Watching I’m a Celebrity this year brought back memories of love and betrayal for Moreen Simpson, thanks to lovely Mike Tindall and awful Matt Hancock.
Watching Matt Hancock emerge from the jungle made me cowk.
Did he really have to snog his bidie-in so cringingly – reminding us of his office shenanigans – and snuffle sweet nothings in her ear? My heart broke for his deserted wife and three children, who hopefully weren’t watching.
What an insensitive clown he must be to have wanted fits-her-face to be waiting for him. And, had the Gina quine a shred of respect for his family, she’d have stayed in the UK.
Well done to Jill Scott for winning I’m a Celeb, but, I have to admit, I’ve well and truly fallen for third-placed Mike Tindall. The perfect man.
I suspect my passion is because he suddenly reminded me of my first real love, also a rugby player with a cheeky glint in his eye – the sod. It was the Charities Ball at the Beach Ballroom, end of the 1960s, everyone in fancy dress.
Pop-A-Bob-In was the slogan for that year’s campaign. Mum made loads of silver shillings (bobs) to hang on my black mini skirt and T-shirt (dyed from white), along with, in hindsight, possibly nae the best risk-averse slogan on my back.
What better way to celebrate than a big family hug 🐻❤️ Here are Mike's post-camp plans! #ImACeleb pic.twitter.com/arK0TnbsQs
— I'm A Celebrity… (@imacelebrity) November 27, 2022
Then this loon, dressed as a rugby player (d’oh) asked me up. Could there be a touchie of Steve McQueen aboot him? Mo was a goner.
Stayed with him rather than the usual flee back to mates at the end of the dance. (Slight problemmo when I spotted black dye sweatily seeping from my oxters to elbows. Quick dicht in the lavvies.)
Then the clincher. He told me he had his own car. A Vauxhall. Wowser. A real man!
Tragedy at The Treetops
Ian turned out to be a Cadbury’s salesman, hence his wheels and snazzy haircut. From the basic beer bar in the students’ union, he introduced me to his pals at Pseuds Corner (the Dutch Mill) and the swankie Sportman’s Club.
I noticed my beloved had his eyes locked on the most stunning quine in the room. Next thing, they were dancing… affa close
We’d go back to their rented basement flat at the corner of Carden Place. (I still look at it now and remember.)
After taking me home, he’d delve into his car boot and dish oot some of his free samples, like newly on-sale Smash, Picnic, Crunchie, biscuits, you name it. There was one evening I peched up to our flat so overloaded with chocolate, my mum took one look and scraiked: “Moreen! What did you have to do to get all that?”
My pals christened him Mr Cadbury’s. To a big dance at The Treetops, me in a dress on which I’d spent a fortune. I noticed my beloved had his eyes locked on the most stunning quine in the room. Next thing, they were dancing… affa close. His hands… like Matt Hancock’s. My soul sank.
Then his mate kindly (at last) filled me in. She was his ex, who’d broken his heart when she finished with him just… yup, before we met. He was simply biding his time with me until he could get her back.
Mum comforted devastated Mo: “If you get the chance, tell him I canna stick that Smash.”
Moreen Simpson is a former assistant editor of the Evening Express and The Press & Journal, and started her journalism career in 1970
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