Glorified prostitute and big messy embarrassment, Kerry Katona, is the darling of daytime TV, the belle of banal bollocks and the mare of the menopausal magazines. In short, she’s the human equivalent of a cigarette butt being flicked into an empty tin of lager.
But why does she feature in so many of my posts? Because she’s so fucking irritating.
To be fair, I’m clearly just jealous of her hilarious wit, her glamorous life, her presence ont’ Freeview channels and her general chippy-chips existence. I want to be Kerry Katona. And I suspect all your gals out there are just pishing yourself to be just like her, too. Yep.
So here’s How To Live It Up Like Kerry Katona:
And by ‘Funky’, I mean the sort of funky that also relates to FunkyPigeon.com. Walk into your nearest ‘airdressah what you know doesn’t ‘ave a clue ‘ow to duair, and just tell them to do what the fuck they like. Kerry’s current ‘do is a short back and sides with a large hair-swan ont’ top, like what Reeannah ‘as. The only different between our Kez and Rihanna is that Rihanna is tall, statuesque and beautiful whereas Kerry is stubby, gobby and out to steal your hubby (sorry, that was the only thing I could think of that rhymed and would denote that Kerry is a slag). Does Kerry give a fuck that her hair makes her look like an extra in Prison Bitches: Jailed for Credit Card Fraud But I didn’t Do It, Mister, I Swear On Me Mam’s Life Edition? Does Kerry care that her hair is in Heat’s Hoop of Horror? Does she fuck. All news is good news, innit.
Speaking of looking like a slag, no Kerry Katona wannabe worth her weight in cocaine-that’s-pretending-to-be-salt would be without a glamruss dress from t’boutiques in London. Think Herve Leger’s famous bandage dress but made significantly cheaper looking by making it out of coloured cling film and being eight sizes too small, a la Kezza. Our Kerry always teams her shitty dresses with disregard for the mantra, ‘Boobs or legs; never both’ and a fuckload of Wrigley’s Extra. Don’t forget a nice pair of plastic heels and big gobby gob on your big gobby gob.
Celebrity superstars need their downtime too and in between her glamorous life of posing semi-nude in The Sun and ringing Heat magazine to advise them of pending abortions so they can get their ‘Exclusives’ schedule right, Kerry uses her downtime to play online Bingo, so next time you’re at your lowest ebb and playing online, that person sweatin’ ont’ one number for a full house might just be Kerry Katona. To recreate your own Kerry downtime, treat yourself to a whole sphere of Dairylea Triangles and sit w’ yer feet up ont’ sofa and stick ont’ Telly and Wink/Sun Bingo. While you wait for the next game to start, tweet grammatically incorrect things about how when Bryun left you, it broke your heart and now he don’t even go haffers for t’kiddies private educayshun.
Speaking of t’kiddies, if you want to live it up like Kerry Katona, you need to employ the sort of child neglect that would have even Miss Hannigan ringing fucking social services. Kerry loves forcing her children to take part in her reality shows, where they appear malnourished, unloved and like a modern-day version of the cast of Oliver. Neglect your children like Kerry by teaching them witty retorts for the cameras, such as ‘Lily-Molly-Bobby-Sue-Tanisha, what does daddy do?’ ‘Fucked off to Australia to shack up with Delta Goodrem and doesn’t pay child support, Mummy’. Of course, Kerry bleeds her I’m-not-gonna-tret-my-kids-what-way-me-mam-tretted-me role drier than Mark Croft drained her bank account, so you also need to play a semi-active role in the upbringing of your kids. Kerry’s suggestions for being a mediocre parent swathed in dillusion include doing t’school run while chain smoking (windows up), dancing around the kitchen to cheer your kids up when they’re crying because you won’t turn t’cameras off and going on This Morning to swear blind on your kids’ lives to Philip Schofield that your off the cocaine now for good.
Finally, if you want to emulate Kerry Katona in any way then you will most certainly need to master the art of slurring your words whilst maintaining eyes deader than Michael Barrymore’s circa Celebrity Big Brother to present day. To do this, make an appointment with your GP and inform him/her that you are severely depressed and need to be heavily medicated lest you commit suicide. Down a quadruple dose of whatever you’re prescribed and then secure yourself a slot on daytime television by, for example, getting acid thrown in your face by an ex-partner or needing a paternity test, and head straight to the bright lights of fame with your craggy jaw chomping at nothing in particular, serving no purpose other than to make you look like you’re off your head. The key to slurring your words effectively is to never acknowledge that you’re slurring your words and, when questioned about it, say things like ‘Am eh? I didn’t know I were slurrin’ me wurds. This is news to me. Oh, I tell you what it might be, it’s me medicayshun for me bunions, innit. But I carn’t hear it meself. Am I?’
Well, there you have it, Kerry wannabes: five ways in which you can class yourself up to be just like Our Kez: Queen of t’Jungle but also, our hearts. Ish.