I’ve recently been spending my Saturday nights watching The Masked Singer
.In the first series, the audience got removed after shouting “Take it off!” and left the studio without knowing the singer’s identity to save any social media spoiler alerts.
What a terribly wasted night out that would be.
Only some crew and family and friends remained and it was cleverly edited to look otherwise.
But it still leaves many other questions unanswered…
Why is there a panel?
Why is Rita Ora there when she could be out at illegal birthday parties?
Why is Davina McCall getting more and more naked every week?
Why can’t we just play along at home without their ridiculous guessing suggestions?
Why would they say it’s The Pope?
Why would The Pope be dressed as a pineapple, walking along Clacton Pier giving out obscure clues to his identity?
Surely, he’s learnt not to do mindless TV since his appearance on Bargain Hunt?
Why am I now wondering as a Catholic how many Hail Mary’s I now have to say for saying that?
Why am I wondering which costume I would choose and thinking “toilet”?
Why can I not get undressed these days without shouting “take it off” to myself?
Why am I equally disappointed when I see the final reveal?
With this in mind, why do I feel that if I appeared on Naked Attraction, I’d look and fare better if they kept all the shutters down and didn’t reveal me at all?
Why do I care so much?
When did my life get up and walk out the door of its own accord and leave me like this?
Maybe I just watch because I like to celebrate how far celebrities’ careers have fallen. It’s a very British thing to bask in other people’s perceived failure.
Like many, ironically thinking about and applauding how rubbish other people’s lives have become to make ourselves feel better about our own lives whilst sadly devouring crisps on the sofa on a Saturday night.
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