Dear Jordan,

Dear Jordan,

Ah, right. So you think you can represent the UK in the Eurovision Song Contest, do you? You, with the fake tan so badly applied it looks as though you’ve been sprayed with silage by a blind farmer tending a herd of spongiformed moo-moos? You, with eyes colder and deader than a shrivelled chicken breast, left slowly to rot into icy dust at the back of a never-opened freezer draw?

You, the nation’s foremost celebrity whore, shitting out sleaze, silicon and sprogs like someone’s exploded a water-balloon full of laxative over the seventh circle of hell, then sent you swimming out through the faeces to bring the chunky bits back up to the surface, ready for celebration in Heat!Now!Ok!Closer!Reveal!Felch! ?

You, the nation’s foremost screaming, wailing, vomiting, staggering, spread-eagling, soul-selling, shit-wearing, star-fucking, brain-rotting, self-pitying, self-worshipping, self-destroying, airheaded nobody?

You?

To represent the United Kingdom?

Yep, you’ll do perfectly.

Best of luck,
Munky