel like that about any of the housemates this year. I don’t feel that insane loyalty and ability to make excuses for anyone. It’s not like last year when I felt like it was myself versus the world over St Aisleyne Horgan-Wallace.
You could have shown me footage of Aisleyne clubbing baby seals with a cricket bat and I’d have laughed and said, “Pah! I think a more pressing question is ‘who tricked Aisleyne into holding the bat?’! Endemol, that’s who!”
I’m hoping Charley gets booted out on Friday. She’s exhausted any interest I had in her. Apparently six new people are arriving on Friday, meaning she’ll be forgotten quickly – one hopes.
I’m sure some people will write in angrily shouting about how Charley has a bright celebrity future ahead of her, but I can’t quite see it myself. Being even a D-list celebrity requires one to be able to negotiate normal everyday situations without causing a messy argument and p***ing people off. Charley can’t do that.
I can’t quite imagine her agreeing to endless 4am call times for breakfast TV appearances, or difficult questions from journos, or being forced to wear clothes she doesn’t like for photo shoots, or being jostled about in crappy nightclubs during a personal appearance. Being famous requires a lot of hard work, false smiling, biting your lip and looking at the bigger money-making picture.
But maybe it isn’t Charley’s fault she scares me. Maybe it’s Endemol and Gerry’s fault for tormenting her, and south London’s fault for giving her a harsh background, and Chanelle’s fault for being annoying, and my fault for being such a BIGG RACIIALIST that I want her to lose.
I’m not entirely sure whose fault it is that Charley has turned into someone who can get wound up to the point of near-violence by imagining someone ten feet away has “looked funny” at her. I’m not sure whose fault that is at all.
In completely unrelated news, Charley received a message from her family this week. Apparently they are very, very proud of her.
Saying that, imagine if all the female housemates had been like the twins. Ah, the twins. Remember them? The poor little twinkies hardly get a look-in these days, do they? Their nominations and involvement in the tasks are usually clipped out of the highlights show, as if to say, “We’ve spared you the twins, it was exactly as you’d imagine it”.
There was a point about two weeks ago when the twins made me laugh. It was a grey, drizzly day and the twins came scampering out in the garden, dressed as usual in their flouncy, toddler day-wear outfits: white vest, tiny flarey skirt, bare feet, bare legs. “Oooh, it’s raining again,” said Amanda. “Yeah,” said Sam. Then they both stopped dead still and sighed. “It’s crap in this house,” sighed Amanda, “There’s nothing to do.”
The twins both stood there miserably. Temporarily zapped of pinkness. Looking more like the characters from Ghostworld. “No, don’t say that,” said Sam anxiously, “There IS stuff to do.” It was as if for a moment, the fluffy clouds had parted and a chink of reality had invaded twinland. “We can…we can make up dances,” sighed Sam. “Pgghhghgh,” tutted Amanda, staring at the rain. “It’s crap here. Really crap.”
Obviously, ten minutes later the twins had recharged their batteries and were racing about the house shouting “Boooooogies!”, but that moment of misery really made me giggle.
If only they’d been like that on their first night. If they’d come in dressed in black then shuffled about the house mumbling, “Pghh, look at the bath? It’s crap” and “Look, a pink pepper grinder. Boring”.
This week’s television task has provided many moments of tears and joy. Tears unsurprisingly from Chanelle, who is just a huge, moaning, highly strung sap of a woman. I hold no true malice for Chanelle, but come the revolution, she will receive a letter from my guards asking her to vacate the People’s Republic of Gracedentonia forthwith.
Sadly, there will be no place for women like Chunnel when I rule the land. “I caaaaannn’t play the violin, I can’t plaaaaaaay the violiiiiin! I won’t do it! I don’t want to do it! I caaaaaaaan’t!” she screamed for 24 hours, before eventually bashing out Vivaldi capably, although sounding slightly p***ed.
“I won’t wear that dress! It makes me look stupid! I won’t look stupid!” Chanelle spent hours sobbing. It was actually a very nice dress. It simply covered most of her skin, which is a travesty when you’re that age. When you’re that age you don’t feel dressed up unless you’re wearing something that shows your cleavage and at least a portion of your lower labia and could leave you dead from hypothermia in a front garden on your way home from a Christmas party.
