I watched The Only Way Is Essex yesterday – wait! I can explain – kinda….
You see, I’m really an Essex girl from ‘Sarf End’, but it seems I’ve lived in Devon so long (8 years) the Essex may have been knocked out of me.
As I stare in disbelief at the screen, I try to recall just one person I knew from Essex who dressed, spoke or looked like the strange visions animating my HD ready household appliance.
After two hours (omnibus) I desperately wanted to paint myself orange, get someone to smack me in the lips for that dazed fish look and slap on a pair of oversized false eyelashes.
I guiltily tuned into the latest episode last night and marvelled at the deliciousness of ‘Joey Essex’ trying to work out who the Prime Minister of Essex was. You could almost see his brain moving beneath his shining helmet of a hairdo.
Rest assured I am now hooked by the car-crash of a program, perhaps because it validates my decision to move Meg down here before she developed a passion for micro pigs, false boobs and the word ‘babe’.
Vajazzle? Not me, arboriculture would probably be the only solution for my untamed lady garden.