TV’s a bit depressing these days, isn’t it? That square of doom, looming in the corner like a snaffling badger that has all the intent of chewing your face off in one quick flick of a switch. This is something that was manufactured for entertainment, you know, making us happy and that, giggling with our 2.4 family in obese sofas as we all sit and share tips on cleaning utensils, that stuff. Well, IT’S NOT. When you’re fighting back the tears to Loose Women, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
The producers of these shows must really be loving it, ruining every viewer’s day as they break down in tears and then turn to stone. They’ll be rubbing their hands as they wring out our bodies of uncontrollable sweat and tears, the monsters. Well, this must be their intention, given the fact Chantelle Houghton is even allowed to take up a third of my TV screen with her BIG FAT USELESS HEAD. Yes I said it.
I was ever so happy last Thursday. I had a bounce in my walk, music in my ears, and I wasn’t even drunk. This day was made for me. And then she ruins it, the baroness of all things ‘not even good enough for Katona’, that girl Houghton yet again on my screen. Appearing on ‘This Morning’ on Friday she broke down in factory-made tears with a convenient quiver in her upper lip. She looked like an illegitimate version of herself, within another illegitimate version of herself. It was mind-blowing. Before she’d even spouted some oddity about her and Alex Reid she’d already started bawling, spurred on by Eamonn Holmes introducing the invigorating topic with ‘so Chantelle, you don’t look very happy’. And who would be with a question thrust at them like that? That’s like handing someone a plate of your freshly produced insides and asking them to discuss the colour.
And Chantelle’s plate is definitely full of it. She whined for a bit about the turbulence of the relationship, which can only be expected from being with a cross-dresser who still has the remnants of Katie Price’s undercarriage in between his fingers (gross, but probable). Her eyebrows even furrowed that far her Botox practically bust and her lips nearly exploded from all the pouting. Of course, now she’s a single mother and must therefore (according to the Z-List book of ‘Things to do when shit hits the fan’) she aches for our sympathy because she’s come to the realisation that saying she ‘won Big Brother ten years ago’ doesn’t quite cut it anymore and you just end up looking like a bona fide slag.
But it’s all a bit tedious now, Chantelle. Perhaps quit making all these TV and magazine appearances, spouting all your juices for half-column £50 segments and start realising you’re not the only one. At the end of the day, I would far rather listen to a regular mother on the TV, a woman who struggles with a standard-income job to keep her family afloat, and how she copes with it all. That is more sympathetic. That is more reassuring. That is more motivational. Chantelle is just a has-been who couldn’t inspire a hungry pigeon to eat a gone-off ice-cream cone. Not even a proper soggy one with all the good stuff still inside. It’s almost like the world has ended.