Shaun Ryder's Jungle

15-11-10

AND so I am to appear on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here. As an aesthete I am naturally repelled by the unstoppable march of reality television programmes and the oxygen they lend to the dismal, slack-jawed ‘personalities’ who scramble to appear on them. But, like Christopher Marlowe, I am a hostage to my own dark passions and – ghastly fate – one finds oneself in need of funds to support one’s voracious appetite for substances. And thus I must place myself in a jungle with dullards.

I have already prepared myself for the tedious eventuality that once the cameras begin ‘rolling’ I must transform myself, once more, into the creature I refer to as ‘Horrid Shaun’. In preparation for this cultural cesspit I was required to give an ‘interview’ to a newspaper journalist. Naturally one littered one’s responses with f-words and c-words and made a particular effort to affix the word ‘like’ to end of each guttural, growling utterance.

“I’ll smuggle in a few fookin’ Temazepam and then wash it down wiv a pint o’ fookin’ dolphin piss, like.” The greasy fiend lapped it up like a grateful kitten. I then tossed him an invented memory of eating Bez’s toenails and how this experience would stand me in good stead if the producers commissioned me to ‘eat a fookin’ emu’s arsehole. Or summat. Like’.

Meanwhile, I have gone to the excruciating trouble of familiarising myself with my jungular colleagues. To my undying horror I see that I am to degrade myself alongside Nigel Havers, the former cinema actor who captivated audiences in A Passage to India and who’s late father was kind enough to introduce me to the Carlton Club. Additionally I must feign camaraderie with a former Liberal member of Parliament with an absurd ‘face’, a Scottish dietician who chastises plump morons, an Afro-Caribbean gentleman who used to run quickly and, as I told the newspaper journalist, ‘some big titted blonde bird who used to fook Rod Stewart’.

In what I had hoped would be the singular saving grace, the producers asked me which luxury item I should like to take with me into this freshly minted hell. “What else but my well thumbed edition of Candide?” I told one of the grimy dolts from the Independent Television channel. “As I sit sweltering in my own moisture, I shall cool myself with Voltaire’s poetry and wisdom.”

“Do what?” replied the cretin from beneath his baseball hat. Weeping inside I became the ‘creature’ once more. “Just give me a big fookin’ bag o’ disco biscuits and I’ll be fookin’ sorted. Like.” To which he nodded his head and replied: “Ha! Ha! Nice one Shaun, mate – you sounded a right ponce for a minute there.”

Fookin’ coont.

 

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