Monthly Archives: January 2012

Cheryl Cole Lookalike Wanted- Must Have Pulse

I don’t know anyone who watches a lower calibre of TV offerings than me. I will literally watch anything, and because I don’t like common misuse of the word ‘literally’ today, I will justify my use of the word ‘literally’ by telling you what I watched on the TV last night (bearing in mind it was a Wednesday and I have LITERALLY nothing better to do with my Wednesday nights):

Two and a Half Men

Teen Mom

Pretty Little Liars

Bigger than Cheryl

The True Hollywood Story of Charlie Sheen.

Jesus Christ, it is even direr in print. Now to be fair, my life is simultaneously incredibly boring and laborious at present, and I deliberately opt for things with absolutely no intellectual value as a means of escapism and revitalisation- but even I am going to say that Bigger than Cheryl was offensive to humans with fully functioning brains.

The premise of this programme is that three normal women compete against each other for the chance to win a contract with a ‘top London lookalike agency’ to work as a Cheryl Cole lookalike. However, the reality is something entirely different. Last night’s competitors were substantially more paltry and disillusioned than past programmes, consisting of three women who would have been better off auditioning for Bigger than the Viz’s Fat Slags, as emulating the Fat Slags would have been a more realistic aspiration.

The programme’s usual format whittles down hundreds of contestants to six hopefuls, who dance for the judges and give a speech about why they should be picked to be the competition winner, from which three contestants are chosen. Unfortunately, in the case of Bigger than Cheryl, a grand total of seven women showed up to audition, creating a breeding ground of awkwardness as only one person was not going to make it to the semi-final, basically concluding, without doubt, who the most worthless person in the room would be. Fortunately, one of the seven had to drop out because of a ‘crumbly knee’ (whatever that is), meaning that everyone who auditioned got through the semi-final- hooray! Of that, the three biggest lunatics were chosen, and told to fuck off- leaving three contestants to battle it out in a competition that mainly consists of not using an exercise ball properly and adhering to a low GI diet while dreaming of kebabs.

Contestant Number One was Tattoo from Stoke (not actual name, but apt given her appearance) whose daily diet of beer, fags, diet coke and the Sun newspaper made her the best Cheryl lookalike prior to makeover, and to be fair, in the (inevitable Channel 5) movie of Cheryl’s life, she could have easily played Cheryl during her ‘racist thug’ years. Tattoo has always been a massive fan of Cheryl, ever since they were both the same dress size on Popstars: The Rivals (!), but now she’s just massive.

Contestant Number Two was Lay-Z-bitch from Leeds (again, not actual name, but it should have been) who dropped out of the competition entirely after been made to participate in an Aerobics class. Imagine.

Contestant Number Three, and Winner, was Beryl from a place with no mirrors, because she bore so little resemblance to Cheryl Cole that I honestly think she now fulfils her contractual obligations with the ‘top London lookalike agency’ only working at events for the blind, because Beryl did not have a feature on her face that resembled Cheryl. In fact, the only reason she won is that during the embarrassing bit at the end where the competitors had to shimmy-sham around the room to Cheryl’s ‘Fight for this Love’, Lay-Z-Bitch had dropped out long ago due to her on-going commitment to die of obesity related illnesses, and Tattoo kept laughing and smoker’s coughing, while doing a vague version of the Macarena. Beryl held it together with military precision, possibly inspired by Cheryl during one of Ashley’s many ‘I’ve cheated with a woman with questionable personal hygiene’ scandals.

Can’t wait for next weeks’ Bigger Than….

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Paranoid Thought Number 2: Does fancying the Jonas Brothers make me a Paedophile?

ThinkingGal has a lovely boyfriend. He makes my breakfast every morning, he listens to me witter on endlessly about my dull, boring life (past, present and future) and he is, at present, the sole audience of this blog. God help him.

So when my boyfriend and I decided to pick our top 3 celebrity crushes a while ago, I was delighted to discover his picks were Tina Fey, Nigella Lawson and Beyonce. You see, in addition to being paranoid, I am also somewhat of a narcissist and can see aspects of myself in each of these women (well, I think I can- I was sort of focused on my own reflection). Tina Fey’s humour, Nigella’s cooking and Beyonce’s, well…. I’m not that much of an arrogant arse that I’m going to say that Beyonce’s looks, so I’ll settle for amazing vocal range, dancing ability and, what the hell, throw looks in there too.

However, my own response was less than savoury. Turns out I fancy the Jonas Brothers. Every last one of them.

Now, I don’t know if everyone else does this but I always think I’m the same age as TV’s youngsters today. I think this dates back to the start of Laguna Beach, where I actually was the same age as the cast. Unfortunately, time has moved on but the ages of the people I watch on TV do not, for example, I am currently watching Pretty Little Liars when I’m fairly certain I am older than all of the other viewers combined. And I recently purchased a book from the ‘Teen’ Section in an airport bookshop, which, as it turns out, was too smart for me.

