LUV & HAT

LUV - To the tune of Robin Hood, Robin Hood, riding through the glen.

Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, sitting on the couch,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, his tummy’s like a pouch,
For cake and chips and stews,
He works for Sky News,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes.

Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, scourge of the nuts,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, Anthea Turner’s guts,
He could not rightly stand,
She thought herself too grand,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes.

Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, no time for David Blaine,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, that interview was a pain,
The tool refused to speak,
Eamonn’s day turned rather bleak,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes.

*RAP*

Uh
Uh
Yeah
Say what say what
Chillin’ on the sofa with my homey Eamonn Holmesy
Now if I wuz a chick I’d be beggin’ him ta bone me
Playaz get bewitched, they can’t handle Northern Irish
Holmesy so enriched, he got that twinkle in his eye, b**ch
Support Man United, ain’t no wrongs he ain’t dun righted
Anthea tried ta fight it, that b**ch she soon got smited

Magicians f**k around cuz they think they hit the big-time
Evil eye on yo’ palm, punk? To Holmesy that a big crime
If ya don’t wanna chat, p*ssy, go and be a f***in’ mime
Betta yet, eat this lead and go sleep in some quicklime BLAOW

Interview done
Out Holmesy run
Jump in the car, time for a sticky bun
Get home, shoes off, change outta that shizzert
Dinnertime, glass of wine, big bowl of dizzert

*END RAP*

Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, housewives love his burr,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, their emotions he does stir,
To take it to extremes,
He’s in their dirty dreams,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes.

Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, just for the record,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, he’s hitched to Ruth Langsford,
They make a lovely team,
His eye it don’t half gleam,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes.

Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, now he presents Sunrise,
Eamonn Holmes, Eamonn Holmes, he’s one of the good guys,
There’s no-one he does hate,
‘cept those who mention his weight,
Eamonn Hohhh dear.
- Stuart Waterman

HAT - OK, so on the surface, there are a lot of hat-ful things about the Great Broadcasting Zeppelin that bears the name Eamonn. There’s the massive sense of humour failure that somehow managed to endear the world to awful larynx-echoer Jon Culshaw. That wretch of a mynah bird had a half-hour show to fill, a vague idea of what a Northern Irish accent sounded like, and was too yellow-bellied to mock Gerry Adams - and yet, Eamms, instead of ignoring the bullies calling you a fatty-bum, like your dear old ma would have no doubt told you to, you draw attention to them by stamping your foot and causing a quite significant tectonic shift in the Eurasian plate! Good Christ, you’re not even that corpulent, man. You should’ve just raised your several thousand chins high and rode above it all. You see? Now you’ve gone and made a big old fuss about it like a giant tubby toddler, we can all merrily take the piss with no guilt. 

And lest we forget, there’s Mount Holmes’ cowardly behaviour on a live lottery broadcast in 2008, when a few straggly Fathers 4 Justice failed superheroes broke into Fortress BBC and feebly barked out something akin to “She’s turned the weans against us!” WATCH as a broken shell of a man shambles onto stage at Lottery HQ with a banner scrawled with crayons and 90% Tesco value whiskey-tears, looking about as threatening as a solitary goth at Glastonbury. GASP as our Eamonn immediately flees across the studio to use co-presenter Sarah Cawood as a human shield, despite the fact she could only protect barely one-eighth of his total flank with her tiny bones. LAUGH INCREDULOUSLY as he re-emerges three minutes later, swaggering like John Wayne, as if in the meantime he hadn’t barricaded himself in a toilet until a weary researcher eventually promised to hold his hand all the way home in case of nasty men appearing again, and give him a lollipop, if he was a good boy and finished the broadcast. Pathetic, Holmes. Sue Lawley would have taken that sad-sack dad out with a single finger and not missed a word on the autocue or perspired even a bead while doing it.

Both things that would inspire the deepest feelings of hate within even the most mild-mannered. But that’s not why I hate Eamonn. I just hate what he stands for.

You see, to me, Eamonn Holmes stands for everything that is third best. Look at him there, on the Sunrise sofa, false bonhomie plastered all over his face. Look at him; reviewing the papers with Jon Gaunt, pretending to care about The Wanted.

But look closer. You can see it in his eyes. “I used to be on GMTV. I used to be a contender. Then I went to Sky, and I still have to get up in the middle of the night, but no-one except for reprobates and the odd post-lobotomy patient is watching me. I’ll never be as suave as Bill Turnbull, or even Adrian Chiles, for God’s sake.”

Do you see the sadness?  Do you feel the desperation, as he rumbles on to his next job, parked on the This Morning sofa? “People call that Scofe a silver fox. No-one will ever call me that. I even got married to my presenting partner, the lovely and sober Ruth Langsford, so we could be more like Richard and Judy. But I know the housewives and students turn off in their droves when they realise it’s Friday and they won’t get their fix of Phil’s wits and Holly’s other wits. I’m less than useless. I hate myself. I’m so FAT.”

Jesus. Eamonn Holmes - a televised nervous breakdown in action. What a downer.
- Julia Blyth