You're back, I see. Back to gift the world yet more of your squealing, campy disco shenanigans. Back, like a persistent case of crabs.
Your new single is akin to stuffing a razor up one's urethra. If I could send a message to those lucky enough to have had the opportunity to bully you in High School, it would read: "Push harder. Go for the suicide". And I say this as someone for whom an encounter with the nearest dustbin was a regular occurrence at break-time each day.
You looked under every rock, checked every sweaty crevice of society, dug your nails deep into the winnet-caked skid-mark on the pants of humanity and brought us the worst of the worst. You scraped the detritus off the arse of pond-scum and put it on the telly. You gave us racists, idiots, attention-seekers, no-marks, exhibitionists, clowns, and an all-too loathsome focal-point for the ME ME ME Generation. Most unforgivable of all, you brought us Jade Goody (God got wise to that particular ruse and sorted her out with cancer though, so that's all good).
You got people to wank each other off under the sheets in a desperate scrabble for ratings. You got them to scream at one another. You clogged the airwaves with hour-long shots of morons sleeping. You did the unthinkable and made The Truman Show a reality. And now you are no more. I bet the hacks at Heat magazine are weeping into their designer Cola.
Thanks for lowering the tone for 10 long, miserable years. Thanks, Endemol. Thanks, Davina. Thanks, Big Brother. And BUH-BYE.