“I won’t wear the dress! It makes me loooook pregnnnannnt!” shouted Chanelle. She didn’t care about poor Carole who was standing in a lumpy leotard, top hat, tights and tails looking like a crusty version of Mr Peanut. Or poor Ziggy in his leather trousers warming up to sing Love on the Northern Line. Coincidentally, I have had love on the northern line. Not that I knew it at the time. I realised when I got to the escalators at Chalk Farm and saw the back of my raincoat. I love London rush hour.
Anyway, Chanelle has spent the last few days demanding to go home. “Let me out! Let me out! Let me out! I’ll walk to the bus stop barefoot, with me hair like this! Let me out! You can’t keep me here! I want to leave!” she’s been shouting. It’s been SUCH fun. Not at all grating.
I wish Big Brother would call someone’s bluff just once and kick them right out. How brilliant would it be to see footage of that?
It would be hilarious to see someone like Chanelle go into the diary room, cause holy havoc and screech that she wants to leave, then Big Brother just say, “OK, Chanelle. You have now been evicted from the Big Brother house. Please leave via the door on your right. You are not permitted to say goodbye or gather your belongings. You will not be taking part in the spin-off shows or invited to the wrap party. You will not have our help to secure any magazine deals. Thank you for being a housemate. Goodbye.”
Then the door could be flung open and she could be made to sit in the green room for half an hour while producers pretend to gather her stuff and ring a taxi.
I’d love to see how long it was before the panic and incredulity set in and screams filled the air: “Let me back in! I wannnnnnnnt back in! Let me baaaaack in! Oh, my God, please let me back in! I didn’t mean it. Let me back innnnnnn!”
Please, Big Brother, just once. It would be cruel yet priceless.
thx fc uk fir that Charleys oot……. FINALLY lol….
There are some gods up there…………….. 8) thank feck for that
[align=center]http://photobucket.com/albums/e266/sharongooner[/align]
click on the first vid for those that missed it. Shi/t picture but you get the gist of it :wink:
Oh, what a pity, Charley has gone. (Blows snotty tears into cardigan sleeve.) Oh, how I shall miss her! How I long to hear her clacking football-rattle gob again. And watch her gurn at mirrors, beholding her own ferrety reflection.
But alas, she is gone! Off she did trot in her little cavewoman’s outfit. Trot trot trot – blow kiss – trot trot trot – gurn for cameras – pull cavewoman skirt over ass cheeks – rearrange weave – trot trot trot – into Davina’s arms. Her best mate Davina, who says she is unique.
All the time the crowd were making a similar noise to what the new Wembley might sound like if Osama Bin Laden was brought on as a sub in the FA Cup.
“Boooooooooooo!” hissed the throng. “We love you, Charley!” is what Charley heard. I poured a large gin and tonic and felt very content. I never have to write about her again. If they stick Charley in the next I’m a Celebrity… or Celebrity BB, I’ll not watch it. I’ve seen what this one-trick pony can do.
Ziggy, Brian and Liam couldn’t hide their glee as Charley left. Gerry had a little weep, which just made things more amusing. “Sheeeizonly-21! Eet iz sad. Only 21! Eet not her fault,” said Gerry, as Liam et al giggled.
Wow, remember when 21 was an age when you were classed as an adult in charge of your own mind? Now you can act like the twins, or like Danielle Lloyd, or like Nicole Richie, or like Chunnelgob and people will say, “Oooh, give her a break, she is just a lickle girl! She is still learning.”
Sometimes I wish I lived in the good old days, where if you couldn’t boil an egg and put a pillow inside a pillowcase by the age of 17 your entire family would elect to lock you in the attic, feed you meals on a tray, snip you out of family portraits and pretend you didn’t exist.
So then, we meet five new housemates who are going to live in a “halfway house” next door to the main house. The halfway house isn’t remotely secret this time as last year Big Brother made the partitions from lolly-sticks, candyfloss and pixies’ breath, then wondered why Nikki and Aisleyne could hear Jayne Kitt burping and farting and scratching her downstairs porch from 100 feet away.
Saying that, after seeing the halfway housemates, I think I’d actually rather be locked up with Jayne Kitt. The newbies are:
Amy, 21, a glamour model
Well, she says she’s a glamour model. It later transpires she does mostly “promotions”, ie she stands around car shows freezing her ass off in a thong bikini, fielding sexist, creepy comments from men all day, and handing out flyers about fog lamps.
