Hark at Barker.


If there’s one thing I don’t want to see when I flick through my Twitter feed, it’s Linda Barker’s face.

Fear (right).

You might think I’m being harsh, but I’m not. It took a long time to recover from her horrific, grating voice on Changing Rooms most weekdays in the late 90s; I don’t need to be subjected to a sudden, unexpected, visual reminder.

It’s not so bad when I’ve had a chance to prepare myself. It’s those unsolicited Barker moments that strain my nervous system the most. If you said, ‘David, I’m about to show you a picture of your least favourite interior designer. Are you sure you’re ready for it?’ I would be. After breathing into a paper bag and crossing myself. And I’m not even Catholic.

It’s hard to put a finger on what it is that sets me on edge. It’s the whole package. There’s something in her demeanour that suggests she’d destroy anyone who stood in her way. Her smile isn’t genuine. It’s painted-on, like that of Tim Curry’s Pennywise or Jack Nicholson’s Joker. You wouldn’t want either of them doing up your house.

She reminds me of Anthea Turner too, which isn’t a bonus.

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