Too soon?

Too soon?

Once again the nation cowers before the wrath of a seriously depraved criminal mastermind. Despite the recent arrest of a custard-loving freak from Myspace, it is sadly inevitable that the finger of blame for the dreadful events in Suffolk should point, as is all too common in these cases, at the sordid world of celebrity. This is, after all, a group of people who have done so much to drag this nation's good name into their very own mire of filth.

G. Glitter.

F. Bough.

M. Barrymore.

In the face of the dreadful end wrought upon these valuable public servants, snatched from the very streets of our once proud nation, we have to ask ourselves the all-important question: where have the Chuckle Brothers been these last two weeks?

And after mere seconds of research, we find the disturbing answer to be: Hull. Doing panto.

We find out to our great horror that the City of Hull is only 194 miles from Ipswich. A mere four hour drive. This gives them more than enough time to knock off rehearsals, scoot down the coast to Suffolk, dump a slattern in a ditch, and drive back, shouting "Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear" out of the window to passers-by in a sickeningly triumphant manner.

Paul and Barry had better have a pretty good alibi, or their millions of fans will be well and truly disgusted. I can see, in my mind's eye, the pair of up to no good in a dark, wet field, muttering "To me, to you - to me, to you" as they go about their grim work, giving each other 'high fives' as they dump another limp body in a ditch.

Chuckles: your silence sickens me. I will never watch ChuckleVision again.

I am not mad.

The management would like to point out that the Chuckle Brothers have never killed anybody to death, ever, at all; and would like to remind readers that the Coroner completely vindicated Paul and Barry over that nasty business with the elephant on heat at the holiday camp, which was not their fault at all, despite the unlicensed use of spacehoppers on a commercial premises. I am still not mad.