Wednesday, 16 November 2011

Beware of the FATIMONSTER...

I'm quite pleased another bollocks reality programme is on TV, for one reason and one reason only: The brute that is FATIMONSTER.

Fatima Whitbread, television's answer to the question: "What would you get if you forced Chuck Norris and one time Pat Butcher lover Moira Stewart to breed?" - is nothing short of ferocious. In tonight's episode, Mark Wright, the pathetic tart from Essex, fell out with the Fatimonster and I genuinely feared for his safety when Tarzanne asked him to go for a 'walk' with her/him/shim/whatever in the jungle to clear the air. Imagining Fatimonster coming back into camp from the darkness, blood around its mouth and proudly wearing Wright's skin like an Eskimo's polar bear cloak - left me most certainly petrified.

Thinking back to Jurassic Park, I'm not entirely convinced that even a high voltage electric fence would be enough to contain the Fatimonster. When the raptors learnt how to open the kitchen's doors, the audience collectively gulped and thought the worst. I can certainly picture Fatimonster's eye pressed up against the window, condensation forming whilst his nostrils flared warm fishy breath on to the cold glass.

Simply chilling.

With the likes of the irritating Lorraine Chase goading this savage predator, I can only envisage this series will end in tragedy. I expect the body count to reach the high hundreds as Fatimonster, charged on a cocktail of 'roids and raw meat, roams free through the jungle and surrounding villages. With the exception of pint-sized co-presenter Dec, who the beast will keep an inch from death to presumably make the terrified Geordie its King Kongesque pet bride, repeatedly stroking his cracked skull like an over zealous 5 year old girl to a new barbie doll.

Another creature of note on this series of I'm a Celebrity is spin off show's insanely hyperIrish Laura Whitmore. I'd never seen her before and can now see why. The fact I don't speak fluent Gaelic and despite having a huge Irish family myself, it's almost impossible to understand a word she's saying. Very similar to a Celtic budgie on a Charlie Sheen dose of powerful amphetamines, I genuinely believe a career as a Setanta horse racing commentator or an auctioneer would have been a better bet for the buzzing leprechaun.

Anyway, apologies for the lack of commentary recently, I've been up to the arsecrack of dawn caked in baby sick and trying to find a moment to kick back and write has been a challenge. If you like what you read and wouldn't mind some more, head on over to and like the page.