Jamie Redknapp. Man. Model. Muppet. Sorry, that last one was an editorial slip. Although, having said that, I think that you would be hard pushed to find someone who actually thought that he wasn’t a walking bag of pig anuses that spouts nothing but detritus and clichés. If you did find someone who didn’t think that, chances are they work for an ad agency, as he seems to be FUCKING EVERYWHERE. Not content with laughing at me as his giant 20ft frame peers through the pisser window at work at me, he has decided that the money he gets for making every armchair football fan on Sunday afternoons want to rip out his pelvis through his japs eye, is not enough. So by whoring himself out to Thomas Cook, Nintendo and now M&S, he now has a ubiquitous presence on prime time TV as the Christmas adverts crank all the way up to brain-mashingly frequent. If I see him once more I’m going to paint the ceiling my brains, and the floor with the inside of my genitals.

M&S have a bit of a monopoly on cheesy middle-England targeted Christmas fuckwittery. And now they’ve added the prince of puerility to their cast of shitbag shills. But when did he become a DJ? I know that being a football player generally means that you automatically qualify as having worst taste in music than a deaf mole, but even this is a stretch. And then there’s the Wii ads. If there was any doubt at all about his acting pedigree, then this takes that doubt and buries it neck deep in bat shit and rhino rectums.  It’s more fake than a £7 note.

In short, Redknapp is a sell-out of the highest order. If he had a kid with Carol Vordeman, the kid would be born wearing a sharp (but not too expensive) suit, offering you leisurely gaming on the Costa Del Sol, all paid for in one easy monthly payment. And they’d be a top top player to boot.