On fake national treasures.

Very few people can seem to mean so much to so many for so little reason than the Geordie flutter monkey Cheryl Cole. It might be me, I may have missed something, so please could someone tell me how she became something that rather alarmingly resembles a national treasure. I should be fair and acknowledge that the status of national treasure, at least in this country, is not necessarily something to be proud of. At least not anymore. Barbara Windsor might be nice and all that but she’s hardly up there with Florence Nightingale in terms of her gift to the nation. Based on our current fold you can see exactly the kind of person we’ll get for our next generation of national treasures: Phoebe Waller Bridge; Liam Gallagher; the star gazing wet sock that is Brian Cox; Nick Grimshaw; Ellie bloody Goulding; ubiquitous, relentless, self-raising flower Nadia Hussein. The list could go on and on. And of course Cheryl Cole is secretly desperate for a look in.

 

How do I know? Because she’s featured in a paper supplement this weekend and seemed to think she doesn’t need a new man but instead is just after a sperm donor, and with that lead off we get to hear her whole rags-to-riches story all over again. Oh dear. Is it not enough that she has already blessed the world with a child called Bear? You know who else has children with stupid names? Jamie Oliver. If I felt so inclined I could write a Greek tragedy based on the emotional bag of hand grenades that is Cheryl Cole’s love life. She’s been through so much, most of it self inflicted and quite a bit of it well deserved. At which point did she suddenly realise Ashley Cole was a dickhead? At which point did she see the error in marrying someone with a surname even dafter than her maiden one? More than that, why did she feel it necessary to only be married to him for about 12 minutes? And then the poor lass ends up shacked up with Liam ‘not very interesting’ Payne and fires out little Bear, who will no doubt become as notable a polymath as Gene Gallagher or Brooklyn Beckham. Do we really need more children from vaguely talented celebrities? You can answer that for yourself.

 

But you see, she’s been through all that and some people have even forgotten that hilarious time she was found guilty of assault occasioning actual bodily harm. She’s risen, like an little pigeon from the flames, and we love her so why wouldn’t she become a national treasure? It is notable that almost anyone can become a national treasure these days. Stormzy is almost one and he’s not really done a great deal – nice chap but he’s only just released his second album. Is Huw Edwards a national treasure? How about Davina McCall? You may scoff at such suggestions but there will be enough people who would gamely nod along and say with little deserved conviction “yes, yes I do think Chris Evans is a national treasure”. Lord above.

 

Speaking of whom his fat, smug face is slapped over the Sunday Times magazine today as he shares the secret to his bottomless happiness and well being. Chris Evans’ greatest weakness has always been being Chris Evans and then telling anybody that will listen about it. He’s a reformed man, apparently, and now eats, sleeps and drinks in a much more productive manner. He also runs a lot, though I’m saddened to say that he also runs back so we never seem to get rid of him. He suggests that one path to contentment is to be a ‘zapper’ and not spend too much time with ‘sappers’ (who like to talk about other people) but on that basis ‘zappers’ must spend most of their time talking about themselves and that kind of person is not a ‘zapper’, Chris, they’re an egotist and a prick and very likely masturbate in front of a mirror.

 

Anyway, I started this as a commentary on the chemical warehouse fire that is the ongoing romantic entanglements of Cheryl Cole. I hope she finds enough people willing to lend her a few teaspoons of man fat; knowing our luck she’ll probably pick someone who spends most of their time in charity shops or whose sole hobby is collecting plastic bags. Then I got distracted by the enormous, pointless mosquito that is Chris Evans, but I think the main drive is just how warped we have become when so many ridiculous people become national treasures for doing not a lot very useful and yet making oceans of cash for doing it. It is a measure of inflated celebrity and the kind of substandard levels required for modern gratification. Who next? Ed Sheeran? Tom ‘proper sausage’ Kerridge? Chris De Burgh? Gemma Collins? These people aren’t treasures of any kind at all but they should be put somewhere where no-one will ever find them.

 

G B Hewitt. 05.01.2020

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