Britton’s got scandal

Oh no. Fern Britton’s five stone weight loss was medically assisted. Rather than ‘walking the dog and not eating too much’ (two feats of human endurance that apparently earned her the respect of housewives up and down the country), she needed a piece of silicone fitted over her stomach, helpfully amplifying the little voice inside her head telling her to ’stop fucking eating’.

It would’ve been less newsworthy than it already is, except Fern decided to be economical with the truth. She laughed at other surgically enhanced celebrities, scoffing at the idea she’d ever join their ranks. Until the News Of The World phoned her agent – and she had to come clean to the whole country.

Personally, I didn’t give a shit, but it was gratifying to read her confession. See, I have my own secret. I’ve recently become fixated on hearing little admissions of guilt. It’s all Gumtree’s fault. After realising it offered more than a list of crap flats that have already been bagsied by half the city, I happened upon the community Confessions section.

‘Confessions’ is a self-explanatory service. A corner of the web set aside for the anonymous seeking absolution. Like any dark and dingy parts of the internet, it doubles as a clubhouse for dirty old men imagining each other as nubile 15 year-old girls. But once you filter out the attention seeking and sexual fantasy role-play, it’s like rifling through Trisha’s bins and reading abandoned episode pitches.

From having sex with the wrong person (”last night I gave another man a blowjob”) and declarations of loathing (”John, I’m not attracted to you. Also, you have terrible breath. That’s all, you evil bastard”) to a young musician’s innate hatred for The Beatles (”everyone in my band bums them, if they found out how I felt they’d probably kick me out”) and others who have missed the point a bit (”why can’t any fit girls come into my shop? All I get is fat single mums”), it’s all there to be pored over.

I love it. Like watching more episodes of Big Brother than you know you should (anything past the first night), it’s hard not to let voyeuristic sensibilities take over. And there are even a few useful lessons to be learnt from all the rampant debauchery. One man’s self-abasing account of ‘Spidermanning’ spidermanning his girlfriend is another’s triumphant how-to guide on contemporary bedroom etiquette.

Watching these people unload their guilt, there’s a sort of vicarious catharsis. Reading about lying for sex (”Is it wrong that I’m pretending to be really interested in this girl?”) break-ups, or strained friendships (”My bastard friend came round today and all he did was play GTA4. I feel used”), a lot of the time, in one way or another, you can identify with the sentiment. Something you’ve wanted to say yourself but never got off your chest because it was unpopular, socially unacceptable or plain morally reprehensible.

It’s convinced me to ‘fess up more often. So here are a couple of things I regretfully left unspoken over the weekend (the ones I can say without anonymity, anyway.)

- I’m not bothered England haven’t made Euro 2008. In fact, the combination of suicide-inducing football, rubbish media coverage and proudly stereotypical ‘Little Ingerlunder’ support is making following the national team an unnecessary pain in the ballsack.
- The Stone Roses’ first album is vastly overrated. I’ve never been able to listen to it without skipping most of the middle section and going straight from Waterfall to Made Of Stone
- I fucking love redheads.

There.

Feel free to step into the confession booth, take a deep breath and add on below. You’ll feel better afterwards, trust me. Don’t worry about the three Hail Marys.

RICHARD GILZENE