Tophe

Just Like Every Other Man In Her Life

Look, it’s very fashionable right now to sledge Gretel Killeen for her performance as Logies host – and for the most part, rightly so.

But are people doing it for the right reasons?

Most people were sledging her from the minute the news broke that she was signed to host them – three weeks prior to the event itself. These people would have been slagging her off (and: side note – is ‘slagging her off’ not the classiest phrase ever?) regardless of her actual performance; therefore I feel they have no right to be joining in the legitimate ‘slagging off’ now.

I, on the other hand, have long been a fan of the Gret. Enjoyed her stand-up comedy, devoured her books (yes, non-fans, she was at one stage a prolific author!), withstood the woeful ovary overload (ovary-load?) of Beauty & the Beast for her witty opinions, watched Big Brother with blatant disregard to my IQ – and I even managed, through sheer willpower (well, sheer willpower and my dubious media industry connections) to get myself a seat in the audience during one of the Celebrity Big Brother eviction shows, where I muscled my way into the front row for the chance to be interviewed by Gretel live on national television. I got that chance, and we were both amazing.

So, imagine my disappointment when I witnessed her, in all her Harry Potter-esque glory (seriously, that hair cut and bony figure? Whack a pair of round glasses on her and run a cheese knife down her forehead and it’s Daniel Radcliffe), talking about NOTHING BUT HERSELF for an hour and a half (well, six minutes, but whatever) – I was heartbroken. Then there was the woeful death sketch. Then there was the vacillating between bitter barbs aimed directly at her ex-husband and barely concealed flirting with everything in pants. Then there was another forty-five minutes of self-themed talking. At the end of the night I had no choice but to hang up my Gretel Killeen Supporter and cancel my membership to the GK Fan Club.

I had an inkling that Gretel and I were growing apart as people when I heard about the kerfuffle surrounding the new hair cut. As I heard it: after getting the new cropped pixie ‘do, Gretel Killeen flat out refused to be photographed. She had to be forced by Channel 9 to even do a Logies publicity shot – and when she did, it was with hair extensions and a top-hat. The Gretel I knew and loved was fully aware that people didn’t care about her hair that much. This new Gretel was a cold, egomaniacal imposter.

(And the stupid thing about the “hair reveal”? I distinctly remember reading weeks ago that the new haircut was a pixie ‘do - so I don’t understand where the big surprising reveal was supposed to come in – how many different ways can a pixie do a pixie ‘do?)

So I’m sorry, Gretel. People have been telling me for years that I was a fool to support you. From bystanders who had never met you to ex-colleagues from your radio days – everyone said horrible things, but I stood by you. Through thick and thin (and thin, and thin! Lady, when Lisa McCune looks like a heifer next to you, it’s time to rip into a packet of Iced VoVos and enjoy life) I was there for you.

But you have let me down.

I think it’s time we saw other people. There are other TV personalities that are more deserving of my love and support. Cat Deeley, Joel McHale… even Natalie Bassingthwaighte can give me more than you seem to be able these days.

Don’t try and contact me – I have already removed you from my list of interests on my LJ profile.

To sit in solemn silence on a dull, dark dock,
In a pestilential prison with a life long lock,
Awaiting the sensation of a short, sharp shock
From a cheap and chippy chopper with a big, black block.

About two years ago, in early 2007, I got Kate Bush's song Babooshka stuck in my head. This in itself is not unusual, earworms happen all the time. Except Babooshka stayed in my head for at least a month and a half.

Every time I whistled, hummed, or sang without thinking first, Babooshka is what would come out. If I stopped concentrating and let my mind wander, it would immediately perm its hair, put on a gladiatress outfit and bob up and down with a sword and dodgy backlighting. It was a nightmare.

It was so much a part of my existence that it even became an on-air gag (it was back when I was 'famous', you see). My co-hosts had a grab of the song ready to play randomly at a moment's notice, just to torture me.

Anyway, after six (seven? eight?) or so weeks, the song finally left my head.

Four days ago, another song nestled its way into my subconscious, and is so far showing signs of doing EXACTLY what Babooshka did to me.

And it gets worse.

Worse than Babooshka.

The song in question is Hopelessly Devoted To You.

I don't even LIKE that song. I barely KNOW it. And yet, there I am at my desk at work, freaking out anyone within earshot when I forget myself and bust out with "IIIIIIIII'M OUT OF MY HEEEAAAAD, HOPELESSLEEE DEVOTAAAAAAAAEEEHD TO YOOOO-OO-OO-OOOOOOOO..."

At least with Babooshka half the people didn't recognise what the hell I was humming/singing/whistling. There's no disguising Olivia Neutron-Bomb.