So now I’m worried. How could I have let my guard down and ‘forget’ that I have to be at least 10 years older than the Jonaseseses? This must have happened over time too. Thank christ I only watched them on TV, I dread to think what would happen if I actually knew them in person. But it would have been likely to be something that ended with my arrest and subsequent selling of story to Take A Break magazine- complete with me lying on a Jonas Brothers bedspread and excerpts of my story enblazoned in bold like ‘It was the villan in my own Disney fantasy’, that actively encourage members of the public to hunt me down and beat me to death with umbrellas.

God help me, I’m going to buy a trenchcoat.

I hate Saturday. The day. And the song by Elton John.

I have mixed feelings about Saturdays. Always have done. Everyone else seems to absolutely love the day that you can fritter away doing menial tasks with the promise of Sunday lurking around the corner, guaranteed to bore you to death with sore heady-style programmes like ‘Song of Praise’. That’s the good thing about Sunday- its shit, and always will be. You know where you stand with it- even though its your free time, you know that the calabre of tasks that lie ahead are inevitably going to be so depressing and humdrum (like watching The Borrowers and starving yourself all day for the plate of overcooked lifeboats swimming atop a sea of lumpy Bisto) that you pray for the sweet release of death. Or Monday. Whatever.

But Saturday is not that day. It’s a day of lie ins, eating crap, going out and vomitting up all the crap you ate earlier on that day- for most people. Unfortunately, I am not most people and am incredibly uptight, so I don’t like going out to the disco. Oh fuck, even the fact that I say things like ‘going out to the disco’ should indicate that I’m so not down with the kids. This could go on all day.

To be fair, I don’t think anyone really likes going out. Slutting yourself up and putting on your face to sit in a darkened room with a bunch of horrible fuckers gyrating around the floor, who, instead of suffering through usual conversations with, you now have to strain to hear. And it turn out they were talking bollocks anyway. But none of that matters, because you’re having a great time. No, really. Please like me. And then, if you’re lucky enough to escape date rape by either other nighclub attendee bastards or your taximan, you have a wonderful day of weeping and ‘the fear’ ahead of you, where the residual alchol in your system encourages an existentialist crisis. You must re-evaluate your life purpose immediately. What am I doing here? Why do I need alcohol to socialise? Why oh why oh why??? Whineeeeeeeeeeee…..

But at least I have The Borrowers to look forward to. Or I would have, if this was 1994. See, I told you I wasn’t down with the kids.

Paranoid Thought Number 1: Does my bum look big in this paragraph?

In light of my recent realisation that I am the most paranoid person known to man, the thoughts that I used to deem ‘regular’ and ‘normal’ have now taken on a different role other than to taunt me until I cry myself to sleep- they are actually quite amusing. I am incredibly pensive and paranoid, which makes for a deadly combination of absoluting arse-melting analysis and general questioning of every little encounter I have with people. And this isn’t just your run-of-the-mill paranoia (‘Does that person like me?’ or ‘Did I offend them when I said I didn’t like the book they recommended?), oh no- I wish. Sometimes I worry that the concept of social etiquette had escaped me totally and, after meeting some poor, unassuming acquaintance who didn’t have to forward thinking to cross the street to avoid me, I just said, ‘Fuck off, you ugly scroat-bag’ and walked off with a sandwich board saying ‘I am a rapist’ on it in permanent marker.

So when the realisation that my writing style suggests that I am packing the pounds, I had to laugh. Then run out of the room crying.

It’s not so much that I write things like ‘I am fat’ that suggest I’m fat to others. Its the words that I write- a more easy-going, less vain individual would have no problem writing the word ‘babe’ to a friend, shutting down their computer and getting on with their day. But after writing the word ‘babe’ to a friend in a Facebook comment the other day, I envisioned myself saying it with a big mouthful of cake. Then I realised that the word ‘deffo’ looks like the words ‘toffo’ and ‘hippo’, and it hit me- I write like I need to lose the spare type of fat word-ness hanging aound my waist.

We buy things that attach our own image to that of a product, so why not the words we speak? My mother is forever telling me to stop cursing because I portray myself as vulgar (which I am *weep), so naturally, this has trickled down to the age of technology where we all converse online, so we do judge others on writing style and the words we choose to say. And if I’m putting in the hours down at the gym then I’m going to have to insist that my writing style follows suit.

All of this is based on the assumption that we all give any sort of a flying fuck about what others think, and make it an important factor in our lives. But in true paranoid style, I truely believe I am alone in this one and no-one else on earth worries that they write like they need to join Weightwatchers. But believe me, when I am inevitably forced to join websites like ‘SecondLife’ in order to meet people because my boyfriend has left me for fear he will start stabbing me to death and no-one wants to be my friend, I’ll have to drop a few leagues down the list because I’ll be e-Fat.

Working on that self-esteem, one irrational thought at a time.