Paying the Price of Katie Price.

Today’s ‘hot’ news in the Guardian was yet another terrifying reminder of the damage that humanity has done to the global climate. The article showcases the effects of speeding up climate change and explains that the Greenland Ice sheet is uniquely vulnerable and melting at an unexpected and terrifying rate.

The same of course can be said of the soul of one Katie Price (Aka Jordan) as it squirms, squeals and writhes in the fires of hell before she’s likely to be anywhere near the end of her mortal life, let alone have passed on and suffered the inevitable consequences of eternal damnation. It seems reasonable even to believe that the certainty with which she is going to hell concludes the perennial question of the existence of the after life.

Over the last few months, the most deliberate indifference to the banshee like squawking of Katie Price has proved no defence against the accumulation of the knowledge of her every move. At some point in the recent past the two most pointless human beings on the face of the planet broke off a relationship. A relationship that is, with as much depth and emotional value as two Barbie dolls that had been dropped in Ronseal and inadvertently landed with their eternally static faces on top of each other seemingly simulating a kiss.

Why do we know this? We know this because they haven’t shut up yapping about it for 3 months. Why do we know that they haven’t shut up about it? Because it has been the front page story of every, nonsensical, bile spewing, humanity slaying shit rag this side of Gordon Browns to do list. Why do we know that? We know it because just above every piece of media that might nourish or stimulate the thought process of the British public, just at eye level, is a Heat magazine or an OK magazine or the Sun or the Daily Star. Any number of these insults to journalism, fit only for wrapping up a dead cat before you bury it, are currently in circulation, at last count there were actually more tabloid journalists than people in the world…..

Utter rubbish, annotated by people so desperate to be considered a journalist that they will write about the text that someone who broke up with someone sent when they were pretending to be upset……and then felt the need to forward the text to all the journo/PR contacts in their phone….and write about it….for 3 months…..on a daily basis.

Obviously it is no coincidence that in the case of Katie Price and Peter Andre, they have stamped their devil hooves as loud as they could as a pre-amble to both having an incredibly dull reality show about themselves released. Blur vs Oasis eat your heart out.

On the bright side, as a reaction to the airing of the first episodes of these pustules on the cheek of television, a ratings war has erupted. There are even people who are willing to refer to them selves as ‘Team Andre’ and have begun to harangue Katie Price. With any luck this will develop into the spiky, self obsessed infestation being ripped limb from limb by enraged hordes of Andre fans wearing old Richard Nixon masks converted by an ill conceived recycling plan into the face of Peter Andre.

Despite all of this though, it doesn’t seem fair to blame the likes of Price and Andre for any of this. They are just incredibly well animated automatons being lead like starving prisoners into a furnace that they think contains food. It even almost seems naïve to point the finger of blame at the perpetually interested members of the public who insist on dipping their frontal lobes into this literary pot of acid. After all, who knows better the meaninglessness of this all than the publishers and the journalist’s who produce the information and farm it out like Nestle powdered milk to ill educated developing countries.

The Daily Star today:



It is not the fi rst time Kate has lashed out in public since she split from pop singer Peter.


During her wild booze-fest in Ibiza earlier in the summer, Kate threatenedto “cut” Daily Star Goss Girl
Jessica Brown.


And last month, after spending a week’s holiday cavorting for the press cameras with new fella Alex
Reid, 34, she greeted me on her return to Britain at Gatwick Airport by snarling: “Is it true you take it
up the arse?”

First of all it is worth noting that the spelling and typo errors on the above are as published, but more importantly notice that Katie Price has probably the first time in her entire life asked a layered an poignant question.

She asked Gemma Wheatley, the journalist in question, ‘Do you take it up the arse?’

She most certainly does. In a desperate, futile attempt to gain a sense of self worth, to be a member of what can be one of the most valuable, powerful and well respected institutions in contemporary human existence, a Journalist, she takes it up the arse from a giant un-lubricated Devil’s fist from deadline to deadline. It must be agony, and I hope she gives birth to a Goat as penance.

In the long run, Gemma Wheatley can molest Katie Price as much as she wishes through the Daily Stars bleating trumpet, she needs Katie Price, her retarded giant child, blind stupidity, raw venom, pure selfishness and whopping great mammary glands. She needs Katie Price. Imagine that. Just imagine it.