Jumbo norked Kerry Katona is an enigma. Heralding from scrubber prole ‘girl band’ Atomic Kitten (in which, according to her, she didn’t sing a single note) – possibly the most physically repugnant grouping of ‘musical’ people since The Flying Pickets – Kerry went on to… well, I don’t know what. I do know she’s in possession of humongous mummy-cushions, that she’s not fussy about cock and is capable of being pregnant about four times at once. Katona also likes to take drugs and go on TV and she fucking loves a good hiding from her fella. Her latest squeeze looks like a shell-suited Artful Dodger without the top hat.
But somehow Kerry has managed to maintain some sort of career in the public eye. And here is the enigma. How, what, why? She’s clearly very talented at getting sperms all up her clout but what else? The answer is nothing whatsoever, save one. Iceland has concluded she’s an excellent vehicle for their showcase of comestible horrors. In this instance Kerry makes sense.
By mugging at the camera like a nightmare of a ventriloquist’s dummy coming to life but with larger hooters, she’s now associated with selling the cheapest possible frozen food to the lowest echelons of society. Now that it’s Christmas, Iceland have decided to throw in a giant hirsute Nolan sister to help Katona reach out to the families of illegal minicab drivers and ticket touts up and down the whole of Albion, mainly the north part. And Croydon.
Featuring tables and tables groaning with inedible foodstuffs that you’d turn down in favour of chewing off your own calf – 400 duck parcels for 8p, 1,600 mini hot dogs for tuppence, mini-jam pignuts, breaded-prawn diarrhea-skewers, chicken-vomit filo-warts, jitler-coated ambulance-diallers – Kerry manages to mug so gratuitously it’s a wonder her fucking skull doesn’t actually fall out of her mouth. Whilst Nolan maintains the aura of greedy dim-witted bear, Katona (clearly bonked out of her face on git-powder) literally zooms in and out of shot bearing an expression of such obsequious falsity and psychotic enthusiasm it’s only possible to be viewed through a mesh of trembling fingers whimpering in the corner of your sofa. I’ve no idea what she’s saying, nor do I wish to know in case it harms me.
That’s why mum, so ineffably useless her poor wee rugrats would do better off being raised by donkeys (and if it weren’t for Kerry’s gargantuan curd beanbags, I’d call the fucking police) goes to Iceland.