Celebrity Duck-shoot (boredom sets in)
Other people make a point of annoying me with pointless trivia. Filling my life with their crap. Feeding off me for their exclusive benefit. So today I decided to call a production company and reciprocate. To waste the time of others.
I wanted to make a quick buck. Everyone is doing it. Selling reality show formats. Making money doing nothing. Selling tat. Turning tracksuit wearing scum into tabloid icons. Turning minor celebrities into slightly less minor celebrities.
I owe it to my kids to try this fast-buck opportunity. All my income comes from sources that are too legitimate. Its simply too much effort.
And so began ‘Celebrity Duck-shoot’
I called through to the production company headquarters and spoke to a bored secretary. I deliberately called at three o’clock guessing that whoever was in charge of new ideas had probably just returned from lunch pissed, and might take the call. He did, and he sounded like he was.
It is hard to pitch an idea on the phone so I asked him to sit back and visualise. Just imagine I said. Imagine a conveyor belt stuffed with celebrities. A narrow electronic production line crammed with the sort of jet set ‘Shiteratti’ that fill the pages of Hello magazine. All fixed to the conveyor by ankle straps, and all wearing realistic mallard beaks in wipe free orange plastic.
Imagine too, in front of them a handful of contestants wearing burberry plus-fours and NYC hats - each armed with a shot gun - but with only two cartridges.
Not just to shoot at the celebrities - that would be pointless. The goal would be to award more points to the person who bags the biggest celebrity. Like big game hunting. The Z-listers couldn’t resist this could they? Imagine them all waving at the start and shouting things to prove that they were more important than their co duck. ‘Pick me, I did four series of celebrity flatulence farm, and that bloody Alex Best at the front only did one!’ they‘d shout. ’Pick me, pick me’. They couldn’t stop themselves. Imagine too the pride of the guy who realises, momentarily before he collapses in searing pain from a chest shot, that he was deemed to be more famous than Chris Tarrant, Keith Chegwin, or Patsy Kensit. Bang, bang, you’re dead famous.
Its pure genius I assured him; but I wouldn’t put any money on Kerry Katona being worried.
To be fair he didn’t like the idea and thought I was joking. I was not.
I hate the TV industry.
I must stop drinking at lunchtime.