Everybody has a celebrity crush that they're a teensy bit embarrassed to admit to. My best friend Anna loves Dave Grohl who, in my opinion, looks a bit like Mr Ed the Talking Horse. I tease her mercilessly, of course, whilst harboring secret lust for my inamorato de jour, daytime television host and 'bear-baiter' of the working classes, Jeremy Kyle.
Today I have spent the best part of four hours bundled up on my sofa with the blinds closed gleefully watching chat shows whilst nursing my awful head-cold. The highlight has been the Jeremy Kyle double bill this afternoon, which I am seriously considering signing myself off onto benefits for, so that I may enjoy it every single day, and perhaps participate in.
If there was ever a man to bring order among Britain's working men (and women), Jeremy be thy name. It's not his face, which is slightly below average. It's his ability to go from 0-100 in under ten seconds. Scowling upon his latest proletariat prey, Jeremy can reduce wife-beaters to gibbering wrecks in under five minutes. Here is an example of my armchair armpiece at work.
JK: I like you sweetheart, I'm going to give you a chance to talk to me now.
Teenage girl: (wiping away tear)
JK: Aww, I know it's been hard, darling.
Teenage girl: My mum wuz nevver there for me, innit.
JK: I know, so you gave your own daughter up too, didn't you?
Teenage girl: (sniffs) Yeah.
JK: And that's why I think that SKULKING IMMATURE REPROBATES LIKE YOU SHOULD NOT BE CARING FOR A CHILD!
Teenage girl: Oi, I...
JK: EXCUSE ME, DARLING, WHO'S NAME IS THAT ON THE WALL?
The man is brilliant. That's how I like my crushes, they build 'em up to knock 'em down. Today he swore that 'by God I will pop up when you least expect it darling', which gave me a pleasant ripple of lust.
Even though my brain feels like it's covered in alien-goo, my bones ache and my eyes are watery and red, I kind-of hope that tomorrow I'm not feeling any better, because then I'll get to spend another stolen few hours of forbidden love with my bear-baiting beau.