Five Go Large in Ibiza
I can’t help but have a smug little chuckle at the publishers who paid ‘glamour’ model Jordan / Katie Price untold millions to put her name to a series of ghost written books for children.
I wonder how sales of these books have been doing since Jordan’s recent quiet, low key, get away from it all and get over the break up of my marriage in a dignified and self respecting way, holiday in Ibiza.
If I was the mother of a young girl I’m not sure I’d really want Jordan as their role model author. Now I know the argument about Jordan being a great role model because she ‘came from nothing’ and has made shed loads of money. But the reality is she came from nothing, took her clothes off at every opportunity and made shed loads of money from being lewd and obscene. I’d rather my daughter was poor and had a bit of dignity thanks.
Can you imagine if Enid Blyton had carried on like Jordan when she was knocking out her Famous Five books? Or can you imagine if Jordan actually wrote her own books? Or, even funnier, what if there was a parallel universe somewhere, where Jordan is Enid Blyton’s ghost-writer?
What follows in an extract of how I imagine one of those books to be (loosely based on transcripts from Jordan’s recent adventures in Ibiza as reported in the press and scenes from her reality TV show).
The Famous Five Go Large in Ibiza, Innit
Julian walked into the garden clad in his favourite lycra hotpants and holding a bottle of WKD. ‘Come on guys, let’s go down Pacha, I’ve heard they play some well phat choons and they’ve got lashings of ginger Bacardi Breezers, innit.’
Dick looked up from his copy of Playboy. ‘Wicked, Joolz. I’m well up for some of that.’
Both the boys looked over at the girls. George was doing her last set of 100 stomach crunchs for the day and Anne was busy making up a feed for her baby-by-a-footballer, whilst simultaneously checking how many followers she currently had on Twitter.
‘Do I have to come?’ Anne whined. ‘I just wanna stay here and talk about myself to the reality TV crew.’
‘God, Anne, you’re so boring,’ George hissed. ‘We’re in Ibiza. we’re supposed to be giving it large, isn’t it.’
‘Shut up, George, or I’m gonna cut you up,’ Anne shrieked back at her. ’Anyway, why should I listen to you? You’re fat and ugly and you look just like a geezer.’
George flung herself on the grass, wailing. ‘Oh God, I hate myself. Look at my muscles from running that marathon, they’re so gross. I can’t come to Pacha, boys. I’m well minging. And we’d better cancel that midnight feast an’ all. I’ve got a photo shoot for OK magazine next week. I need to book myself in for some emergency lipo.’
I don’t know about you but I’d take lashings of ginger beer with Dick and Aunt Fanny any day of the week…