Guilty pleasure confession time. I used to watch Jeremy Kyle.
Fourteen years ago, I had a job that meant I was home by 10am. I’d switch on the telly, get my ironing board out, or, more likely, fall asleep on the couch.
Daytime TV was him and Tricia. She was nice, and he was shouty, but not much. He did DNA results, and family feuds. He could even be mildly amusing at times.
I don’t recall him doing lie detector tests.
Kyle seems to think these are completely infallible. Mate, if we had a machine that did that, what would be the point of a court system?
One episode involved a threesome from Aberdeen. The groom had decamped with the bridesmaid during the reception.
The cake hadn’t even been cut, said the bride. Just as well. She looked like the sort of lass who could have filleted an errant groom like a herring with a knife in her hand.
They were Aberdonian. It was filmed in England. Even I, as a Scot, only caught one word in three. The English audience just stared, banjaxed.
Kyle hadn’t a clue. He just kept reading his wee cards. I was laughing like a drain. Nearly burned the ironing.
I caught ten minutes of it a few weeks back. It was horrifying. Kyle had become a monster, screaming into the faces of people who couldn’t even get a word in edgeways.
The world doesn’t need any more cruelty. Goodbye, Mr Kyle.