I’ll tell you one thing for nothing: I can’t fucking stand Cheryl Cole. When Children In Need got her up that mountain I thought “Ye, gods, please keep her up there.” Because while the nation has taken her to their hearts as their sweetheart, to me she is:  Common. White. Trash.

She’s been hailed as the girl next door but, last time I peeked through the curtains, I didn’t live next door to a post-op Peter Stringfellow. From her slimy tan to her tacky extensions, her nasal whine to her shrieking vulgarity she may be living the life of a star but she behaves like she is in the gutter.

Everything about her is as fake as her acrylic nails. From her nuptials to that world class knob-end Ashley Cole to her day job appeasing Simon Cowell’s… tastes, Cheryl has more faces than Octo-Moms prenatal scan. The chav done good from Popstars the Rivals morphed into the WAG who loved to slag at the World Cup. She became one of the girls when Ashley couldn’t keep his cock in his jock before finally ascending to fully-fledged fashionista following her doe eyed stint on The X Factor.

If Cheryl opened her mind as often as she opened her mouth she might not be as unbearable but she seems to have a continuous bone to pick with (more often than not) women far more accomplished and far more talented than herself. Like most women of limited abilities she stokes the flames of others to ensure the embers of her own fame stay lit. And so she tears strips of Lilly Allen (who she unimaginatively called “a cock in a frock”), Peter Doherty (“that junky idiot”) and Charlotte Church and All Saints who she believes ripped off Girls Aloud’s sound. You know that ground breaking pop that they write themselves. Oh wait….

That’s another thing that pisses me off about Cheryl. She’s so ungrateful to be where she is today. Let us not forget that she ain’t nothing more than all singing, all dancing slab of meat culled from the cattle call that is reality television. And yet she had the audacity to piss her pants at contestants on last years X Factor who said they wanted to be as big as the Spice Girls.

She seems to forget that unlike Girls Aloud, The Spice Girls had to claw there way to the top of the charts without acres of free press that being on a crass karaoke competition gets you. They had to hire and fire managers, cultivate personalities and charm their way into producer’s studios, record companies and magazine offices at a time when nobody was interested in girl groups. They broke down the doors that Cheryl now only deigns to walk through and their glory days insured that the more alternative acts on their record label Virgin could  pursue a more creative path so long as the candy flowed from the Spice Girls Piñata. Yes they may have been manufactured and yes they may have sold out in the end but they didn’t rely on a team of songwriters to craft their sound without them and never resorted to dodgy cover versions to top the charts.

And they did it all without being charged with racially aggravated assault.

I don’t know why I’m so surprised that my adopted home should stoop to such lows in their search for a tenant in their affections. When being a spurned bulimic spouse and succumbing to a terminal illness elevated Princess Diana and Jade Goody to almost saint like status it’s no wonder this tarted up fishwife would be next in line to the throne.

But come on Britain! Pull your socks up…or at least your standards.