As Mary Wollstonecraft burned the midnight oil in 1787 penning her Thoughts on the Education of Daughters, I’m sure this was the sort of progress she had in mind.
Amy isn’t wearing any clothes. Well, she’s wearing knickers and a small jacket. Maybe she’s so dim she doesn’t know that getting dressed requires a variety of different garments put on in a traditional order, typically finishing with a skirt or trousers?
Maybe she is so insecure about her powers of conversation that being near nude is the only time she feels confident people will notice her?
Jonty, 36, a museum visitor assistant
Oh, crivvens, what a deeply unsettling man Jonty is. Everything about Jonty’s persona screams “Run away, run away!” Jonty turns up in a smoking jacket clutching his teddy bears, looking like the sort of man who would move into your street prompting people from the local estate to form angry lynch mobs and paint rude things on the backs of cornflakes packets for their kids to wave at Sky News.
Jonty does that adult-baby sort of thing, waving “Monketytonkety” and “Kiki” and doing silly voices, then talking about going to S&M gatherings where he gets “a good spanking”, and generally making me want to scattergun my lounge with half-digested Kettle chips.
Anyone who has half a hankering to go to naughty, illicit gatherings where people do rude stuff to each other should be reminded that you won’t find the cast of Hollyoaks there writhing around smearing each other in mango body butter. They’ll find people like Jonty, sitting on the stairs with sweat forming on the top of his bald head, talking to his bears, waiting for “a good spanking” (paragraph curtailed owing to columnist retching into toilet until white froth comes out of her eye sockets).
Shanessa, 27, a part-time care worker
Why can’t she work full time? Is full-time work only for weirdos like me? What does she do the rest of the time? Work on her look, which is a cross between Janice Battersby and a Magic Troll, in a Walthamstow market version of something J-Lo might have worn in 2001? And why put that on if you’ve got National Geographic boobs with nipples down by your navel? And why call yourself “dirty” on national TV? Have you no respect? I’ve seen classier women wrestling in taxi queues in Swansea while their mates hold their chips.
Oh, hang on, news just in says that Shanessa is also a stripper. Does that mean she works in a strip club? Or does she just get her scones out uninvited in bars, then people pay her to stuff them away? I’m sure I’ve seen Shanessa before, actually. Or maybe I’m getting her mixed up with the sort of women you see in Razzle’s readers’ wives section, with one foot up on her kitchen work surface and her ankle chain resting on a tin of marrowfat peas.
David, 25, manager for a high-street store
I quite like David. He’s calm and clever and reminds me a little bit of Billy MacKenzie from The Associates. He takes me back to the time I lived in Scotland, and reminds me of the dry humour and the ever-present wicked twinkle a lot of my friends have in their eyes. Sigh.
Brian doesn’t like David as he thinks David is rude. Apparently David doesn’t listen to Brian when he’s talking. Or more accurately, when everyone else is talking and Brian is shouting, “Noooooooooo! Shatapppshatap shat ap!” To Brian this is conversation.
David has messed up his chances of entering the house by indulging Gerry in talking about moooseumanart. And by mentioning he’s into Wicca. The twins think this is something a futon you might buy in Ikea is made of. Carole has no doubt practised it herself. Gerry doesn’t care whether David says that he worships Satan and all his merry goblins, because David is sort of hot and Gerry is sort of horny.
Kara-Louise, 21, student
“I smile all the time and it doesn’t mean anything,” she says, smiling. This is the most interesting thing she has said in 48 hours. There are mannequins in Top Shop’s window who are more worthy of primetime national television exposure than this woman.
Bring back Charley!
GRACE DENTS latest…
chanelle has left the building………… :lol: :lol: :-({|= :D/
@pats wrote:
chanelle has left the building………… :lol: :lol: :-({|= :D/
thank christ..! my jaw will reset itself..in time (allegedly),from 7 weeks of teeth grinding at her mere presence !
hope they put david and amy in tonight,,,
david and shergar are in,,and ziggy now in the halfway house ! oh gawd,,that fake smile and snooty manner for the next few weeks,,it doesnt rain but it pours ! :twisted:
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