No Deal.


Today, I had a terrifying moment when I looked in the mirror and realised I look like a dark-haired Noel Edmonds.

No-one on the planet wants to discover that; except for Edmonds himself, unless he grapples with his own self-esteem. At least when he had a goatee, I was safe; now he sports that bizarre mascaraed-in affair, I’m doomed. I may as well surround myself in boxes and open a theme park at Cricket St. Thomas.

(TRIVIA.)

…Noel Edmonds though; fuck’s sake. Not Noel. Not helicopter-flying, cancer-defying-device-inventing Noel. Not the man whose face adorns every second fruit machine in the country. He’s a person with very few redeeming features; at least Hitler could paint.

I guess this outcome was inevitable. I was suckered in by his suaveness at an early age. I even bought the Mr Blobby single on vinyl, for Christ’s sake. How could I pride myself in my taste in music and own a copy of that? It wasn't even for charity; at least Deeply Dippy came with an alibi.

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