Jordan - don't go there

Jordan. Dry, arid and unbearable during the day. Ice cold at night. Mile upon mile of featureless dusty orange, sparsely populated with giant dunes. A barren, unforgiving landscape, devoid of character or hope. Also known as Katie Price, she has been many a feckless girls' role model for some 10 years now. 10 years in which she has transformed from a pretty and harmless bongo mag staple to a dried up, emaciated cynical old husk, who has an innate belief in her intellect and god-given right to forever be the most famousest woman ever.

If we go back 10 years we can see where the issues started. Jordan was pretty and glamorous. A pin-up you might say. But when she first opened her mouth a wave of crushing disappointment swept across the males of our fair isle, in much the same way David Beckham's first interviews made women a little bit sick in their mouths. Her voice is so dull, lifeless and relentless, she could verbalise the cure for cancer and no-one would listen. Her voice has no lustre, no life. If Stephen Hawking wanted to sound more robotic, then he should wheel himself over to chez Jordan with a tape recorder.

Did you know that Katie Price has a speech impediment? She actually can't say the letter r. The rotund, floppy-haired and perma-adolescent comic fetishist Johnathan Ross has made a career out of not being able to pronounce his own surname; yet 'Pwicey's' less than expert use of her tongue (something of a first there) goes un-noticed. This is because never has one person spoken so much bilge and gained so many column inches for doing so. We are so baffled and befuddled by the latest stream of verbal diarrhoea exiting her gob that she could lisp like Chris Eubank and no-one would pick it up.

She manages to be insensitive, rude and crass while all the time possessing zero charisma. Even her attempts at public crying seem to be more akin to initiating a software program rather than any genuine emotion. My theory is that Jordan is a cyborg. She has had so many nips, tucks and alterations she is now about as organic as Tesco Value giant mutant tomatoes (10p for 6). All of her life decisions seem to be determined by her relentlessly stupid, yet cold and calculating brain; her selfish synapses firing once every couple of months, telling her to dispense of someone or something in her vapid life and replace with a more pliable/hunkier/less intelligent substitute.

She is literally surrounded by sycophants now, having ousted any actual friends who may dare to suggest that, actually she is wrong all of the time, and quite the disgusting human being to boot. Surely it is only a matter of time before the town of Hove is permanently scarred by a giant, stalinesque statue of her effigy, giant breasts hewn from disused gasworks. Lately she has been expressing the difficulty she has had in being 'Reidinated', by classily informing various media outlets of her struggles, as every woman with a modicum of self-respect in her situation would do. She is acutely aware that another unfortunate sprog would momentary shore up the rapidly disintegrating walls of her 'career'.

However, at least having children to various fathers isn't her only talent. Oh no. This is a woman who professes to have written in excess of a dozen books, yet I'd be amazed if she could name a dozen she has read. In fact, I'd be stupefied if she could name a dozen titles of any book ever written, even if allowing her to name her 'own'. Putting this aside, at least she has her looks. Oh Dear. She now resembles a Harpy dreamt up by H.P. Lovecraft on acid. The bottom-half of a 10-year-old boy. A Top half that even Beavis and Butthead in their chromosome-deficient horny pomp would be hard-pressed to make such a mess of. A duck-like, emotionless face, punctuated by soulless black beads for eyes, and all crowned by a huge, synthetic mane of the deepest ebony, she really is a 'stunna'.

Her last remaining vestige of hope is television. Ever since she was filmed lazily noshing on Dane Bower's chub-on it was obvious that the small screen was her natural home. Her 'fly on the wall' television series continues to be syndicated by various low-brow cable channels which you find by accident when looking for Porn. Tawdrily serialising the black widow-like mental destruction of her latest luckless male, the show somehow succeeds in painting her in an even worse light than usual. And this is a show of which she has editorial control, so who knows how bad she really is? Poor old Alex Reid, I’ll wager. No wonder he was so pumped to be on Shooting Stars, even if he had no clue what was happening.

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