There's no business like Show business

It’s not easy being a celebrity dears.

As you know in recent months my life has been a heady whirlwind of radio appearances, interviews and recently my move into television as the "Now,Then, Britain" newest roving reporter.

I hardly need tell you all the story of my rise from humble housewife to major star but it is a wonderful story of hardwork and determination, of the cream rising to the top and it is an inspiring tale of triumph over adversity.   So I will repeat it here for those who enjoy a tale of a rather humble star of our little Isle that is Great Britain.

It all started with one of my typical no nonsense letters to the paper where, as is my way, from my position of wealth and power, I gave my opinion on something that neither affected me nor which I had more than a rudimentary knowledge of. 

In this case it was about a family of benefit cheats who were draining the hard working tax payer funded system.

As you no doubt know, I was hailed a hero for my letter, and given the nick name “Mrs Mountable, Massive Matriarch” then as word spread and it made the nationals the children of the family were taken into care and all the windows in their house were smashed by bricks bearing the word “SCUM”

People feel very strongly about this subject and WHO CAN BLAME THEM.

Tiresomely for me it transpired that they weren’t claiming benefits at all. They both were working two jobs in order to pay for their seven children some of whom also had jobs and one of whom, irritatingly has some heart condition or other. 

But by this time I was a celebrity and bringing my truth and light to a twice monthly presenting job on “Now, Then, Britain” Show, which as you all know has me meeting the great unwashed in the local community, weeding out a target and leading a mob of their neighbours to their door where we confront them with the facts on camera. Then viewers phone into to vote who gets tarred and feathered and the runners up get an ASBO. It's hugley popular ratings wise. People love justice you see.

Anyway the original benefit cheat  family (The TV Company solicitors wish to stress the family  were absolved of all charges) were too busy fighting to regain custody of their children, to bother trying to sue me. Not that they could afford to anyway, so fortunately it died a death. Rather like the wife, who had a heart attack from all the stress.

Anyway let's not dwell on that. The point is that no publicity is bad publicity and the producers of "Now, Then, Britain" saw me as just the, 'shooting from the hip PC hating', presenter they were looking for.

The British Public know what they like and they like what they know, and my dears they definitely liked me and before I knew where I was, I was a star.

Little old humble, kind hearted, straight talking, no nonsense, feminist fulminating, scrounger deriding, benefit cheat exposing, communist loathing, Tory Trumpeting, true blue, me.

I’m now the nations favourite truth talking, internet sensation and to be honest, it was about time.

And I’ll tell you for why.

I uphold the greatest aspect of all Great Britain’s greatest aspects. Free Speech.

I met with my newly acquired Management Company for a 'brainstorming session' recently and it was an eye opener, I can tell you that for nothing.

“Hey Mrs M” said Ben online reputation management guru, part time DJ, skate boarding champion and stunt kite demonstrator par excellence “We need to talk branding”

I wasn’t familiar but I waited patiently.

“Ok so the deal as I see it with you is exposure.  I’m thinking 'if you want to crack some mother fucking eggs you better be making a rationalised mother fucking omelette' You get me?”

No but I ignored that.

He unveiled his ten-point strategy. 

“We need to totally maximise your appeal. You’re a mother and a housewife and we need to sex that straight to the heart of the public. Are you with me? BUT we also need to maximise your compassion as a mother fucking priority, because and this is crucial, that way you can say and do whatever the fuck you like and still get away with it. Like with that family of benefit cheats (Again completely cleared of all charges and our sympathy goes to the family at this difficult time) Now how would you feel about getting a facelift on live TV?”

My familiarity with his concept was as far removed as he appeared to be, from a good shave and a decent haircut. However I remained stoically silent.

“I’ll tell you what I told all my other clients the future is compassion, compassion, compassion because that is now where the really big money lies. I’m thinking “Thadcher” but with a heart as big as the queues for the food banks. We need to talk “stradegy” and we need to talk “charidee”. You’re on “Twidder” right?”

I nodded yet found his pronunciation of the letter T, as the letter D odd.

“Well that is A-FUCKING- MAZING. what are you seventy, eighty? Doesn't "madder" forget age it's just a mother fucking number, Social networking is where it’s at now. 
We get to control your online reputation. Get to the people. Straight to the people and mother fucking DO IT NOW.

