“How come everybody knew Raymond was gay but me? It’s all such a shock, you know, with him being so manly and butch and all”
Tina, a taxi driver from Riverseafingle in Newcastle/Edinburgh/London – no one is really sure where the fuck it is – is sitting on the Jeremy Kyle stage, sobbing.
Someone in the audience calls out ‘Tranny’ and Jeremy gives them a withering look and tells them to go and put something on the end of it.
Tina has just found out that her ridiculously camp husband Raymond, is gay. Her child-minder, Granny Murray, told her one night while she was fucked out of her head on special brew behind the bus garage. At first, Tina didn’t believe Granny Murray – she and Raymond have a daughter together, after all, but Granny Murray showed her a photo of Raymond cottaging in the park and Tina’s world shattered.
As Tina sobs and Jeremy looks bored, Raymond minces onto the stage, his fedora sitting proud on his head and his silk scarf billowing out behind him.
“I am so sorry, Tina my love” he says poetically, “I just like cock. Plus, you look like a cross between Mrs. Merton and Jimmy Saville”.
As Tina begins to wail, Jeremy ushers that bald headed cunt Graham on to the stage to take Tina and Raymond off to the green room for some pseudo-intellectual counseling, before Graham goes off to his day job as an IT helpdesk assistant.
“Now please welcome to the stage, Robert the Robot, who is increasingly concerned about the mental health of his oldest friend, Justin” says Jeremy, only just about managing to hide his distain for his guests, viewers and the live audience bussed in from a local council estate.
“Thank you for having me on, Jeremy” says the camp, spray painted man, doing a very unconvincing robot impression, “I am increasingly worried about my good friend, Justin”.
“Is he gay too?” Interrupts an inpatient Jeremy.
“I couldn’t possibly comment” says Robert the Robot, not wanting to get taken to court, “but I am worried he’s completely fucking batshit and may need to be sectioned. He makes me do the most humiliating things…and…and that’s not all (Robert is now near hysterical) he has an alter ego called Mr. Tumble who is also his own aunt, grandfather and grandson! He’s insane I tell you, insane!”
Justin bounds on stage with a cream pie, ready to hurl into Robert the Robots face. As Robert let’s out a terrified scream, Justin/Mr.Tumble is set upon by four, six foot seven bouncers from Wolverhampton.
“Lawsuit! Can you sign, LAW…SUIT” Yells (and signs) Mr.Tumble as he is forcibly ejected from the building.
“Last up on the show,” sneers Jeremy, as he loses the will to live, “we have a DNA test. Katy I Can Cook is accusing Mr. Bloom of getting her pregnant after a fumble in his potting shed after she had gone round to moan about bastard children making a mess in her kitchen and hiding her crack. Mr. Bloom says he cannot be the father of the child, as he does not know what sex even means. Welcome to the stage, Katy I Can Cook and Mr. Bloom.”
On Telly and that, Katy I Can Cook is wholesome and lovely. In real life, Katy I can Cook is a crack addled whore with no teeth. As she stumbles onto the stage wearing stripper heels and no pants and falls into her seat, the crowd gasps in horror. Mr. Bloom crashes onto the stage in his stupid green van and stumbles into his seat, crossing his legs camply, lighting a cigar and looking insufferably smug.
“All the ladies want me to be their baby-daddy” Mr. Bloom drawls in his posh, home counties accent (the Mark Owen impression he does on TV is just to make him seem working class and accessible to the thick families who use Cbeebies as a babysitter) “Ask yourself just one thing: would a gentleman like me play hide the cucumber with a skanky cow like Katy I Can Cook?”
The audience boos Katy I Can Cook and throw eggs, shit and small toddlers at her.
“But look at my bay-bay!” Squawks Katy I Can Cook, “He looks just like his old maaaaaaan!”
A shot of the baby backstage fills the screen behind her. Katy I Can Cook looks on with cock eyed devotion at her child, grinning her toothless smile while the audience scream.
“Oh my fucking God! It’s an aubergine with a face!” Screams Jeremy, before puking on the side of the stage.
“Oh, har har har har har!” Trills Mr.Bloom, puffing on his cigar, “it wasn’t me she fucked – it was Sebastian the singing aubergine! Good luck getting the CSA onto him my dear – I put him in a stew last week”