Jonathan Ross

Jonathan “Wossie” Ross evidently wasn’t sufficiently bullied at school. Moderately effective at his film reviews, it’s his painfully self-indulgent chat show that’s the real reason for his unforgivable rubbishness. On Friday nights on BBC One, Ross invites celebrity guests into the studio and subjects them to a series of excruciating knob jokes whilst tossing his “Richard Madeley-esque” mid-life crisis fringe back and chortling away with the odd question about said person’s latest project.
Ross’ arrogance results in an interview where you’re more likely to find out where he’s just been on holiday or what his son’s hamster is called than why said person has deigned to turn up.
His interview style is almost the complete opposite of fellow rubbish interviewer Michael Parkinson, who trades on his slow-witted Yorkshireness and rarely makes comment.Each female guest will be offered sexual intercourse several times throughout the interview, each male guest will be accused of sexual deviancy or animal husbandry an equal number of times. This is because actual stony-faced factual content can’t hold the attention of Joe Public anymore, his brain indefinitely clogged with waste chemicals from his food.
There’s no getting around the fact that somehow Britain has allowed a fat lispy tosser to become a ridiculously high-paid primetime chat-show host. And millions of people watch it, millions, because idiotic knob-jokes are still king. Jesus wept.

Gordon Brown, mard-arse laureate

This supposedly ferric Scotch character-vacuum is our next prime minister. A pudding-faced dullard so profoundly expressionless as to make upper-class twit of the year David Cameron look like a viable alternative as prime minister.
Gordon is a boring name, Brown is a boring name. Gordon Brown is a boring, boring man and perhaps the least inspiring prime-minister ever ever ever. Always dark suits, red ties, always that tongue-clicking thing he does at the end of sentences. His dull, flabby face. His whole pointless existence.
For those who used to be interested in politics at all, he has instantaneously alienated you.
Even despite his dodgy decisions as chancellor, and there’ve been a few, I’m only claiming Brown to be rubbish based on the man’s absolute unutterable soullessness. He claimed to like the Arctic Monkeys, yet looks like the fat kid from P.E. that always played as goalkeeper because he couldn’t run like the other boys. Now he’s out for nameless revenge on his school tormentors and somebody made the bastard PM.

Jeremy Kyle and the Jeremy Kyle Show

Jeremy Kyle is a presenter so bland and uninspiring that he resembles an underused supply teacher.

Of course looking underwhelming is Kyle’s advantage in the daytime TV stakes because underneath his mild-mannered exterior is a TV god. Occassionally he will stop the stream of self-pitying heroin-addled bottom-feeders passing by his barren two-chaired stage and confront them as though the show represented judgment day and he had been empowered by the Alpha and the Omega himself to smite the sinners before him.
Occassionally so moved will Kyle become that even with his superhuman self-control he cannot quell the raging sense of injustice fermenting behind his blank, hobbity face. Kyle will infrequently confront infidelitous lovers, particularly men, and offer his advice to them in simple terms via the medium of shouting.

A typical Kyle outburst would be “You’ve cheated on her, the mother of your children! You’ve got to be a man about this, look her in the eye and tell her. Tell her it won’t happen again and you’ll be off the smack again for good this time.” Sometimes Kyle will use his face as punctuation in his self-righteous monologues. Many finish with Kyle having stalked close enough to his quarry to perform a detailed dermatological examination, before withdrawing the face with a flourish, waving his prompt card in the air and appealing to the pleb-filled audience to whoop and holler, sharing his indignation.

Kyle is rubbish because he’s got the knowledge of what would make a good show, but not the charisma to pull it off. Who is he, where did he come from? Why is he towering over the daytime schedules as he does? He’s the last breath of anger left in the daytime confessional format, one which leaves most sane people feeling hollow. Jeremy Kyle should instead don a cape and become a modern day Batman, anything less is just mindless airtime filler.

Sharon Osbourne

The braying, vulgar fish-wife of the world’s most famous narcotics casualty, Sharon Osbourne has a track record of being rock’s most successful spouse. With a voice like a pantomime witch and a surgically experssion-limited facade,  Osbourne’s distinctively pleading promotional style can be seen endorsing just about anything following the cancellation of the Osbournes.

Be it Gala Bingo, Asda or indeed some TV singing competition, lack of qualifications does not stop Sharon from pretending to be able to judge talent (she married Ozzy), spot a bargain (She will never have to) or play bingo (her bingo wings now reside in some plastic surgeon’s bin rendering her useless).
Her nouveau-riche squawking is mistaken for an earthy reality, but for every 15 minutes she spends back in dear old Brum you can bet she’ll spend nine months under her the power-shower in her LA Mansion thanking the lord of darkness himself she’ll never have to go back to smelly old poor people again.
In fact, marrying someone rich is up there with playing football or being the Queen in the top list of surefire moneyspinners of the modern age. Forget everything anyone ever told you at school about the joy of knowledge and hard work making you rich. Instead find a shambling drugs-wreck, marry him and bear his demon-seed.

Myleene Klass

This beaming moon-faced harridan found fame in 2001 as part of Hear’Say, (incidentally the apostrophe in their name is up there with the ‘5′ in 5ive as annoying, youth-culture band names go) where her talents as a singer and pianist were discovered and found to be certainly equal to any middle-of-the-road karaoke regular.

Since HearSay split up after their 15 seconds of fame Klass’ enormous, circular face has failed to light up dozens of daytime television sofas in her mission to avoid getting a real job. Following a career so hugely successful she has had to keep changing it to give other artists a chance, Klass is still referred to as ‘brainbox’ or ‘talented’ by the fawning Phil and Ferns of the world despite secretly sitting there hoping she’s showing enough tit to justify her appearance fee.

I’d like to see Klass – who clearly can’t stand the thought of being normal – forced to work as a cleaner in a local comprehensive school in order to keep the bailiffs away. Chainsmoking and manhandling an industrial floor polisher I’d hope for nothing but total societal rejection for a woman who with her giant bulbous eyes and cosmetic dentistry clearly thinks she’s the shit riding a swing in those cockawful M&S adverts.