Is that what you want? ‘Cos that’s what’ll happen.

So here’s me one night last weekend, home alone, and as usual tanked up on caffeine, reading about old by-election results. Browsing Wikipedia results in the inevitable pursuit of those seductive blue hyperlinks. Before you know it you’ve travelled through page after page in the cyberspace equivalent of Mornington Crescent and its nearly quarter past eleven at night. Shameful behaviour.

There is however a serious point to this, for my final destination was none other than this story. From hated journal of the right-wing brickhead comes the scandal that shocked society to its core:

“Pictured: The abandoned ruins of Mr Blobby theme park after ravers trash site”

That’s right, and those pictures speak for themselves:

Blobby house

Look at that. That’s not a bed fit for sleeping in, much less for doing anything else in (like eating crisps or playing Top Trumps). And what, might you wonder, is the cause of such devastation? Well I’ll tell you. DRUGS! That’s right, those supposedly harmless substances that Max is so keen to tout to the kiddiewinks of today.

“New images of what was the Mr Blobby theme park in Somerset show a depressing ruin covered in weeds and trashed after all-night raves”


“Now in a state of total disrepair, buildings are covered in moss, while windows and furniture lie broken after all-night raves that take place on the site. The entrance to Mr Blobby’s home, named ‘Dunblobbin’, is surrounded by dead trees and a carpet of decaying leaves.”

And all after a mere ten years abandonment. Bereaved Mr Blobby fan Chris Bryant (not the MP) says it best when he laments:

“I remember it being really good fun. It was amazing wandering round Mr Blobby’s house, and it’s a shame it’s now been completely wrecked. The ravers should have more respect for Mr Blobby. He was a hero to a lot of kids and the thought of them taking drugs and having all-night raves in his house is completely disrespectful.”

Quite right Mr Bryant.

Blobby Loo

Now you might argue that this disaster was caused by the natural succession of plant life in an abandoned site. You might argue that it is a testament to the folly of short-sighted capitalistic ventures. You might even argue, as does Sarah from Essex, that its Gordon Brown’s fault

“This is what Brown’s Britain has come to……I despair.”

Well Sarah from Essex, you’re wrong. There’s one culprit here, and that culprit is DRUGS!

Yes, the selfishness and the self-indulgance of drug addicts and ravers. It is they who have deprived a late career Mr Blobby of his idyllic country cottage.

Picture the scene… Mr Blobby is returning home from work late one night. Obviously his television career has long since fizzled out. He didn’t quite have the dynamism of his co-star Edmonds. No gameshows based on random chance, nor 2nd-rate Voice of London-style chatshows for him. No. The ageing Mr Blobby, his light hair greying around his temples and soon to be eligible for the state pension, gets by on a humble salary working in a Taunton call-centre. The money isn’t great, but at least he has his one pleasure, his beautifully kept cottage. His peaceful estate built for his twilight years.

Tonight he’s been working late. Some berk working for Cadbury has accidentally knocked a bag of metal bolts into the flake-making machine, and the normally crumbly chocolate is instead unusually crunchy. The complaint lines have been buzzing, and Blobby’s getting a migrane. A cold beer, a nice bath, and bed – that’s his plan.

But as he walks up the driveway something is clearly wrong. What’s this? Leaves? Moss? Twiglet packets? These weren’t here earlier… Whatever has happened?

He opens the door – fear and rage rising in equal measure inside of him. The cottage is utterly trashed. Natural weeds and drug weed everywhere. Merchandise scattered across the place. Used condoms in the pot pourri. Its all too much. He breaks down, falls to his knees, weeping. Blobby… Who would do this? Who would trash my house? Who would destroy the dreams of a hero? Anger takes over and he rises once more. Blobby! Inconsolable he grabs a nearby pillow, the only one left intact. Rips into it. The light goose down leaks out. BLOBBY! He shakes it from side to side, unthinking, as much beast as man. WHO WOULD DO THIS! And again, tears streaming down from his oversized eyes, he collapses. The paramedics will say he died of a broken heart.

Is that what you want? Because that’s what’ll happen if you follow Max’s crazed pro-drugs policy. Indeed that is what did happen.

What next? Postman Pat returns late from a pleasant game of Bridge with Mrs Goggins down the Greendale Social Centre. He turns the corner to find his van fire-bombed, obscene graffiti on his walls, and Jess nowhere to be seen. Is that what you want? ‘Cos that’s what’ll happen. Thomas the Tank Engine selling off his brass-work to pay for Henry’s heroin addiction? Is that what you want? ‘Cos that’s what’ll happen. Po and Tinky Winky stuck in an abusive relationship with a dealer who’s got them onto crack. Is that what you want? ‘Cos that’s what’ll happen.

Don’t make me portray any more dystopian nightmare scenarios. Lets end the carnage here. Don’t let Mr Blobby’s death be in vain. Say “no” to Max’s bizarre arguments. Say “NO” to drugs.


In Loving Memory: Blobby 1957-2009, RIP


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