Mr Blobby

This pink and yellow abomination represents the slime-ridden crud on the bottom of the comedy barrel that even Stephen K. Amos refuses to scrabble at with his desperate fingernails.

Seemingly conceived in five minutes by a blind man with rudimentary sketching skills after a night down the pub, the brightness of Blobby’s poorly-made costume was in stark contrast to British comedy’s darkest hour. Anyone with even half a comedy brain should look upon this pitiful creature with disdain and I can only hope the people that have sweated into his pink polyeurethane shell over the years hang their collective heads in shame, or better still, kill themselves for their contribution.


During a ten-year reign, Blobby made The Wombles look like fucking Newsnight. The hideous creation of bearded Crinkly-Bottom dweller and all-round twat Noel Edmonds, he amounted to nothing more than a squealing pink ogre who basically assaulted people, with crashingly unhilarious consequences. The unexpecting retards who were knocked floorwards however, considered these attacks to be side-splitting, having been chosen wisely based on their tabloid readership and quality of tattoos. This was countered succinctly by Jonathan Ross at the British Comedy Awards who, when Mr Blobby bounded onstage to inexplicably present a gong, said “I don’t care who you are in that suit. If you come anywhere near me, I will deck you.” echoing the thoughts of that percentage of the population who didn’t watch Noel’s House Party, eat Micro Chips for tea and wear tracksuit trousers with slip-on shoes.