EVER wondered how English Lit GCSE text Lord of the Flies would go with an grudge-bearing former light entertainment star on the island? Like this:
Day one
Shipwrecked on remote island with half the intake of a minor public school. Explain they’re perfectly safe as that was my brother, my relationship was legal and no I will not be building a broom cupboard or getting Gordon the f**king Gopher out. They affect not to know what I’m talking about. Typical.
Day three
We’ve established a system where only the person who has the conch shell is allowed to talk. I have the conch. Constructing a sofa out of driftwood, I invite the boys to present segments on cookery, fashion, survival and the existence of ‘the Beast’ which I presume to be bloody Willoughby. Advise them they’re dead right to be scared of it.
Day six
Filming has broken down, just because ‘a crab is not a camera’. I ask who’s had a 40-year career in TV here, and who’s a f**king runner? A faction of the boys has split off to hunt wild pigs. I presume they’re planning something along the lines of Saturday Kitchen.
Day eight
I have lost the conch, which is just like my This Morning defenestration all over again. Silenced, forbidden to speak, muted and abandoned by those I thought were friends. Ralph points out I’m talking now. I explain this island has BARB ratings so low as to be non-existent, so is essentially Channel 5.
Day nine
Roam the woods, long-bearded and rambling, giving the children dark prophecies about what the newspapers will do to them if they stray from the path of righteousness. They seem more preoccupied with obtaining clean water and food which seems to me selfish when we’ve a mid-morning magazine show to produce. Predict doom.
Day ten
My head is on a stick. I blame Holly.
