Do not disturb on the night – I’m gagging for ‘celebrities’
I shouldn’t be, and I don’t want to be, but I am desperate for it.
I look across at Sally, who is reading a colour supplement, feigning indifference. I know she is feeling it too – if she’d only admit it – so how can she be so aloof, like she’s not bothered?
Everything is set, the mood is perfect – it’s Sunday night, there is a roaring fire, the children are in bed. Adult time has arrived.
“Shall we?” I say tentatively, adding: “I might just have a shower first. Freshen up. Won’t be long.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Sally. “I might just go to bed. Sleep. I could do without it.”
Sleep? On a night like this, when I am, if you will excuse the coarseness, gagging for it?
It has been like this for years now, a late autumn ritual. I always swear I won’t submit to this madness, that it will be different this time, that I will do something useful with my time, like try, really try, to read something on Richard and Judy’s booklist.
But I always fold first. For all my attempts to be sophisticated, eat at the best restaurants, go to Symphony Hall, transmit an air of refinement, my baser side always takes over. Let’s face it – I’m common, no different to Kerry Katona and her cuisine Iceland.
And so, inevitably, I did it, with Sally, who at the last minute couldn’t resist either.
We put on – horror of horrors – ITV and watched the first instalment of I’m A Celebrity … Get Me Out Of Here!
My interest in other reality TV shows has dwindled to non-existent and the prospect of Big Brother leaves me longing for pro-celebrity golf with Peter Alliss, Ronnie Corbett and Tony Jacklin.
For some unexplained reason, though, I can’t kick the I’m A Celebrity habit. The show’s setting, as much as the personalities, is a draw.
What chap doesn’t hanker after getting back to nature, camping in a forest, lighting fires, eating out of billy cans, not shaving, squishing bugs?
But what of the celebs (who of course aren’t, because if they were it would be boring)?
My eldest daughter said the tabloids claimed this year’s bunch were non-entities. Non-entities?
Have you seen the line-up? It’s fantastic.
There’s Martina Navratilova, who, unless my eyes deceive me, has scrubbed up rather well over the years. Fab teeth. It’s going to be compelling watching Robert Kilroy Silk serve his best balls to the Rat. She’ll make mincemeat of them. Ouch.
Then there’s Esther Rantzen (game, but could get tetchy), Dani “my face has shrunk” Behr, Mr Sulu, a girl with big boobs and stud-muffin Brian Paddick.
So don’t ring after 9pm for the next three weeks.
I’m not taking calls, not even from Kerry.
