Reid all about it? We already have!
AM I alone in wondering whether there is anything left to learn about Alex Reid?
This week he’s been pictured head in hands pleading for mercy for the terrible crime of sending the message “hope so x” to some bird on Twitter.
His missus Chantelle Houghton, pregnant with their first child, got the huff, apparently, and was “p*ssed off” for – get this – “a while”.
And in a not-at-all over the top interview with one of those glossy mags you find years later curling up in a dentist’s waiting room beneath an old National Geographic and a guide to canal boats, he wails: “I’m being portrayed as a cheat, which really upsets me and the gorgeous girl I’m committed to with all my heart.
“It’s caused nothing but misery and stress for my pregnant fiancée.”
Then, with the kind of hyperbole normally reserved for hyperactive ringmasters at lower rank boxing fights, he stares into the camera with he thinks are puppy dog eyes and declares: “She’s the victim and I’m the evil one.”
Alex. ALEX. You still haven’t got it, have you?
Nobody f***ing cares.
You’re a no-mark. A non-celeb.
Someone who once won Celebrity Big Brother not because the nation warmed to
Alex Reid No mark
your dazzling personality, you dick, but because your then missus had zillions of fans.
And she still has. Especially after finally divorcing you on Tuesday.
You, on the other hand, are observed in much the same way we crane our necks to see what’s left of a motorway pile-up.
Your surname is Reid but it should be thrush. Because you, sir, are one irritating c***.