As the rather splendid series of “Who do you think you are” winds down, I would have bet a good 20p that they would not and could not have found anyone more irritating and stupid than Esther Rantzen to appear.
Well, in the words of Pope John 17th, “Bugger me”.
Tonight’s fascinating documentary featured a young lady called Jodie Kidd. I had not previously heard of her, (well I might have, a bit, but I couldn’t have told you who she is) and I am not sure of the spelling. I refuse to try to find the spelling, because I don’t want to visit any web pages that feature her, lest some of the vacuity rubs off.
I gather from the programme’s preamble that she is/was a fashion model. That’s right, she earns a living by wearing clothes - other people’s clothes at that. This is just as well, as she is evidently too fucking stupid to dress herself.
Seldom could the words “amazing” and “unbelievable” have been used so often to describe the mundane. I suppose that if you have the IQ of a knitting needle, then most things must seem unbelievable and amazing, and we should look upon someone with this degree of unworldliness as some sort of saint. I look upon her as a thick twat. I hold no grudges against thick twats, I just don’t want to spend my time with them. (Even if they’ve got big tits, Tom.) (I have already surrendered to the likelihood that I will be invaded by another set of perverts for the next 3 years, as Theodore and Evadne Google’s filing system juxtaposes the subject of this article with the phrase “big tits” or “twat”, so I don’t really care).
I learned that Ms Kidd is descended from lord Beaverbrook. She regards this as a good thing. Bugger me again. This squalid purveyor of quasi-fascist propaganda should have been set to work in a mercury mine, and his bloody awful newspaper should never have been allowed to go unpulped. What a twat.
Putting lord Copper aside, Jodie went off in search of her maternal great grandfather, who was a Newcastle shipbuilder, eventually given a baronetcy for his endeavours. She thought this made him a great chap. Twat. Both of them. This atrocious capitalist pig got rich off of the backs of his labourers, and made his fortune from making ships during the first world war. He was such a twat that even George V didn’t like him, and Churchill thought he was a twat. Like so many of his sort however, Jodie’s granddad was an entrepreneur, and secured his honour by slipping Lloyd George a couple of quid. Twat. This was after a conviction for food hoarding during the war. Arsehole.
While all this discovery is going on, young Jodie is pictured looking unbelievably amazed at everything that is happening, which isn’t difficult really, as I reckon she understands about 3% of it.
You know that it is going to be a below average episode when much of the programme is spent showing the subject meeting each of the people who have done the actual research. There is not a great deal of entertainment to be gleaned from watching doors being knocked and people introducing themselves to each other, as if they haven’t just fucking rehearsed it 8 fucking times. Probably 48 times in the case of Jodie Kidd. Bastards. And I don’t fucking care if the deputy librarian at the Kidderminster Records Office is called Barbara.
Anyway, Jodie then pursued the Beaverbrook Canadian line, and chose a line that wiggled its way back through Eastern Canada to Massachusetts and finished up with some of the earliest settlers from England in North America. Yes, the bloody puritans. Not quite the Pilgrim Fathers, but the same sort of godbothering busybodies who everyone in their home town was glad to see the back of, and who went on to spawn the throwbacks who form the redneck tradition of the worst of middle America. Yes, we got shut of the gits, and then, four hundred years later, their offspring are here to get paid 6 xillion quid to walk up and down a fucking catwalk without falling over.
We should not be too harsh on Ms Kidd. It is not her fault that she is descended from such a menagerie of total tossers - I will try to remember this when the television licence fee appears on my bank statement next February.