Get to those bastards, before your competition does do, you know?. Change the online conversation, you get me?  Because those dull Twats who AREN’T talking about you NEED to be TALKING ABOUT YOU? YOU GET ME?

 Someone’s writing a shitty blog? We manage it. Fucked up PC language wise? We manage it. Have you ever saved a life? Prevented a crime? Performed open-heart surgery on a cross channel ferry with nothing but a crochet hook and memories of an episode of Holby City to reference? Well you mother fucking will now because. We MANAGE it.

 We flood the mother fucking online conversational traffic with those little gems until the mother fucking masses are wanking themselves into a repetitive strain injury. YOU GET ME???”

This last was repeatedly punctuated by an annoying and repeated sniff, which I assumed meant he had both an adenoid condition and a nanny who hadn’t reminded him that Master Handkerchief was his dearest friend.

“I see, “ I said not seeing at all but wishing I'd brought my breath mints to offer him, or at least my miniature fan.

“Let’s get you allied to tragedy ASAP. Know any unfortunates?” His assistant Elspeth coughed loudly.  Ben eyed her wildly “Oh yeah… I fucking mean know any disableds? It's just disability is so in, since the paralympics it's really hot? And so now? Compassion wise? I mean don't bother with the adults unless they're a paralympian no offence but no- one wants to see that, but if you could find a child BINGO. Mischief mother fucking managed negative benefit cheat family wise (Completely absolved of all charges and again apologies and deepest sympathies) You get me?"

Rather fortunately for everyone my friend Susan has a handicapped “grandchild” and so I asked them all to have lunch with me at the photographers. When they arrived, I explained there was no lunch but I would so love to have a photo with them all. Except that when I said "all" that didn't include Susan and the child's mother.

It's all very awkward but I must be honest dears.

As darling Piers is a Tory Councillor sadly on occasion we have to meet the public who are like this and although they have my pity, one doesn't like to prolong these conversations. 

Sooner or later they start to complain or they start to tell you their stories.

You can barely finish explaining about the fabulous celebrity bash-wise you’ve been to or recount a hilarious Amanda Holden themed mix up baguette-wise; before they plough into some dull tale of benefits or pain management or the such like.

Also they just make having a good laugh so much more difficult when they're around.The numbers of people we are allowed to openly laugh at is diminishing by the day, dears.
Ben has shown me the list now.
Fortunately there are still some who the nation permits us to mock and  If I want to laugh at the disabled I will, but not to their faces because they get so annoyed.

As I say, I don’t like to complain we needed to find a disabled child to limit the damage of those scroungers (Again totally exhonerated), after the mother died (Deepest sympathy) so up Susan pitched with little Sophie, and the child's awful mother.

Sophie’s mother, I forget her name, looked like she needed a decent night's sleep and definitely needed to be taken down a peg or two. People like her are really nothing in the grand scheme of things, yet think they can instruct the rest of us, need reminding who is the real power in this country. 

She began pleasantly enough knowing her place and not bothering me unless spoken to first, but then as our time together wore on, she started speaking to me at will.

She took a very dim view of my thorough knowledge of diversity. When I asked a harmless question about whether or not Sophie was likely to bite me and if so whether she had been recently vaccinated against Tetanus, she was incredibly rude.

And it went from bad to worse as I realised this woman was simply not shutting up and kept bothering me incessantly with her opinions. As if they matter to me.  

Her job was to show up, get the child photographed with me, which is actually doing her a huge favour, then as Ben put it in his crude, Olde Worlde Vernacular "Fuck OFF"

Eventually we got there. We managed to wrestle a wonderful photo-op of me as mother-earth against all odds and the child was finally still enough, to make me look interested. The mother had been holding it’s favourite toy Thomas the Tank engine, out of shot and predictably took a loudly dim view of my helpfully suggesting using gaffer tape to ensure the child remained in it’s place.

You simply can’t say anything these days.  

The mother really was an odd sort of person.

