Good riddance doesn’t even come close.

One of the other subjects I wanted to write about before abortion in Alabama swept me away was The Jeremy Kyle Show. Of course it was! If there’s a place to splash bile all over something very deserving it’s here, and equally if there’s a something like The Jeremy Kyle Show just sitting about then the least it deserves is a coating of bile. Let’s clear a few things up for starters. Jeremy Kyle is a cunt (there is no other word in the English language available). He’s worse than that; he’s a total cunt. He’s not fit to lick the bottom of my wheelie bin on a hot day. He is a ruthless, heartless, glassy eyed bastard with the moral fibre of a Mexican cartel member and all the empathy of a hungry rattlesnake. He’s made millions from his low rent pantomime and when he says he’s devastated that some bloke has committed suicide because of his show what he really means is that he’s devastated his show has been shut down just because some selfish bugger has committed suicide. Like the kind of toothless half-wit he is so used to pummelling into submission he has had his baby taken away because he doesn’t have a clue how to look after it.
The Jeremy Kyle Show is, was, thoroughly worthless and even on it’s best day about as welcome as a malignant tumor. It had no bright side. No redeeming feature. Nobody that worked for it at the top end (not that it had a top end, strictly speaking) was useful to humanity and, I would argue, no one that went on it was useful either. They can call themselves victims but when push comes to shove they were paid for it so there’s isn’t a great deal of residual sympathy to be had. As the line goes from The Outlaw Josey Wales: “They were decently treated. They were decently fed and then they were decently shot”. Well as far I can establish most ‘guests’ on the show (or were they contestants in some grim dystopian excuse for a game show?) were given a taxi ride, a hotel room with a free mini bar, and a few hundred quid and then were treated like shit and buried in a hole, probably a hole in their own back garden. Their mattress littered, shitted council house back garden (my inner snob cannot abate, sorry). What they were not, however, was ever forced into it.
Anyone with even the slightest shred of dignity would laugh you into next week if you offered them a spot on The Jeremy Kyle Show. If what I needed was a quick £250 in my pocket and a mini bar hangover I would do almost any job over appearing on that stage with that prick to earn it: Nigel Farage’s butler, rent boy, body orifice drug mule, dementia carer, penis cleaner. Anything. There is no personal problem that I could possibly imagine, let alone invent, that I would willingly let Jeremy Kyle try and help me with. Perhaps if the problem I had was that ‘the wife’ wanted to leave me and would only stay if Jeremy Kyle was set on fire or kicked senseless by a gang of badgers then, maybe, Jeremy Kyle could help with that. Imagine also being called Jeremy Kyle, and then knowing that when anyone mentioned your name people would automatically think you were a wanker. Just imagine that.
So it’s over, this sad porridge of farce, fun free faecal matter and rather typically the nation is outraged it was ever allowed to go on so long. Suddenly everyone is dribbling out of the woodwork to say how badly they were treated or that the show made their lives worse, not better. But some people are also saying how much they’ll miss it and how will they ever possibly manage to get through the morning without their daily dose of JK? I don’t wish to be overly harsh (I’m going to be anyway) but if you are at a stage in your life where the lack of a Jeremy Kyle Show might pose a problem then you may want to consider committing suicide as well, because you must have hit rock bottom quite some time ago and you’re never going back up.
He will be back, you know. Let’s not deny ourselves the inevitable; cockroaches and Jeremy Kyle share the same genome. He’ll pop up with ‘his story’ or as a guest presenter on some similarly empty daytime show and, just like the endless Chris Evans renaissance, he’ll be all over the place like a syphilitic rash in the blink of an eye. He serves no tangible purpose except to make money from the misfortune of others and the fact he probably still sleeps at night is many light years beyond outrageous. Piers Morgan is his friend and that is enough of a clue. Please, whatever you do, the next time you see Jeremy Kyle just turn off the TV. Unless he’s behind you in a queue, in which case turn around and deliver him a sharp kick to his tiny balls. He’ll almost certainly have earned it.
G B Hewitt. 18.05.2019

 

I must think of something positive to write about next time.

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