I have finally snapped. I have finally had enough. Finally, my anger has reached a point where once again, AlexAsks. What, I hear you say you say to say to yourself has toppled him over the edge this time? Election fever? Immigration? Volcanic ash? Erectile Dysfunction? Well, none of the the above. The answer my friends, Daytime TV and in particular the complete gremlin of a man that is Jeremy Kyle.

For anyone who works and hasn’t had the pleasure of watching this patronising cunt of a man conduct his orchestra of repugnant, drug addict, wife beating fuckers who appear daily on his sofa let me give you a brief outline of the shows format.

Jeremy tends to bring on a snivelling whale of a woman, who weighs close to 30 stone, has one tooth left and has craters the size of golf balls in her face where her hubby has beaten her repeatedly with a shoe.

The audience will cheer. She will break down and Jeremy will attempt to comfort her. When Jeremy fails to cure her blues he’ll ask her what’s the matter.

To cut a long story short the woman will recite her life story. Usually she was orphaned on a doorstep in Brentford at the age of 3 days. She was taken in by a family of alcoholics, before being fostered by a family of smackheads until she met her knight in shining armour whilst whoring herself at the age of 13.

The audience will begin to weep and applaud. Until she describes what an utter cunt her husband is. Boo’s will begin to ripple in the crowd. Kyle will acknowledge this. And then…...

“Let’s bring on our next guest, It’s Derek everyone. Remember! He’s a cunt! Don’t go too hard on him.”

Derek, her husband, will then come in. He’ll be a wafer thin 18 year old with vacant eyes who tries to run over and stab his wife with a pen. The bouncers will put a stop to this pathetic attempt and wrestle the young hoodlum scumbag to a seat.

Kyle will begin his “patronising cunt” routine where he tells the cunt about how he knows he’s not a bad lad and that his behaviour is only excusable because he comes from a family of cunts.

If Derek manages to repent and break down and confess all of his sins down to Lord Kyle, the host will promise that he will take him to a football match. The audience will once again applaud seeming to forget about the wife’s confession.

Jeremy will always close off a couple’s story by asking them if they want to leave together through the same door or not. If they choose too the audience will usually applaud. Unless of course Derek turns out to be a real fuckwit and either chooses not to leave with his Orca wife or he fails whatever lie detector test he was paid a bag of brown to take. In that case the audience of cunts boo him off stage. Thank me later, I’ve saved you ever having to watch this complete and utter shite!!!

The specific episide which irritated me was called, ‘Men who were confronted by women they left after a one night stand.’ The titles are great by the way and generally do ‘exactly what they say on the tin.’ I’ve had a sneak switch at the titles for next week’s episodes incase they gave me any potential material for this and Monday and Thursday do indeed do just that. Infact, they are so good I need say nothing after telling you what they are. Insert your own punchlines folks, ‘8 Potential Dads’ airs on Monday morning and Thursdays offering to the council masses is, ‘Son, I did not cheat on your dying father.’

Anyway, back to ‘Men who were confronted by women they left after a one night stand.’ As you can imagine the women panellists were the most pig ugly, disgusting, junkie scum known to man yet the men on the show had a huge satisfaction in affirming their conquests to millions of TV viewers. As per usual the studio audience were disapproving and hectoring in a manner which indicated they had never sinned or worse, enjoyed sex. Kyle, the ringmaster looked down at everybody from his perch up high just next to God and gave his cursory examination of these minks sordid activities that even I, a single 30 year old man with a monthly subsciption to ‘Barely legal’ felt was better left private.

The good thing, the only good thing about this show actually was more apparent on that particular day last week than is normal. The immense feeling of superiority.

Maybe I/we were spoiled as kids. I grew up with a fairly steady diet of game shows, Blind Date, Don’t forget your toothbrush, Play your cards right, Generation game, Celebrity squares, the one where Barrymore got excited with hotspots (before heading home to get excited by young dead poofs floating in his swimming pool) which name escapes me just now, Supermarket Sweep and Who wants to be a millionaire to name but a few. There were a lot of similarities between these programmes I loved while growing up and this utter pile of complete crap that graces our TV screen every morning nowadays. The hosts are all patronising and swarmy and the guests who go on them are all intentionally humiliated and embarrassed but at least on game shows the humiliation was ‘sport.’ They won something. It was almost as if they were paid for there humiliation albeit it in the form of a family saloon, a new suite, a week in the sun and in some cases, a speedboat. Basically, you got something for nothing. For a 30 minutes segment of their lives (adverts included) they would happily give their all either running through a supermarket or being gunged for a new dinner set. Let’s face it, dignity is fine but you can’t eat your dinner off it.

