Subtle as a Brick

Jesus Christ in spicy breadcrumbs, life can be so damn challenging, can’t it? When I stop my average, everyday, family saloon car at traffic lights, people literally try to jump in front of it to take photographs – because my car is amazing. Or when I play football with my boys in the park, I have to beat off senior scouts from Premier League teams from signing us all at the same time – because we were playing football so brilliantly. Or when in restaurants, they won’t let me pay, because just being in my presence is enough to guarantee their trade for the next 100 years and ensure that a blue, circular British Heritage plaque stating “Benopause ate here and didn’t piss himself, April 2012” will be slapped across the fascia for all to see. Tourists will flock from far continents, planets potentially, to see the wonder. You see? Life is really hard these days for your world-beating scribe to endure.

The gospel, and the reaction

For these reasons I can empathise with Samantha Brick so very closely. I read, with tears rolling down my cheeks, the plight of this incredible woman. She is Daughter Theresa, so pure she makes Princess Diana appear to be purely evil, with a face like a smashed crabclaw. She is the light. The wonder. She is everything that a woman should be: tall, blonde, and trying to come to terms with the fact that women don’t like her because her beauty would make Venus blush, and probably turn the Virgin Mary into a raging lesbian that was begging for her naming rights to be removed to just ‘Mary’.

She is a threat to all womankind, and the readership of this blog must be told of the impending pandemic of Bricksicknausea that will ravage the living and unloving Worlds. The media must be shut down as to ensure that they never show a picture of her beauty. Men will leave wives in droves, women will fight each other to protect their homes and families as shrines are built in her honour, and cults develop where men meet in secret to discuss her Viagra-bankrupting beauty.  There will be a (mass) debate in the House of Commons, to understand how to deal with this potential world-changing occurrence. I might have to buy some petrol in case I need to drive to find her.

As important in this revolution of revered ravishingness is the honest journalism and truth-telling of the Daily Mail. I’m not sure I can thank them enough for shining the beacon of truth on this shy, retiring creature. She has had to cocoon herself in the arms of her doting husband – a mute, hermaphrodite, French version of Aussie cricket legend Merv Hughes, playing Chopper, after boiling his head for two days so it sits on his shoulders like a pea on a bricky’s hod – so as to ward her from being found and savaged in a blood-stained ritual by a million men. And women.

Honestly, other than this drivel that you dear readers put up with, I have never read such self-promoting nonsense in my recent life. Her sheer arrogance is bewildering. Why? Well, for a start, she’s probably attractive physically, but we all know someone more physically attractive than her. But, peeling that alleged beauty back like a rotting, deluded onion, the layers of uncontrollable gullability are on a different level to anything witnessed in recent times. I doubt, dearest Sammykins, that people don’t like you because you are a threat to their relationships as you suggest. They might, just might dislike you because you are an unconscionable fuckwipe, who simply cannot gauge their own underwhelming value of ‘friendship’ on an emotional level, and see everything on the superficial level. Or, as bad, is surrounding yourself with people that see things the same way.

Samantha and Pascal – “a pea on a hod”

Women being confident? Check. Applauded. Women being assured and comfortable with their own beauty? Check. Encouraged, and is also a trait that others often find attractive, too. But at what point did this confidence teeter over the edge of the deluded cliff and fall face-first onto the dungheap of an article you felt compelled to write (and in turn print without wetting yourself with irony)? And how did every talent spotter for every modelling agency and casting company around the globe miss such unheralded beauty? Surely heads will roll. Or at least wobble.

She does nobody any favours, other than the media-selling twerps who supply the Daily Mail’s advertisers with ridiculous statistics of ‘unique visitors’ – the reason they are ‘unique’ visitors to the site and to read a Mail article is that, like trying to ride a skateboard at 50, you’re only likely to do it once, and cause considerable mental and physical damage in the process.

If you read the piece and thought to yourself that you had done that in the past, “yeah, I’m not going to be her friend because she is too pretty” then you were probably 14, and realised that, in actuality, personality, humour and tenderness are instantly more gratifying traits than how someone looks.  What sort of message does this send out to young, beautiful funny women? Don’t be confident or funny, don’t be friends with anyone, they’ll all turn on you in the end, etc. I just don’t get it. Can anyone please tell me any reason this has been allowed to happen?

Today is April 4th. The last time I checked, April Fool’s Day was on April 1st. Is this still the case? Can anyone point me in the right date of the new prank-playing, fool-a-thon that pervades only the playground and the media? Or has Samantha Brick managed to change the calendar to suit her beauty? Perhaps she can change Christmas too, so we can all send her more presents? Or, maybe we’ve been waiting for this revelation so that the Sweet Lord himself can return to take her hand this coming Friday. Good Friday? Good fucking luck, sunshine, more like.

Don’t forget to use the share button below. Some of you did it last time and it worked. Well done, both of you.

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