Not that the sexuality of Mr Martin himself bothers me much, either one way or the other. Apparently he made a record in the 1990s, which I suppose entitles him to be a celebrity along with Mr Blobby and Aqua. Whatever happened to Aqua? Sorry, that's beside the point. The point being that, if Mr Martin has now decided to let everyone know what everyone knew already, then that's fine by me.
What happened was, I was driving down to the Builders' Merchants with Edith Weston, who was after a new nail-gun. Then one second after Nicky Campbell announced the world-shattering news on Radio 5, Edith screamed. I'm only glad that the windscreen is toughened glass, but I nearly drove straight into a car coming the other way.
What a sad journey it was after that. I had to enlighten Edith on George Michael, Elton John and particularly Julian Clary, for whom she's always had a soft spot. All her teenage dreams shattered. And tell her that Kermit's not a real frog. And Harry the Bigfoot doesn't live with the Hendersons. And ET never went home.
And I'd be grateful if someone could confirm that the picture above is indeed Ricky Martin, as I've no idea what he looks like. On this occasion, in Wikipedia I trust.
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