This week I became aware of the phenomenon known as ‘ghosting’.

For those that don’t know, ‘ghosting’ is the expression for people who decide to disappear out of your life, usually with no explanation, no obvious reason or apparent justification. It is prevalent in relationships conceived online and developed predominantly through digital communication. One moment you’re in constant contact with someone on a daily basis through text message or social media, the next they’ve disappeared off the face of the earth. Or it can be a slow divorce, i.e. the goodnight texts disappear first, then a few days later the good morning texts go too. Then a 24hr period elapses without contact…then your message either gets read and not replied to or not even read at all…and so on, until you start getting more messages from Candy Crush than you do from the person who was beginning to matter to you. Whilst certain resilience can be built up over time to the pitfalls and quirks of online interaction, being ‘ghosted’ is still painful, especially when the previous interactions were so intense and genuine feelings were involved.

The reason for it being painful is because losing contact with someone you didn’t want to or expect to is a form of bereavement. You find yourself mourning not only the loss of that person in your life but also the loss of the potential you could see in front of you. The potential to grow, explore, experiment and experience together is vanquished almost overnight. You had begun to invest in that person and had begun to care for them and their welfare. Now that energy has nowhere to be channelled externally. Instead it can often be channelled internally as negative energy by way of self-reproach. Feeling abandoned, discarded or used leaves a sour taste in the mouth and sense of disorientation.

The very nature of being ghosted means you don’t have the opportunity for closure. You’ll have several unanswered questions and your only choice it seems will be to speculate the answers to them. The destructive part is the self-recrimination; ‘What did I do wrong?’ ‘What’s wrong with me?’ ‘What could I have done differently?’ etc. This is a very painful, confusing and upsetting experience, as the human part of our brains seeks truth using logic, facts and patterns. We are creatures that thrive on being socially accepted, that have the basic need of a sense of belonging and we constantly search for meanings too.

The juxtaposition is that digital communication should make it easier for us than ever before to say things that may make us feel uncomfortable because it offers us a degree of protection. We don’t have to face the person or be in the same room as them. We don’t have to look into their eyes or deal with the ramifications afterwards from what we say. If a person lacks the courage or capacity to be honest in their communication then sending a free text message from long range should provide them with the perfect opportunity to circumvent this. However it seems that choosing to simply ignore the other person and quietly slip away is the preferred choice which is perplexing…and it damages both parties in the process.

I now realise I have been guilty of ghosting in the past and I’ve been on the receiving end. I have lacked empathy for the other person’s feelings. I’ve succumbed to full blown self-preservation mode to avoid making myself feel vulnerable. I have lacked the courage to say something I perceived the other person would struggle to hear. Either way it only served to perpetuate my sense of detachment and isolation. Disappearing on someone is tantamount to ignoring them, and ignoring someone is one of the cruellest behaviours we can inflict upon others. They are burdened with carrying around the unfinished business on their shoulders. Being on the receiving end can cause a potential ripple effect and impact upon how you approach future relationships. I feel ashamed for having done it in the past and that shame offers me the chance for personal growth in order to modify my behaviour.

The truth is, and it is an uncomfortable one, is that endings are a part of life, many of which we don’t want or don’t feel ready for. I guess some other truths of life would also be; you can’t please everyone; life isn’t fair; there’s nowt so queer as folk and when meeting new people, try not to hold them accountable to your own expectations of them.

I think it’s important to say goodbye and to give yourself an ending if the other person hasn’t provided a conclusive or reasoned one for you. You could imagine them sitting opposite you and you can tell them everything you want to say. It’s quite powerful and cathartic. Or you can write them a letter that you don’t intend to send. I’m going to write mine now



Ice and celebrities clearly don’t mix. ‘Dancing On Ice’ managed to fuck up Vanilla Ice (knocked unconscious), Jennifer Ellison (sliced head open), Michael Underwood (broken ankle), Chesney Hawkes (ankle) and Keith Chegwin (fractured 3 ribs & shoulder). Now ‘The Jump’ is trying it’s best to kill off Beth Tweddle (fractured vertebrae), Rebecca Adlington (shoulder), Tina Hobley (dislocated elbow and fractured arm), Lousia Lytton (bruising); and that’s just in practice, not to mention all the other victims from previous series.

I understand that Heather Mills is scheduled to replace Adlington. That’s a step in the right direction as she has 50% less legs to break, so the insurance will be cheaper.

Reality TV has been a sucking leech on the tissue of critical thinking for far too long now. Even my uber intelligent sister has a penchant for ‘Take Me Out’. Why are we collecting a bunch of complete amateurs and giving them something to learn in 4 weeks that it takes professional athletes decades to master? What next? From the same channel that brought you Rebecca Loos wanking a pig, Channel 5 presents to you ‘The Surgery’ : 16 former Brookside and Eldorado actors perform life-saving heart surgery at a real hospital. Their knife skills are judged, points are deducted for each time the Heart Rate Monitor flatlines, and you can vote for who you think looks the best in their scrubs. The winner will get to donate their own organs to charity.

Instead of maiming Z-list soap actresses etc. can we not just round up all the Big Brother contestants and chuck them down slippy mountains? Or if you insist on making another series next year, can we please see the following try the luge without a helmet ;- James Corden, Amanda Holden, Katie Price and Miley Cyrus.