On these talk shows however, people pimp themselves for the grand sum of fuck all. Nothing. Zilch. They just want to be on television. It was there and then last week, watching the horrible women who’d put out after a bottle of buck fast and got upset when Mr Smackhead never called the next day that my moment of truth transpired. I realised I’m now old enough to be disgusted by the actions of others. I had goosebumps on my arm as it hit me very hard. I have finally become my Dad.

I feel better now I’ve written this though. My Dad hates the word Cunt.

I imagine celebrities get to a point where they simply want to snap at fans and tell them to fuck off. Can I have an autograph is probably the most common problem famous people get but it's the comedians and actors with catchphrases that probably get the hardest time. Comedians are probably sick to death of hearing shit jokes from random Joe's in the hope that they use them in a forthcoming performance.
'Oi, Frankie, here's one for Mock The Week. Try and get this in. Cuddling your wife after sex is like staying on the toilet after a dump.'
'Paul, I’ve just won a small fortune playing scissors paper stone.Every time my opponent goes for stone, I choose paper.I’m making money hand over fist. Bet you can use that on Have I Got News.'
'Jimmy, here's something you can say on stage. My favourite fruit is a pear. Which incidently is an anagram of my favourite hobby.'
Actors/presenters with catchphrases must also regret the day they read a script and thought things such as, 'I don't believe it, Beam me up Scotty and Say what you see,' were a great idea.
Well, right now, I know how they feel. 'Alex, great blog you've just written. Delighted you're at it again. Here's one for you. Do one about Britney Spears.' I must admit that I didn't help my cause by encouraging things by pointing out to my idiot friend he would need to be a tad more specific than asking me to write a blog about Britney Spears as that was about as open a request as where do you think Madeleine McCann is and what happened to her? (Well, it would be open if i didn't know the answer was my loft and none of your fucking business.)
He thought for a moment and said, 'Write about Britneys self esteem being so low she'd let you have a threesome with her kids.' Now I must admit, I have on numerous occasions imagined (vividely) a sexy threesome with Miss Spears 2 extremely attractive sons but never have I climaxed into my Spars own toilet roll until she herself has bothered to enter the fantasy. Regardless of how absolutely grade A fucking banana's, mental beyond belief and crazy as she is, I'd still do anything for a few minutes with her and her extremely low self esteem. Granted, she's nothing more than a wealthy mans Kerry Katona but I defy any man to tell me he wouldn't still love to bend her over and treat her like a whore/his wife. Actually, she deserves better than to be treated like a wife so forget that. Infact, she's still so desirable despite all the water that's passed under the bridge, I'd probably go as far as walking barefoot for 6 days just to eat her period. Mental? - Yes. Sexy? - Yes. Low self esteem? - Yes. Fuckable kids? - Yes. Am I going to put that in print? - Not a fucking chance Chris.

I haven't blogged for a while but that's because firstly, there was nothing to blog about and secondly, because Ross McTavish a little rodent cunt of a man that worked for the local paper started sniffing about my previous blogs and had the brass neck to imply I was racist. Guess you don't need a degree to write for Aberdeen Journals then?

Well, I have something worth writing about now so fuck Ross McTavish. I have info to good not to write about. I have the info that everyone wants. I'm the fly on the wall with the hard on while Katie Price is getting gagged and reaching desperately for the Mace. That's right folks, Alexasks is exclusively revealing who raped Jordan before the tabloids even have it in print. It was................................Former olympian and record breakers presenter Kris Akubusi and here's how he did it.

Akabusi scaled the walls of the £756,000 Sussex mansion with all the stealth of a gekko on a Mallorcan shower wall. As luck would have it the window was open. He dropped in and slipped out of his dungerees and let the cool air caress his polished ebony skin.

The house was quiet. He looked into one room and saw the sleeping Peter Andre - without the wig and wax on his face he was rather beautiful. But Akabusi wasn't into arses. Not today.

He heard a noise coming from the bathroom. He ran along the landing, his giant cock swinging in the air like Saddam on Youtube. He looked into the bathroom and saw a mad little fucker, big as a barrel and blind as a bat leaping up and down in some boiling water.

"Akabusi!" said a voice behind him. "Stop looking at my son with your cock out". Akabusi slowly turned around and saw Katie Price in front of him - wearing nothing but a Juicy Couture camisole and the slightest glistening of her ample clunge.

As ever Akabusi's cock became harder than the Guardian cryptic and proceeded to bang her tits off as Harvey ate a bag of Prawn Cocktail crisps off the floor that Akabusi had brought just in case.

Before Akabusi left he wiped his now dying cock on Harvey's afro, bent down to the prone Jordan, who lay liked a painter's radio in the moonlight, and whispered "Awooga" in her ear before patting her on the fanny and sleeking off into the dark, dark night.

I'm only joking, it was John Leslie.