How the celebrities/aspiring authors/ human shipwrecks might describe their early impressions of their performances:
A woman was sat in a room waiting. She was a famous crime-writer by the name of Minette Walters. It was her job to turn instruct six invited guests into becoming the best thriller authors they can be. The six suspect crime writers entered the room and sat down. Minette picked up their 500-word stories with her hand. Her forefinger nail was varnished red and cut into the shape of a shovel. Her index finger was also varnished red, but the nail was clipped at right angles. Her third finger had chipped nail varnish, almost like a child trapped behind a dark red window who had smashed the glass to call for help. Her little finger wasn’t visible. She meticulously listened as one by one the suspect writers read out their stories. She was largely full of praise, only picking fault with Brendan Cole and reserving her full wrath for Kelvin MacKenzie. By the end of the week, five careers would be lying in a pool of their own blood. Dead beyond the redemptive powers of even I’m A Celebrity…. One career would survive to leech on the undeserved fame of a thriller novel, at least until the new series of Strictly Come Dancing. Until then, there was only Alan Carr’s Celebrity Ding Dong to feast on; an option that would make even the most grossly undignified celebrity shudder.
The washed-up former tabloid editor turned to his glass of whiskey. He gripped it in his left hand tightly. So tightly the blood was rinsed from his claw-like fingers. They looked like bird’s talons. Not a bird as in big-titted women he used to plaster on page 3. And besides they don’t have talons. No arms, no hands just big tits. “Big tits,” he thought to himself. Six hours later he was still there. Thinking of big tits. Somehow, somehow, he thought, these big tits must be able to solve the murder. Or were the big tits guilty of the murder itself? His mind raced like a torpedo into the hull of a meandering warship sailing towards its own territory. Gotcha! The tits could have done it, he thought. A big, flapping, bouncing, caressable, soft, jiggly pair of big tits could kill a man. Just then he turned around again, half-expecting to be smothered by a big pair of big flapping tits. He was half-right – it was Brendan Cole and Matt Allwright. Disappointingly, neither had a big juicy, squeezable pair of big tits. But, hell, at least neither of them were miners.
The suave New Zealand dancer and general good-for-nothing streak of flesh and bone turned to the mirror uneasily. “I don’t ever read books,” he said his lips moving uneasily like quicksilver. His first encounter with the washed-up tabloid editor had been uneasy. They were in a morgue uneasily watching a pathologist perform an autopsy on some uneasy fake corpses. The tension between the pair created an atmosphere of unease – one of them would uneasily have to go. Uneasily the dancer read out his story to the listening Minette Walters. She listened uneasily. Was his story better than the tabloid editor’s; they both shifted uneasily in their seats – they knew they were the worst writers here. Uneasily the dancer turned to his room door to lock it and turned again to walk along a corridor before turning to the flight of stairs, turning slightly to his left to slide his hand uneasily along the banister, he turned again at the foot of the stairs before turning into faceless man in a grey suit, large hands shaped like spades and a hair transplant made from a rejected Chelsea Flower Show display. Uneasily the dancer recognised the man – it was disgruntled Diarmuid Gavin story. A mixture of blood, manure, loose soil and ink from unsold gardening almanacs hung uneasily on his murderous hands. An hour of tedious gardening anecdotes later, the dancer slumped to the ground uneasily, he saw his future showbiz career drag uneasily across his eyes, within seconds he was dead.
The spade turned to look back on the Great TV Gardening Empire. He turned back to his path away from the Empire from which he’d just been exiled. His comely Irish brogue and sparkling metallic facial features weren’t enough to charm his way back on to prime time television. This spade would have to look for a different way back. The spade stuck to what it does best – digging with an earnest admission of his narrow limitations. He started off by earnestly digging into the affections of a trowel-faced pathologist, whose hair was an object lesson in award-winning topiary. But the praise from the pathologist wasn’t enough. The spade still frothed like hatching toad spawn and was filled with the green, green grass of envy at Matt Allwright’s TV shows that still are shown on prime time TV. Two hours later, the spade was leveraging the corpse of Allwright into a shallow grave, fringed with compost. “I’m the perfect murderer,” the spade thought to himself, “my steel face is perfect for cracking the skull of upstart BBC TV presenters who steal TV jobs from professional gardeners, I can then use myself to dig a grave before lying innocently on the ground. I mean, who would suspect an innocuous spade of being able to commit a murder?” But the spade toppled onto the grave weeping stagnant drops of rain in despair – while he was the perfect killing machine, he was bereft of the fingers that would enable him to type on a keyboard to apply for the newly vacant consumer journalist post. The spade retreated to a dark, dark place.
The crusading ’tec cracked a joke as he entered a downtown mortuary. He cracked a joke. He laughed. No one else did. Not put off by the rest of the human race’s sense of humour failure, he turned to his wit and said: “What do they do in New Zealand? Three years ago I heard someone got a camera nicked.” Again, no one laughed. “What is wrong with these people,” the ’tec thought as he chewed on a sanctimonious resin bar of misguided self-righteousness. It tasted of soap. He mounted his ostentatious motorbike and set off to a mock home to set up an over elaborate and frankly unnecessary ruse to entrap the resin bar saleswoman who had sold him the bar two days earlier. Dressing up as his grandmother for no other reason than to fulfil his warped fantasies, the ’tec waited for the tell tale knock at the door. He turned to the door and opened it. Standing there was ex-Coronation Street actress Sherrie Hewson. She was a wreck. The ’tec cracked a joke to put her at ease before he ritually humiliated her. But his joke was so unfunny it killed her dead on the spot.
Standing outside the Loose Women studio, nervous God has turned his celestial robes yellow with wee. The divine ex-soap actress turned glamorous diva brings him a mop to mop it up with. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” the omniscient being declared. “I’ve been on thousands of chat shows before – LK Today, where I had to justify the validity of cellulite, Richard & Judy, to get the Bible on to their Book Club list to prolong Christianity into the 21st century, and Sharon Osbourne, where I had to resist the temptation to put my hands round her neck – but nothing has made me as nervous as this.” “Don’t worry about it,” the divine ex-soap actress confides, “it’s all about emotions on Loose Women. Emotions and misandry. Emotions, misandry and hatred of younger women. Emotions, misandry, hatred of younger women and hatred of prettier women. Emotions, misandry, hatred of younger women, hatred of prettier women and a passionate interest in things that don’t really matter.” His mind made up by this senseless, carping harridan, God snapped his fingers and obliterated the universe in the wink of an eye.