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What to make of Kirstie Allsopp? The valkyrie of vacant possession, a strident, snorting hockey captain who, along with that fey bald bloke, made homes into game shows. I swing from feelings of embarrassed fondness to pillow-biting fury. Sometimes, I think she’s a bit of a lumpy treasure; at others, that she should be hanging from her own curtain tassels. Almost all the girls I’ve known all my life have been more or less like Kirstie. In a blaze of intimate self-publicity, she leapt from the sinking property market, abandoning the leftover bald bloke, and bought a derelict house in Devon, which she is doing up on a frayed, genteel shoestring, to show the rest of us how to have a cosy, tasteful recession.

The wondering about Kirstie is over. She has become a bosomy Wodehousian monster. Who on earth commissioned this format, of a middle-class, strident, plummy wife of a property millionaire, speculating on a £300,000 second home, who goes on to tell the mortgage-strapped, indebted, fearful workers that what they really ought to be doing is finding local artisans, throwing their own pots, blowing their own glasses, knitting their own toilet paper and going through the skips of their betters to make lovely, lovely, cosy, cosy, get-together light supper areas?

Kirstie’s Homemade Home is such a monstrously patronising piece of class-bound, lady-bountiful do-goodery that it would beggar Paul Whitehouse and Harry Enfield to come up with a more cynical satire. Kirstie has crossed the threshold to become one of television’s undead. She now believes that what she has to say is important, that it’s real, instead of being simply light entertainment. We can only hope she finds some darling, ever so clever little local ropemonger. What’s truly disappointing, but I suppose unsurprising, is that she has such class-bound, predictable taste. It looks like the Princess Diana memorial holiday home — what’s technically known as late-1990s naff.

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What to make of Kirstie Allsopp? The valkyrie of vacant possession, a strident, snorting hockey captain who, along with that fey bald bloke, made homes into game shows. I swing from feelings of embarrassed fondness to pillow-biting fury. Sometimes, I think she’s a bit of a lumpy treasure; at others, that she should be hanging from her own curtain tassels. Almost all the girls I’ve known all my life have been more or less like Kirstie. In a blaze of intimate self-publicity, she leapt from the sinking property market, abandoning the leftover bald bloke, and bought a derelict house in Devon, which she is doing up on a frayed, genteel shoestring, to show the rest of us how to have a cosy, tasteful recession.

The wondering about Kirstie is over. She has become a bosomy Wodehousian monster. Who on earth commissioned this format, of a middle-class, strident, plummy wife of a property millionaire, speculating on a £300,000 second home, who goes on to tell the mortgage-strapped, indebted, fearful workers that what they really ought to be doing is finding local artisans, throwing their own pots, blowing their own glasses, knitting their own toilet paper and going through the skips of their betters to make lovely, lovely, cosy, cosy, get-together light supper areas?

Kirstie’s Homemade Home is such a monstrously patronising piece of class-bound, lady-bountiful do-goodery that it would beggar Paul Whitehouse and Harry Enfield to come up with a more cynical satire. Kirstie has crossed the threshold to become one of television’s undead. She now believes that what she has to say is important, that it’s real, instead of being simply light entertainment. We can only hope she finds some darling, ever so clever little local ropemonger. What’s truly disappointing, but I suppose unsurprising, is that she has such class-bound, predictable taste. It looks like the Princess Diana memorial holiday home — what’s technically known as late-1990s naff.

Great stuff.

I heard KA on Radio4 saying "house prices will never go down because men will always want to put a roof over their wives heads". Fetch the guillotine!

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That's Krusty alright. Her reinvention as little Miss frugality is shallow and unconvincing.

it is rather amusing watching this whole media-driven priesthood crumble before our very eyes :rolleyes:

they,and the people behind them really are quite pathetic.

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Fattened him up?

(Just kidding. No pun must ever be lost.)

Whenever I see her, all I can think is that she would "cook up" nicely and would crackle nicely on the spit with an apple in her mouth. I need help! :blink:

Edited by rover2000
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What to make of Kirstie Allsopp? The valkyrie of vacant possession, a strident, snorting hockey captain who, along with that fey bald bloke, made homes into game shows. I swing from feelings of embarrassed fondness to pillow-biting fury. Sometimes, I think she’s a bit of a lumpy treasure; at others, that she should be hanging from her own curtain tassels. Almost all the girls I’ve known all my life have been more or less like Kirstie. In a blaze of intimate self-publicity, she leapt from the sinking property market, abandoning the leftover bald bloke, and bought a derelict house in Devon, which she is doing up on a frayed, genteel shoestring, to show the rest of us how to have a cosy, tasteful recession.

The wondering about Kirstie is over. She has become a bosomy Wodehousian monster. Who on earth commissioned this format, of a middle-class, strident, plummy wife of a property millionaire, speculating on a £300,000 second home, who goes on to tell the mortgage-strapped, indebted, fearful workers that what they really ought to be doing is finding local artisans, throwing their own pots, blowing their own glasses, knitting their own toilet paper and going through the skips of their betters to make lovely, lovely, cosy, cosy, get-together light supper areas?

Kirstie’s Homemade Home is such a monstrously patronising piece of class-bound, lady-bountiful do-goodery that it would beggar Paul Whitehouse and Harry Enfield to come up with a more cynical satire. Kirstie has crossed the threshold to become one of television’s undead. She now believes that what she has to say is important, that it’s real, instead of being simply light entertainment. We can only hope she finds some darling, ever so clever little local ropemonger. What’s truly disappointing, but I suppose unsurprising, is that she has such class-bound, predictable taste. It looks like the Princess Diana memorial holiday home — what’s technically known as late-1990s naff.

Krustie is a result of artistocratic interbreeding :lol:

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Good to see some more Krusty bashing on here. There's been plenty of previous threads about Krusty, from which the most apt summary I have seen so far was:

"Fat, stupid c**t!"

I have to apologise, I can't remember who to credit for this pearl, but nonetheless, spot on that poster!

Edited by General Congreve
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Whenever I see her, all I can think is that she would "cook up" nicely and would crackle nicely on the spit with an apple in her mouth. I need help! :blink:

Well, I must be honest and admit that when I see photos of myself as a child, all I can see is something akin to a pig in a wig.

Before you get too excited I must tell you that I don't look like that anymore...........

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Great stuff.

I heard KA on Radio4 saying "house prices will never go down because men will always want to put a roof over their wives heads". Fetch the guillotine!

There's going to be a few million OO women well-pissed off with the hopelessly outmoded thinking in evidence in those words....

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