Getting angry at Fearne Cotton is a bit like getting angry at a piece of ham or a button. For the most part, she’s entirely inconsequential, dithering her way through the day. However, she’s also the speaking equivalent of an excitable, impressionable child that has been raised with a vocabulary of two words: Brilliant and Genius.
Fearne lives in a happy, shiny world where nothing is bad, and war and fighting don’t exist, because her little brain cannot comprehend the world being any bigger than the hundred yards around her. She’s perpetually surprised, like a goldfish that can’t understand how much room she has to move around in.
Everything is brilliant. Jamie Cullum? Brilliant! Doctor Who? Brilliant! Machiavelli’s The Prince? Brilliant! Who needs more than one word to describe anything? Fearne Cotton likes it. She might as well become a ‘fan’ of them on Facebook and indiscriminately click the little ‘I Like This’ button. That’s her life. She’s as useful as a Facebook virus.
But if every piece of work she sees is ‘brilliant’, how then to describe those who produced the work? Genius. Every single one of them. Every single thing that’s been produced. She walks out of the toilets in the pub and exclaims to everyone “I did a brilliant poo. I’m a genius!” before walking face-first into a door that she’s too stupid to open.
Pop quiz. Spot the odd one out.
The worst thing about her is that she’s the BBC’s appointed YOOOOOF person, so she gets thrown everywhere, like a ubiquitous fart that pops up blandly and unexpectedly whenever you least want it. Like in a lift, or on Top of the Pops. The despair on her face on the Christmas Day TOTP, when she had to introduce Rage Against the Machine was palpable.
She’s a butterfly, an idiot bumbling through the day with no idea what’s going on around her, flapping helplessly at a world that’s far bigger and more complicated than she can comprehend. But, is, let’s face it. Brilliant.
Her hilarious racism at Morgan Freeman was probably an accident, stupidity rather than hating the strange tanned man.
I’ll leave the last word to Fearne herself:
so much snot..how can there be this much inside my head??
The joke is too obvious.
She is like a bouncy ball in a very small room, endlessly happy, bouncing around, touching everything, highly irritating and absolutely impossible to avoid. And in the end she will drive to the point of such insanity, that you have nothing better to do than watch her bounce around smashing you in the skull from time to time cruely reminding you that you are still alive.
*Boing Boing Boing*
Her ‘people’ phoned me up a few years ago to tell me how angry she was at a piece I’d written about her. One of the proudest moments of my life.
A Radio 1 spokesman said: “Fearne clearly did not mean anything.”
They should display that at the bottom of the screen whenever she is on TV.
That was Brilliant!
You, Sir, are a genius!