An Open Letter to Jack Tweed

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Hello, I’m Bertie. This column is basically a place for me to call bullshit on girl related stuff that I think is dumb. While I appreciate the importance of girl talk, I’m not about to braid your pubic hair or send you the results of my latest smear test. Instead, I will pass on any remotely useful knowledge I happen to discover re: being a FEMALE. Trust me: I’m not a doctor, but I do have a Ph.D in pretty girl bullshit.

PRETTY GIRL BULLSHIT #18: AN OPEN LETTER TO JACK TWEED

Hello VICE readers, another day, another golden news story. Do you remember Jack Tweed? I mean, you might do… That guy who beat up a 16-year-old kid with a golf club, dodged rape accusations and starred in Big Brother. Oh yeah, and he’s technically Jade Goody’s widow. (Bit awk.)

Anyway, JT has found himself in the tabloids again this week for sending this picture to his (now former) girlfriend. Who just happens to be a fellow

Big Brother

participant; ex-popstar and wannabe Victoria Beckham. Unless you harboured a secret crush on

Ziggy

that year (wait, is

Big Brother

just

Saved by the Bell

for adults?), there’s no way you’ve guessed it. But if you managed to, you should probably re-evaluate your life. Whatever, it’s Chanelle Hayes! I’m not going to bother explaining who she is, but check out her music video below. What happened, babes??

So anyway, back when

Big Brothe

r still maintained it was a "social experiment" and each episode didn’t revolve around Davina McCall fauxperventilating her way through a studio audience shrieking about “tasks", people like Jack Tweed started to arrive because people were switching off. Being a fly on the wall to a couple constructing a limerick about Shilpa Shetty in which there was (*allegedly) (*definitely) an allusion to the word "paki" in every line, makes you feel dirty in a way that no amount of

Nigella’s Christmas

, or

3rd Rock From The Sun

will ever alleviate. Basically this guy is like, probably the worst guy ever. Also he has very beady eyes, but we’ll come to that later.

So this week Chanelle tweeted a photo which Jack her loving boyf had sent her, in which he was standing next to some blonde chick and flipping the bird at the camera. It was pretty obvious from the smirk on his tiny little mouth that he was intending to "flip" the bird in the picture later on as well. OI OI.

Chanelle did not handle this well:

As much as no one reading (or writing) this really cares at all about Chanelle Hayes, not only has she been wronged, she’s also PREGNANT. Imagine the hormones… So, in her honour, and for anyone who's ever had to see pictures of their spouse grinding up against a stranger, I’ve written a beautiful, poetic letter to Jack. And no, it does not contain any racist slurs. Soz. Jack.
I’m worried that perhaps you’re not well.
You’re lashing out at the people around you,
And often we hurt others
In a veiled attempt to damage ourselves. Perhaps talking to somebody might help.
I don’t think the toilet attendant at Movida
Is really the best person for the job.
Although he may offer
Some sage advice,
And knows how much cocaine you take,
Better than anybody else in the world. You are a widow,
So perhaps death
Feels strangely familiar to you,
Which is why anything relatively long-term
Makes you feel uneasy.
But that is no excuse.
For calling a pregnant person “fat”. Jack.
Maybe you’re feeling de-motivated,
Because you don’t really know what to do with your life.
Why don’t you take up an old hobby.
I heard you like golf? Whatever you do,
I don’t think you should let Hello! do a feature this time.
Because even though they covered Jade’s funeral
Really tastefully,
It’s probably time you started doing things
Without a photographer
To keep you company. I suppose really,
You should just learn to have faith in yourself.
Because as romantic as it sounds,
You probably won’t find the answer to you problems
At the bottom of a bottle,
Or between a Playboy bunny’s legs.

Jack.

Follow Bertie on Twitter: @bertiebrandes

Previously: Pretty Girl Bullshit - The 'Semen Makes You Happy' Myth

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