Monday, 2 April 2007

Monday 2 April 2007

tracy barlow waits
to find out if she’s guilty
of hamming it up.

Once again (as on 6 March) I woke up feeling like I’d been thrashed to within an inch of my life by midgets with tiny snooker balls wrapped in socks. Maybe I was.
I had a celebrity omen this weekend as, when exiting Latimer Road Tube Station, Matthew Wright (of ‘the Wright Stuff’ and ‘Celebrity Stars in their Eyes’ where he sang with Vanessa Feltz) walked past me, dressed like a tramp. What could this portend? I will have to consult my Alistair Crowley’s Big Book of Omen De Celebritaire.
A few weeks ago the Wise Woman of Wigan came over for dinner (we had hot-pot, with which Madhur Jaffrey had no involvement).
After a few vodkas the conversation turned, as it often does, to the culling of celebrities, and we drew up what we described as a Lecter List, i.e. a catalogue of people whose removal from the mortal world would actually improve society.
The obvious people were on there. We all know who they are. The cull began with all the people who are famous without having actually done anything.
I threw in a separate list of non-celebrities, for balance, just so that the Grim Reaper could collect all the Chuggers who try to mug me outside tube stations for a charity donation, and the men who hand out the London Lite of an evening, simply because their only talent seems to be getting in my way. Oh, and anyone who reads Heat magazine. We’ll never miss them.
Actors were next. The entire cast of Eastenders was wiped out, with the exception of Dot Cotton.
On to the world of music where we invoked a Tardis, went back in time and slaughtered Stock Aitken and Waterman before they had a chance to commit their multiple crimes against music.
The WW of W then suggested we also have a ‘lurve list’, and we lapsed into silence for quite some time before coming up with Rolf Harris, Morrisey, Penelope Keith and the cute man from the porridge adverts (he was mine).I am compiling a definitive Lecter List written on the sleeve notes of an S Club Seven album (plenty of blank space there) which I intend to soak in the blood of a black chicken and burn outside the offices of TV Quick.

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