Cheryl Cole - Metaphorically Hollow Inside,
And Now Literally
A Tribute to the Deceased Singer, by Toby ‘The Buzz’ Buzzell
Cheryl ‘The Geordie Slugger’ Cole, well known for flattening a black toilet attendant then marrying a black
footballer to try and compensate, perished today from a crispy thigh dehydration crisis. In recent times her
tear-splurge rate had risen to a toxic ‘Spray-Tanned Orange’, the woman having finally realised her career
was founded on the single fact she “hud a vugina”.
‘Soggy-Sugar’ Cole achieved fame by stretching her hind legs before a desk of squinty-eyed judges as they flipped coins, deciding who would take the front and who the back. It wasn’t long before Cheryl was seated behind a desk of squinty-eyed judges herself, flipping coins to decide who would take the front and who the back.
Cheryl ‘The Needful Hummer’ Cole’s husband Cashley (left) said, in an otherwise illiterate and horrendously bestial group text, “She needed to work on her upper-cut. Instead she focused on cardio and lack of carbs and became really thin, thus diminishing her punch power.” A Grazia journo, while pawing at root vegetables with his bloody nails, spluttered; “If the doctors can maintain some firmness in this haemorrhaging corpse she’ll soon be able to release another album, and maybe start
Cheryl ‘The Count of Monte Fisto’ Cole had big, big hair which allowed her to conceal inside clumps of dandruff, spit and, at times, Ricardo Carvalho. Her career as a singer performing on stage with a number of freeform body parts (otherwise known as ‘Girls Aloud’), was short-lived and sweaty, like a sexy Buddhist koan.
Cashley delivered a bombshell at the height of Chezza’s career, while he was sniffing around a girl nicknamed ‘12’. The England international admitted that ‘12’ had, “an ass that transports me somewhere new, not to mention a trembling half-smile.”
After learning of Cashley’s infidelity, Cole was papped with a speck of moisture in her eye and immediately became the most famous woman in the UK. Cheryl was one of the few openly racist celebrities allowed on TV - alongside Ron Atkinson, Alistair Stewart off of ITV news, Sir Patrick Moore, Hindus and Ron Atkinson.
Cheryl ‘The Gas Chamber’ Cole originally earned a frighteningly abusive record
contract from a pre-climaxing Simon Cowell and, soon after, became a judge on the
frighteningly abusive show The X-factor, run by a post-climaxing Simon Cowell. At
this sad time Cowell is quoted as saying: “She has rotting claw-like hooves; I want
to wrap my molars around them.”
Inevitably, Cheryl ‘The Geordie Baby Snatcher’ Cole made a huge impact on The
X-Factor – reading feminist tracts and Socratic riddles while angling herself at the
camera to achieve the contractual obligation armpit-slip. Yes, she was on a family show that shamelessly used her femininity to mask contestants’ carpet-bombed howls and unprofitable tears. In fact, I can exclusively reveal that Simon Cowell often clutches chunks of cellulite from previous seasons’ rejected singers and slips them into Dannii Minogue’s purse. More pertinently, Cowell would also push his hands up Cheryl many times, only to discover an injured Salamon Kalou.
Cheryl ‘The Northern Queen of Hearts’ Cole’s post-life career earnings will now fund aspects of Newcastle’s sexual reticence. Her boobies are being moulded into drink dispensers and her pudenda will be replicated and used as the model for oxygen masks on Ryanair flights. Cheryl’s shoulders will be used as knee caps, her knee caps used as shoulder pads, her cerebral cortex diced into travel mints and her belly button will, unimaginatively, be used as casts for real buttons. Her mum said endearingly: “Oh dear lord, what have you done to my precious child!?” St. Gabriel’s church loiters tantalizingly close to Rockwell primary school in creamy North West London. This proximity has inspired the church to create a community speed-dating programme for the cheeky, knife-wielding seven to ten year olds who are taught nearby. The increasingly 'backed-up' church authorities believe the best way is to reach out to the hairless youth, pull an arm behind their back, unbutton their flies and deliver God's sermon.
Thomas Weengold is the pastor. He is a thin man with child-bearing hips, and today he ushers the skipping lonely hearts into the church with a beatific growl. A giant white banner flaps above his head that reads; “This is just between us, ok Johnny?”
The children are inserted one by one into the confessional where they discuss their hobbies and previous relationships. The youngsters queue with nervous excitement, reenacting the truffle shuffle and peeking under Jesus’ skirt. But after the speed-date they have an adult look in their eyes, as if they’ve seen the face of god and suddenly want to phone Childline.
Soon the day is over; the children are quiet and still. The nervous pastor phones the Pope, who puts his mind at ease by promoting him. I ask one child how he felt the day went. “God’s love comes in many forms, I understand that,” he told me. “But I thought there
would be, well …less mess.” I asked Weengold whether he thought the day had been a success. “Hmmm…” he mused, pointing at children who sat awkwardly on the hard pews, breathing heavily, their eyelids flickering. “Blessedly, they are at peace. And you can’t prove anything.”
They are at peace, that is true. Yet it felt unnecessary for Weengold to empty every coffin in the church, squeeze the children inside them, then wheel these death caskets out the grounds and down the hill towards Tesco. Truly, he moves in mysterious ways.