Is there no end to him?

Chris Evans is a seemingly unstoppable force of annoyance. He is an usually high pollen count to an allergy riddled child. A cheap wool scarf wrapped too tight on a hot day. An ingrowing hair on the inner thigh, just below the genitals. He is an itch that cannot be scratched and a foul smelling, belching candle that cannot be snuffed out, and thanks to his over-productive testes he has now cursed the world with some more children. It’s one thing having too many children; that’s just selfish. It’s another thing entirely having too many children when you yourself are an irritant; that’s plain criminal.
If my sources are correct Chris Evans and Jamie Oliver are responsible for the existence of at least 9 children between them. Though not together, that would be newsworthy. And coming from their gene stock that is exactly 9 too many. We don’t need their 9 kids. We don’t want their 9 kids. And nobody in their right mind should give a single tiny toss about a single tiny one of them.
But I’ve already done my bit on Jamie and in the name of fairness I should keep focused on Evans. Just when I think he’s done it all he manages to take another step down the ladder and I suspect that pretty soon his feet will touch the bottom and he’ll be the person I most loathe in all the world.
I wasn’t annoyed that he decided to move to Virgin Radio. In fact I am pleased because there will be less chance of stumbling across him on the airwaves and feeling obliged to throw myself out of the car into oncoming traffic. Make it a lorry, make it quick. What made me a vivid red with rage was the news that a big factor in this ultimately greedy and self serving, self promoting move was how ‘uncomfortable’ he had felt when the BBC had to disclose his enormous wage. Poor dear. If I was being paid a couple of million quid a year to dribble shit out of the biggest hole in my face for a couple of hours a day I’d be delighted and wouldn’t care who knew. Whatever fraction of my licence fee goes on his chubby pay packet is unequivocally the worst money I have ever spent. I’d rather put it towards my own assassination.
It doesn’t stop though. Today ‘our’ Chris, the swollen, pin-prick glans of the world’s smallest, least useful penis, has decided to enrich us with the names of his new-born twins. He joked, all too frequently I expect, that their ‘working titles’ were Ping and Pong, which in retrospect sound rather normal. Only someone like Chris Evans and his unquestionably simple minded (I can’t think of any other reason than for the money) wife would then pour fat on the fire and end up calling them Boo and Walt instead. How cruel to cripple your children before they have a chance to retaliate.
Who’s called Boo? Boo is a sound you make to startle people. Boo is half the name of The Boo Radleys – a half-baked, quarter talented Britpop one hit wonder act. Unless they named him/her/it after the Mockingbird character; a recluse with a nasty reputation and the alleged subject of medical experiments as a child. Which sounds more plausible. Hi, I’m Boo Evans, come here often? Oh piss off, Boo Evans.
And then Walt. I have never, ever met someone called Walter, let alone Walt and that’s because I don’t work in the American midwest as a grit kicking, horn honking truck driver. Look ahead Chris, look ahead to every registration of every school day of your poor new-born children’s lives. Boo and Walt. Boo and Walt. Walt and Boo. Better? If anything worse. Saying them again and again and again just makes them curdle, but there is light at the end of all that tunnel. No matter how Boo and Walt turn out it’ll be almost impossible to be quite as punch-able as their daddy. What next?
G B Hewitt. 21.09.2018

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