Dear Katie Hopkins
At the risk of starting this open letter in a less than polite manner I feel compelled to ask you this: will you, for the love of fuck, just shut up? No, really. Shut. Up. Look, you do it by letting your top lip touch your bottom lip all while not forcing air through your larynx. It’s easy when you try. There! Look! You did it! Now, for your next trick, how about trying it for two whole seconds?
And try it you must, Katie. That’s because I can no longer bear the weekly misfortune of seeing your puckered, bitter-slick sneer in the press or on TV. In fact, listening to your piss-infused opinions about modern motherhood and current affairs is the 21st century equivalent of hearing a village witch screeching after she’s been stabbed with a hot pitchfork. Fuck knows why you are continually on the media horizon because the only audience people like you usually get is when they are hollering drunkenly at bus station pigeons.
So what’s it been this week, Katie? Ah, that’s right, your criticism of Lily Allen for putting on weight after she suffered a stillbirth and spent two other pregnancies on bed rest. Before that, though, you were barking about people drawing benefits. That’s nothing though, is it? Nah, because you also think the world gives a shit that you hate kids who have been named after geographical locations (even though you have a long-suffering daughter called India), that fat kids are evil, that you can’t be arsed to celebrate your kids’ birthdays, that it was funny to take the piss out of the 2013 helicopter crash in Glasgow, that… oh I sooooo can’t bring myself to research you any longer. No really, Katie, I can’t. My eyes are bleeding.
Now don’t get me wrong. When you first slopped into my living room via my TV screen I attempted to give you air time. In fact, I resisted the urge to headbutt my remote control until the screen went blank, instead listening to whatever view you’d picked out of a tombola that day. Problem was that when you delivered said opinion it was so crushingly ill-informed and encuntingly smug that it made national number-fumbler, Iain Duncan Smith, look like Professor Yaffle. I haven’t been able to listen to a word of your bleak spoutage since. Blame the part of my brain responsible for my humanity because it actually shuts down when your self-serving phizzog blathers into view.
I do think of you sometimes, though. Oh God, not lovingly of course. I mean in the same way that I see roadkill and wonder what type of truck ran over it. In fact whenever I do hear or see your name, my reaction is to wonder at what happened in your past to make you so imperiously and determinedly nasty. It wouldn’t be so bad if your televised hectoring was borne of a desperation to help people, create justice or simply give hamsters a good home. Instead, though, it is borne of a desperation to… well, what, Katie? Be the loudest? The most famous? The closest thing we now have to Bernard Manning’s lower intestine?
More than that, I have no idea what you actually add to intellectual debate about current affairs in this country, even though you seem to feed off such debate, like a maggot on a badger’s corpse. Regardless of whether you have been asked your opinion about immigration, parenting, benefits claimants or celebrity weight gain you are always, without fail, surrounded by commentators who are more informed, erudite, respectful, intelligent and capable of forming answers without sounding as if they’re going to whip their kids when they get home.
Thing is, Katie, I’m an angry woman too. I was forming a black hole of fury long before you were pimping your verbal vomit to any given broadcaster for the price of a chip supper. The difference between you and I, though, is that I’m not willing to say the most divisive thing that pops into my head just because it’ll bag me two and a half minutes of airtime. You, though, most certainly are. In fact I barely believe that your opinions are your own at all because I reckon tiny, gnashing demons have nested in your temporal lobe and forced you to say the opposite of anything that sounds sentient. And you are human aren’t you Katie? Aren’t you?
Whatever your answer you won’t be hearing from me again. I know! You’re chuffed! I’m chuffed! The news may even force a smile onto your face, although I wouldn’t let anyone see it. It might ruin the reputation you’ve forged as a loud hailer that’s receiving radio interference. Even better I won’t be seeing you again. From here on in my home has a moratorium on all things Hopkins. Now, that really may be worth another letter after all.