Wednesday 18 Feb 09

Paris invades London

A carcrash of tits, tans, tears and tantrums - yes, Paris Hilton is back poisoning UK soil in her bid to replace poor starving Nicole Ritchie with a new mate. Tune in, turn off your brain and let 'My British Best Friend' twist your body into an empty shallow pit of nothingness.

Representing Britain and competing to win the hotel heiress’s affection is a group of desperate orange whiny wannabes who all start to morph into the same person after two minutes - I challenge you to be able to identify a single individual or remember a name. I'm not sure what the collective noun for them would be, but this great 'wallop' of lap dancers, glamma models and token gay male, all fawn, simper and foam at the mouth in an attempt to avoid elimination.
 
Taking part in highbrow tasks such as: 'make Paris her fave pudding' and 'design Paris a pretty party dress', they go out of their way to impress their It-girl idol with murderous looks of complete and utter desperation in their unblinking eyes. Even so much as a disapproving head twitch from Paris is enough to make them drop to the floor, cut off a limb and beat themselves with it to show they can, and they will, do better next time.

The best thing about the show is Paris Hilton's complete disdain for her 'B.B.Fs' (Paris' words, not mine). In fact she can't even seem to understand their British accents - especially the scousers, they make her wrinkle her little nosey up in confusion. She'd quite clearly pepper spray any one of them who dared approached her whilst the camera wasn't rolling. And, fair play to her, I don't blame her.

BUT, there's only one person that I'm really angry with. It's not peahead Paris or the TV company that gave her squiggle loads of money to buy even more rat-sized dogs to put in her handbag. It isn't even the wallop of wannabes, no, not even the giggly nasal blonde who squealed, "I'd be the best person she could be friends with, coz we both luv dogs" - Hitler liked dogs dum dum, doesn't mean you're on a level.

No, it's myself. I'm not angry, just disappointed. I wasted 60 un-refundable minutes of my life transfixed, plus another 60 minutes writing this. That's two hours I'll never get back. And I know that it's on tonight, and what time… and who’s going to know if I watch it? Half-an-hour won’t hurt. It wasn’t really that bad. Sunbeds aren’t harmful. Chihuahuas are cute and Paris is cool. OMG!!