I am not a writer and probably neither are you.

It was a few weeks ago when these photographs of Jodie Marsh emerged and flooded the media; both social and anti-social.  She had, seemingly, completely under the radar of popular culture and the (general) public’s eye taken up the art/sport of female bodybuilding.  They were taken at some championships or other in Sheffield in October 2011.

I was completely taken aback.  I was shocked, and then dubious and then finally settling on ‘meh, horses for courses’.  Fair fucking play to her.  She’s worked hard to achieve in her chosen field, and she’s succeeded.  She graded fifth place in her first competition.

Bodybuilding isn’t my thing.  However, neither is sports in general.  X-Factor.  Driving.  Contemporary dance.  Cakes.  Sorcery.  Wood carving.  Panel shows.  Roller Derby.  Vampire fiction.  Soaps.  Bathing.  War games.  Tiny ditzy floral prints.  Vodka.  Purple ink.  Using a like for a particular food or drink in place of a personality.  Cotton wool.  As you can see there are many things that aren’t my cup of tea but that doesn’t make the peolple that like them scumbags or whores or subhuman.

So why is Jodie Marsh doing something she wants to do, yet you’re not interested in bothering you so fucking much?  She’s been called all sorts her entire career.  Yes, she has been an attention seeker but is she coming in your house, kicking your dog in the fanny and yelling LOOK AT MY ABS DICK SPLASH while you’re shovelling the reformed dregs of what looks like a Harley Street Biffa down your gullet like a self-harming Fois Gras goose?  Nope.

Yes…yes…I know.  Such is the nature of’ ‘celebrity’ here and now in 2011AD that they are putting themselves on a pedestal (no less) but why are we so het-up about a woman doing something that we personally don’t like?

She was slated for wearing belts as a bra,  she was slated for her nose job, she was slated for getting married as part of a tv show, she was slated for having a boob job, she was slated for having ‘saggy tits’…she was even fucking slated for her work with and promotion for PETA.  This poor woman can please nobody.  I can’t say, as a feminist how many of the above statements I do support (about as much as her belt bra) but hey ho.  I don’t fucking care.  I think she’s finally happy.  This bodybuilding thing has given her something to do, to be, to like herself for.

What makes you unique?  I bet I, Kerry, hate it.  I hate a lot of things, not least of all people.  Going around, having their thoughts and their views and opinions all different from me and thinking they’re smarter because they have skills and specialities and probably loads of friends.  Does this make me better than them?  Not at all.  Oh christ of we were all the same, imagine the queues?  I’d never get my Friday Falafel on time from Mr Falafel becuase I’d have been arrested for stabbing a person for wearing the same ridiculous cape as me and the hat they crocheted themself on Saturday night because they were cold and had no plans (as usual) and probably because they were musing over whether they needed to re-do that pretentious white streak in the front of their hair.

Utter bellends.  Every last one of them.

But wait.  Who would make the falafels?  Because the man who would be Mr Falafel would be English with a great rack yet crappy hips and be trying to rip-off the free-bus and trying to get off with strangers either too old or too young or too disinterested.  So I (the one of I) would go home and muse upon this fact BUT I COULDN’T.  Because the roads hadn’t been built.  Kerry isn’t a road-maker.  She doesn’t even know what they are called.  She’d be falling through space.  She’d catch her bra on the doorhandle again but there would be no door handle and there would be no bra and there would be no Kerry because her grandparents and her ancestors and her distant lizard climbing out of the primordial soup would have been Kerry.

And in conclusion, leave people the fuck alone if they’re happy.  TXT BK xox

October 25, 2011. Uncategorized.