The Pathos of a Chicken's Funeral

Ah, the journalistic pride I feel in reporting the fact that the Shipwrecked crew harboured a raving racist a whole two or three days ahead of most of the country's news agencies, who all had to wait around for Ofcom to tell them. Oh, the bitter sting in knowing that it doesn't matter anyway and most people have learnt the news in question and then forgotten it again since then. Such is life; a fleeting mass of information travelling at such a speed that the world as an entity suffers from collective ADHD and can't pay attention to anything more than - oh look, goats.

This week on the show, token-gay-man's week-old pet chicken died, and a funeral was held in which the fool looked down upon the body of his former pet and recited the lyrics to Goodbye by the Spice Girls while his two companions looked on and sniggered their slightly-more-sane hearts out. The whole affair was drenched in rain, as any TV funeral should be, and couldn't have come out more beautifully if the producers had hired Harold Pinter to write the whole thing.

Meanwhile, a snippet of conversation illustrates exactly what we're all in for over the coming months. It went like this:

TANNED, SHIRTLESS BLOKE: So, what did you come on the show for?

BIKINI CLAD HOT GIRL: Well, I suppose to find out who I am.

Which is all indicative of the sort of thing that goes on on tropical islands, I suppose. If I wanted to find out who I was, God forbid, I'd go and look at my birth certificate. That seems to have all the salient information. Why are you lying, Bikini Clad Hot Girl? The answer to that kind of question goes like this: I like islands, especially of the tropical variety; I like money and the chance to win it; and finally I like scantily clad members of the opposite sex who have a similar level of absolute lunacy to my own. I also may like the chance of being out of the reach of the Long Arm of Her Majesty's Law for a few months due to some misdeeds which I may or may not have accidentally committed after my husband came home one night reeking of perfume which was not my own and then tried to lie about it, the bastard.

God, that's be great, wouldn't it? I don't know under whose law the Shark and Tiger islands are governed, but if they didn't have an extraditon treaty with Britain, there's all kinds of room for runaway felons there. And I bet the damn Guardian wouldn't even know about it till Ofcom told them next Wednesday.