Celebrity Bollocks

I had a pretty traumatic Friday last week, writes Little Miss Strange, showbiz correspondent for The Sleaze. First off, it was the day of the funeral of one of my neighbours, who died unexpectedly the previous week. Being one of the few neighbours I either knew or got on with, as a mark of respect I made sure that I was on hand to see the funeral cortege depart from the house. Now, as if that wasn’t upsetting enough, as I was walking back to my car, I saw a vaguely familiar figure coming towards me down the street. Wearing a stupid wide-brimmed hat, I recognised none other than minor TV ‘personality’ Nick Knowles. The trouble was that I wasn’t 100% sure it was that twat from the telly, or I’d have smacked him in the face. At the very least I would have shouted at him to show some respect and take his fucking hat off for the funeral procession. Mind you, I’m pretty sure it was him – he gave me that look that all z-listers give you when they think that you should recognise them. Trust me, I’m an expert on such looks, I’ve had the likes of Robson Green and some bloke from Emmerdale give them to me.

Sadly, I didn’t think to check where he was going after he passed me. I later had this nasty thought that maybe it was him who’d bought one of the two houses recently sold on my terrace. For fuck’s sake, that’s the last thing I want, Nick fucking Knowles and his DIY SOS nonsense on my street! Once one of the bastards moves in, you can guarantee that others will follow. Z-list celebrity infestations have to be resisted at all costs. It might start harmlessly enough with home improvement show presenters turning up, but next thing you know, you’ll have Marco Pierre White puking up on your doorstep and Pete Doherty shooting up in your spare room. So, take my advice, in order to avoid such a nightmare in your neighbourhood, next time you see a Z-lister wandering down your street, punch the bastard in the face.

Thankfully, though, by Monday it was looking as if I could put the shotgun back under the floor boards. One of the two houses which had recently been sold on my terrace has gone back on the market. Clearly, the combination of a funeral procession and my glare have frightened off Nick Knowles. It’s a real relief, I can tell you. A few years ago a friend of mine had a minor celebrity move in a few doors down from them. As if having them wandering around trying to pretend that they’re not really famous, just a regular person like everybody else, but at the same time so obviously wanting to be recognised, my friend and his neighbours also had to suffer the z-lister’s ‘celebrity’ friends turning up and being patronising about everybody’s gardens. Before they knew it, their street had become ‘trendy’ and they found themselves suffering a minor celebrity infestation.

Pretty soon they couldn’t move without bumping into some twat trying to look inconspicuous by wearing sun glasses in the rain. If it wasn’t Vanessa Feltz hanging around the local burger van, it would be a drunken Dave Lee Travis pissing in the litter bin at the bus stop. Perhaps worst of all, my friend found Richard Stilgoe lurking under his floor boards. Luckily, Stilgoe had only managed to get an upright piano under the house, not a full grand piano, but his songs and playing were still awful, often keeping my friend awake all night. He tried putting poison down, even setting traps, but all to no avail. Eventually, he no choice; he had to call in the exterminators. The other residents all chipped in, and a celebrity cull was carried out. Apparently it was bloody, but swift – the exterminators try and make it quick, putting a pillowcase over the z-lister’s head before letting them have it with both barrels. Frankly, I’m glad it never had to come to that in my street. Thankfully some quick action at the initial sighting means that we can all sleep safe in our beds.

Getting back to Nick Knowles though, it occurred to me that he could, of course, have been responding to a DIY SOS on my street. Although, if this was the case, I would have expected to see TV cameras, lights, vans and the rest of the DIY SOS team. Then again, maybe when the series isn’t on, he just wanders the streets of Britain at random, knocking on doors and offering to put up shelves. Indeed, the weekend after my Knowles sighting there was a lot of banging and thumping coming from next door. Could he have forced his way in and proceeded to knock holes in their walls and take up the floor boards, whilst they fought to throw him out? Then again, my neighbours might just have been having sex in a wardrobe. That sort of thing happens quite a lot, so I’m told. Furniture fetishism is big business, just put ‘Welsh dresser’ and ‘sex’ into Google and you’ll find yourself faced with several pictures of naked blokes whacking off into the drawers of their kitchen fittings. But I’ve digressed again. Whatever was going on, the fact remains that there have been no further sightings of Knowles, thank God.

Remember, if you have any unsubstantiated rumours, grainy, out of focus and obviously faked photos or dubious tape recordings involving the debauched behaviour of celebrities or politicians, send them to us at the usual address. Just because it isn’t true doesn’t mean it’s a lie – it could just be Total Bollocks!