On Sunday night television
Two words: Holly Willoughby.
I know what you're thinking. He's going to bang on for five hundred words on the wonders of those peachy bazongas that can only be fully appreciated with the advent of 3-D television, any old excuse to reproduce THAT photograph.
And you'd be KING of WRONG.
For here is my confession: I watch Dancing on Ice and – following strict instructions from above – I like it.
To be sure, certain of the female contestants are not without their charms (A hub a hub a Coleen Nolan a hub I am not mad a hub hub); Todd Carty can probably keep his Buster Keaton tribute act going for another week or two before the joke wears thin; and Philip Schofield continues his quest to be the loudest, orangest man on television – but there are two things which fascinate me.
No, two other things.
H. Willoughby's buttocks.
I know that Miss Willoughby is with child, and – by God – she is every inch the blooming, radiant mother-to-be. But how, we ask on a weekly basis, HOW is it that she only appears to be pregnant in her arse?
She appears – without fail – every Sunday evening, looking all the world that somebody has put a bike pump where the sun don't shine and inflated to 60 psi.
The only other woman I saw like that had a job for the council as a bicycle park.
I am hypnotised. Hypnotised to the point that I have to be threatened with Wild At Heart if I do not shut up about the Arse of Willoughby (which is rapidly becoming The New Arse of Lopez).
Yeah. Wild At Heart.
Or: Man meets girl. Man falls in love with girl despite knowing she is Amanda Holden and ergo mental. Man marries girl. Man and girl move to Africa. Girl is killed TO DEATH in comedy bush fire. Man has brief fling with leopard. Man falls in love with two other girls, all the time thinking about H. Willoughby's buttocks. Other girls have cat-fight while man sells tickets. Man realises his true love is for the hairy, drunken Afrikaner. Man hides his shame with sordid threesome involving Hayley Mills and her sister, which might have been acceptable thirty years ago and... oh... am I thinking out loud again? THE END.
How many times have we seen the same old, old story?
Thank [deity or non-belief system of your choice] that Emmerdale hasn't gone to toilet yet.