When she wasn’t crying that Sophie was in her strange opinion “being amazing” and how great it was that we "were all doing this", as if we cared; she was holding forth on her opinions on everything from the government, to hate crime (whatever that means) to disability benefits. When we took a short break and I clicked my fingers at Elspeth, indicating I was ready for my Daily Mail and a latte, the woman utterly broke with the pre-explained protocol and sat beside me telling me how awful the Daily Mail is for hounding benefit claimants.The very idea. 

When she began to lecture me on the Holocaust and the treatment of disableds I’m very afraid dears, I had, had my fill. So I raised a hand and explained that if she was going to continue with this, I was going to be sick.

I mean honestly why not simply ignore these things? Why people have to be so determined to be offended by every little thing is beyond me. And who on earth wants to know about that part of history? 

We know everything we need to know about disabled people these days, thank you. 

Most of them as I've learnt now are faking their conditions for benefits. 

She was also furious and raised her voice to me when I suggested that if we returned to the good old days of institutions. then they wouldn’t be out and about getting friends who beat them up in the first place, would they? I have a right to express my opinion. She had no right to disagree with that.

Very thin skinned woman that one and I'm not at all entirely sure completely stable, because eventually I lost my temper and put her straight on a few things which she definitely needed pointing out. It really was for her own good.

She looked at me as though for the first time said "Oh I see now" and started crying.

I've no idea how she expected me to respond. I was saved her boring answer and instead turned my back, as we all should on attention seekers and told Sophie’s grandma Susan about Ben’s determination to get me on the Jonathan Ross show. Oddly she appeared not to hear.

Anyway “Brand Mountable”  ploughed on to the best of all our abilities, which in little Sophie’s case was tiresomely small. Unless you count screaming as ability and I definitely don’t.

My necessarily “compassion-close” proximity to the child was much harder for me than her. Ben had insisted that it was great for the “whole, image-visualisation, brand focussed, delivery package”.

The child has no right to scream that way anyway, because she reacts very badly when others do it. It's poor mothering pure and simple.When I learned that my car had gone to the wrong photographic studio and I would now be 10 minutes late for lunch I was justifiably furious.

I was stooped and ready to hug Sophie for the camera when the car news came and rightly I upbraided Elspeth. I screamed “I want it outside in the disabled parking bay ASAP or they will be looking for another job by morning”

I was, as always, proved correct when bizarrely little Sophie clamped her hands over her ears firmly and started to cry. The little hypocrite. I told her to stop it immediately, so she screamed in my face and ran off outside, with her mother dramatically running after her. I don’t remember that in Rainman.

Anyway as this prompted another short break, I was doing a rather funny impression of little Sophie’s mannerisms, to much hilarity. But it was all ruined because everyone heard the mother shouting like the hysteric that she is. This was followed by a screech of brakes which made everyone rush to the door.

Elspeth screamed and Ben shouted “Oh Fuck it’s Mrs M’s driver, Christ what if they SUE” . I dislike attention seekers, so I ignored it all and checked my make up.

It’s not as though the car actually hit her anyway. It just grazed the mother slightly. 

At the post photoshoot brainstorm, Ben was suitable forthright. Unfortunately he chose to massage my shoulders as he spoke. I really don't like it when the little people touch me. But he's part of my team so I have to be nice to him.

“Fuck it Mrs M" He drawled "We’ll find one that sits still next time. Don’t worry about it there’s a million of them out there. They should be mother-fucking grateful that you gave them any time at all. You’re Mrs fucking Mountable who the fuck are they? If anything surfaces we’ll just deny it,  or ignore it. Who’s going to believe some nobody fucking carer anyway. She’ll probably top herself soon. God knows, I would if I had to put up with that shit, day after day?”

Anyway I remain as ever, committed and determined to bringing my compassion and kindhearted understanding, straight talking and no nonsense back to our great nation.

To maintain my assurances that my humbly enjoyed, yet compassionately deployed and publicly placed, celebrity persona, is shining brighter than ever. Because ultimately dears who needs truth these days? As hairy Ben quite rightly told me “Bollocks to the truth Mrs M. We dole it out and the ignorant fuckers lap it up. It’s their own fault really. Sure a few get trampled in the wake, but fuck 'em, life's cruel”

Dear Ben, I’m really starting to like him and he has been extraordinarily helpful. But he is rather expensive and if he doesn’t get me my own reality TV show by Christmas he will, as he would say, be “Mother fucking fired”