Jeremy Beadle, J' Accuse!

Non UK readers won't get this, but this is one of my favourite jokes:
Jeremy Beadle has a small penis. But on the other hand, it's quite big.

Meester and I were watching a late night bit of telly last week on the rare occasion that we actually sit down together without little beasts hanging off us.

It was the Friday Night Project. OK, I know it’s not that late night, but it is for me; at about 10pm I flake out like an old lady in a sedate retirement home after the evening sherry.

I like the Friday Night Project in general, but for one thing; the horrible, “Let’s Get Our Special Guest to Humiliate an Unsuspecting Member of the Public in a jolly prank” type segment. It is awful. The worst of it is that they invite the poor bugger onto the live show and apologise/humiliate then some more after the VT is played.

Most of the victims have usually taken the whole week to get over the humiliation just to have it rerun. I wonder, does the show pay for the therapy afterwards?

This type of thing only gets a laugh from me when it is a vain celebrity that is being lampooned as they signed up to be our entertainment bitches, so they are fair game. The rest of us, did not sign up. So leave us alone.

On this particular show, we are watching Kanye West make some poor guy think that he had killed the singing star’s granny. What’s so bloody funny about that? I found myself getting really angry and upset about the whole thing. I am on th couch ranting to that effect. Meeester tries to get me to calm down and I tell the following story by way of explanation of why such things enrage me.

I’m sixteen. I am in Glasgow with my best mate, H and we’ve money to burn as we are shopping for holiday clothes in preparation for our first ever holiday away from our parents that summer.

We are in a most excellent mood as the trip combines our favourite things: Glasgow, larking about, shopping and checking out lads. I also must remember to get my passport photo taken as am no longer allowed to travel on my mother’s and must get my own in time for the holiday.

It’s nearing the end of the shopping trip and we’re making our way back to Queen Street Station when we pass a tiny little jeans shop. What harm can one more shop do? We pop in for a look.

After about 5 minutes of perusing suddenly, from what seems like out of no-where, three guys jump out at me shouting and whooping about something. They are right in my face.

Without really knowing what the blazes is going on, I am physically manhandled towards the cash desk. The guys are the shop assistants. It appears that I am their thousandth customer! It appears that I have won a pair of jeans! I am completely and utterly bewildered and embarrassed. The whole shop is looking over in my direction as I stand there frozen in the middle of much whooping and shrieking.

And then it gets worse. A pair of jeans of an undetermined size are thrust into a bag by one of the lads and then they all start to clap. I am then forced to be kissed on the cheek by each one of the lads. The lads, by the way, are maybe in their early twenties; an age of boy that I have had absolutely no contact with up until now, making it more horrific. In fact, I pretty much have had no contact with any age of boy at this stage in my life, so my awkwardness is stratospheric, if awkwardness can be such a thing.

But no,don't relax; it’s about to get even worse. I am handed the bag with the frankly, too small and not very nice jeans in. I reluctantly take it. I start to walk away. I look back; they are still clapping like maniacs. I make it to the door and am about to walk out of it when one of the lads runs up behind me, snatches the bag right off me with quite a bit of force and says, “No love, I don’t think so! Hahhaahahahaa!”.

I spin round to see the the other two lads absolutely wetting themselves in fits of hysterical laughter at my expense. I am beyond humiliated.

I don’t even remember what I did or said at that point.

I do know that I left the shop reeling from the fright I had been given. Five minutes later, I burst into tears. Fifteen minutes later, I had to have my first ever passport photograph taken before I missed the train home. I don’t look happy. And for the next ten years every time I go on holiday I see that photo in my passport and feel anger and humiliation over again.

But at least it’s not played on live telly for everyone else to see.