It was semi-final week in the shortest ever X-Factor competition, so Rita decided to mark the occasion by dressing like a low rent Beyonce. Poor old Simon; not only was he burgled this week but now he has to flog his car too. I’m surprised the burglars left a £75,000 car on the drive. Has anyone checked out Zippy and Bungle’s alibi? They looked a bit shifty. ‪#‎YouAintNoSingersBruv‬

Lionel Richie was the special guest. With each year that passes he looks more like his own clay head. Someone had to tell Lauren he wasn’t Zippy and Bungle’s dad; you can take the girl out of the tracksuit but you can’t take the tracksuit out of the girl. She got to practice spelling her name again for when she buys her Nan a Window Box, before Rita encouraged her to, “absolutely murder it again.” (her second song)

Louisa Johnson started her inevitable WAG journey by being passed around the West Ham dressing room. No wonder they could only manage a nil-nil yesterday. Zippy and Bungle finished off proceedings by having a ‘Twister’ trip.

Tonight we had to pretend that Lauren wasn’t crying before the sing-off because Olly had let slip again who was going home. Funny how Che’s lettering decals were very quickly added to his battle bus and there was no sign of a Lauren bus being reversed out or driven away.



Without fail Caroline Cack comes out each week dressed like a couple of 1970’s bobbies have thrown a jacket over a streaker to cover her up.

Che’s first song was Adele’s classic, “Hello…..ummmm….oooohh woooohhhh…..massive pause.” With at least half of the lyrics missing surely iTunes can’t charge the full price for it? Apparently Lionel Richie is on next week. I really hope Che covers his classic, “Hello.”

Zippy and Bungle treated us to some noise called, “whip / nae nae,” which apparently we need a, “stanky leg,” for. How are white people who don’t wear baseball caps meant to understand what the fuck is going on?

Finally Britain got sweet revenge on A,B,C and D for how Imelda Marcos treated The Beatles by turning away from their brand of prepubescent pop. The sing off was good though.


Cheryl continues to disappear at a rapid ‘Karen Carpenter’ rate but still found time to visit Michael Jackson’s plastic surgeon. What is up with her nose? Wally Murs was demoted to singing on Sunday, as most of the budget this week had to be spent on hiring an actress willing to play the role of Che Chesterman’s girlfriend. Che chose this week to play the ‘Dead Grandad’ card; about as much use as an ‘Enchanted Bunny’ in the ‘Mystic Warlords of Ka’a’…..Most of our Grandads are dead Che!
We lost Anton, who went from being a bossman to a bitch in less than a minute when he had a lover’s tiff with Grimmy before apologizing, and of course Mayonnoise, who looked resplendent this week in Bet Lynch’s coat. Unbelievably A B C and D of 4th Impact are still in, almost as incredulous as Wally being the only famous person Caroline Cack hasn’t tongued.
Awkward moment of the week came when Louisa’s Dad decided it was ‘Bring your daughter to work’ day…on a building site! I bet no-one was off sick.
Finally Zippy and Bungle came out to sing the same song they’ve sung for each of the last 4 weeks and were lauded as both the cure for depression and for terrorism.



It was a week of “What ifs?” Firstly we were ‘treated’ to a sycophantic soundbite of, “Be safe,” from Simon and a cheap token of respect in view of the Paris atrocities by dropping two songs that referred to killing, bullets or guns…except we the audience don’t know what songs the contestants have chosen, so it was utterly unnecessary to inform us that some had been changed; unless of course they want us to believe that Simon is possibly human. The real insult however, was the singers being praised for their, “character and strength,” in having to learn 50 words at short notice – obscene when you compare this to diving on a suicide bomber for example.

I was so looking forward to watching Saturday’s episode as I had heard rumour that one of Hewey, Dewey. Louie or Phooey had collapsed. You could dress each one of them up as the Teletubbies and tattoo their names on their foreheads and I still couldn’t pick out one from the other. Other let-downs were being denied the chance to hear Louisa sing ‘Licence to kill’, as I’m sure she would have done it justice and the tantalizing prospect of Caroline Flack interviewing Harry Styles. But the biggest disappointment was being teased with Zippy and Bungle singing ‘My Heart Will Go On’. That would have been the TV car crash to end all TV car crashes. I’m still convinced they’re actually Ant & Dec in those latex disguises filming for ‘Saturday Night Takeaway’.

We lost Maxzzzzz this week after a poignant vignette of him returning to an empty pub where he lives. We nearly lost Anton, who sounds like Errol Brown singing Whitney Houston in the club style while pissed. We also lost the breast singer, Monica, after Wally Murs accidentally revealed she was going home, long before the anticlimactic pause confirmed she was going home. “You’re getting sacked in the morning!”

Finally, Rita cried again and also admitted to fancying a bit of Che. At least I know I’m in with a chance if we ever meet. But if we don’t, I can only dream, “What if?”


I must admit most of it passed me by as I spent the whole programme trying to make out Rita’s nipples. Caroline Cack apparently said earlier in the week that she wouldn’t wear a poppy because she, “doesn’t support war,” so Wally Murs obviously had a word. Cheryl decided to dress like one of those 80’s kid purses and couldn’t hide her excitement when she saw Zippy & Bungle drop their pants.

12227192_10153734255547806_477256546047775818_n 12196302_10153734259972806_8960889661310876684_n

The show opened as it meant to go on with Huey, Dewey, Louie and Phooey singing The Owl and the Pussycat and it finished with Max jamming as George Formby. It was a painful clusterfuck from beginning to end made bearable only by Monica Michael’s chest.