And Faggy has a new crush…
Now that Big Brother is over (the simpleton won – hurrah! Now we can all celebrate a new cretin who hasn’t bothered to pay attention at school and encourage all our little itty bitty children to do the same if they want lots of cash monies to buy plasmas) there’s a new reason to stay in and blow out that crappy date with the teensy cock.
Yup, Hell’s Kitchen is upon us and do you know dear readers, I have a shocking confession to make – as a result of watching it I’ve become a card carrying member of team Marco rather than team Gordon.
Both are shouty screamy men who behave like Goebbels with a frying pan, but there’s one difference. Marco is genuinely psychotic, whereas Gordy is a bit of an old faker.
When Gordon tore strips off famouses you felt sure off camera he was chummily placing a hand on their sun-bedded shoulder and suggesting they head to Claridge’s where he would buy them champagnee and they could point and laugh at all the non-famouses. When Marco tears strips off famouses, you feel sure that off camera, he’s about to continue tearing until they require a new asshole.
Where Gordy is a bit of a star-fucker and has cosy dinners with the Beckhams, Marco loathes everyone without exception, even screaming at England footballer Peter Crouch when he dared to approach the kitchens and j’adore him for this.
In fact, like most men I feel strangely drawn to, we’ll get along just fine providing we never actually have to meet one another…