Things I don't understand

There are some very clever - many very clever - things which I do understand. I am, after all, fabulous in many ways.

But there are some things I don't understand - nuclear fusion, why anyone wouldn't want to take Colin Farrell's clothes off and leap all over him, why people continue to listen to Queen - but the thing that's currently uppermost in my heap of bafflement is why anyone would watch I'm a Celebrity.

And this isn't a rant about the cult of celebrity, about D/E/F/Z-listers wanting their two weeks of fame. It strikes me as so very odd, so very perverse, to watch. Why oh why would one tune in to watch someone suffering, live on TV? It makes no sense at all, and troubles me a great deal. It makes me pull a face which, quite frankly, would require more Botox to repair than I'm prepared to go for. It's heinous. People, humans, real people, not acting, gagging and begging for mercy and quaking with fear. And people tune in expressly to watch that. The more they suffer, the higher the ratings. And then there's the added component: people choose whom they want to suffer. So today, I could pick up the phone, and tomorrow, I could watch the consequences of my actions - I could watch someone being showered with cockroaches and screeching with pain and fear, because I had chosen for them to suffer.

It's wretched. Quite unsavoury.

Anyway. The sun is shining, I'm not about to be forced to eat eyeballs, and so I'm going to wrap up warm and go for a stroll.

Good afternoon, loves.

Aunty
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