Overload Overlords

Just say no

Don't know about you but I'm worried about Katherine Jenkins. What I mean is that if she doesn't take a day off soon from forcing her way into 'nation's sweetheart' status, she'll implode, dragging fellow crumpled sweetheart, Dame Vera Lynn, into the warbling black hole she'd have created. 
Jesus, does Jenkins ever say no to anything? If she's not knocking out tours or tunes for people with the musical discernment of Helen Keller, she's dragging her arse in front of anyone who'll have her, from desert-dusty troops to drunk rugby fans. Forget asking her to attend the opening of an envelope. She'll be too busy attending the opening of someone's bowel.
Perhaps my impression of Jenkins is such because my kraken cave is in Wales which means that, thanks to the desperate Welsh media, she is never, ever out of the bloody headlines. Jenkins represents a tenuous link to the Principality's global importance so all she has to do is take a shit and the Welsh papers are all over it like fleas on a mongrel's bum. Jesus, The Western Mail - our national rag - would prioritise a story about how Jodie Marsh's grandma once visited Tenby so you can imagine what a meal it makes of K frigging J. The paper is this close to printing a schedule of her menstrual cycle.
It's desperate stuff and it's going to get worse. The Six Nations is around the corner so I have absolutely no doubt that Jenkins will be wheeled out to do everything from bawl through our national anthem to lead the Welsh players through tunefully pissing against their urinals. Add to that her bookings at the Olympics and the Jubilee and she's going to redefine the word overload in ways that have hitherto been unimaginable. For fuck's sake, she's even been quoted as saying that the reason she couldn't get around to marrying her (now) ex-boyfriend this year is because she's got too much on. Take a hint Jenks, take a hint.
Fuck knows what will happen if Jenkins is taken out by a missile the next time she's harassing our troops. Wales would plunge into mourning so deep that it'd have to be crop-spayed with prozac. Our papers would drop 16 pages overnight, our TV channels would be physically sick onto the nation's carpets and the M4 would curl up into a ball. It'd be like some freakish wartime experiment to test the mettle of the Welsh.
So, kraken-lovers, we need to gird ourselves in 2012. We're heading for one fuck of an overload of warbling, doe-eyed, bottle-blondeness. I'd suggest ear plugs and a blindfold. Me? I'll be staying in my cave and probably beating my head against its walls. It'll be much more enjoyable.