One dark and bitter winter’s night on All Hallows Eve many moons ago, in a desolate graveyard where only the mutilated corpses of thieves and beggars were laid to rest, came a faint murmuring from a tombstone dating back to the 443 AD.
A tiny crack appeared in the frozen soil, which quickly branched into several cracks until, like a mole, a withered hand emerged from beneath.
Clawing at the snowy ground the hand was followed by an arm, a shoulder, another hand and finally, a face so startling it would turn Medusa to stone.
With a manic glint in its eye the figure stared up at the full moon and yowled a piercing yowl before sprinting off into the darkness.
The very next day Dave, the graveyard caretaker, popped in to check everything was in good nick. Engrossed by the plight of a robin redbreast wrestling a squirrel for an acorn, Dave failed to see the gaping chasm where the corpse once lay and, tripping over the piles of soil that remained, fell in with a gargantuan thud, creating a mudslide so dense it buried him alive.
Poor Dave. No one ever discovered the evil that occurred that fateful day because the rotting corpse, whose grave it was, had witnessed the entire event.
Spying this too-good-to miss opportunity, the corpse hopped aboard the 121 bus and nipped down to the high street. There she begged together enough pennies to purchase a khaki boiler suit and a pair of steel-toe-cap Doctor Martens, which has always been the bog-standard dress code of graveyard caretakers, even in 443 AD.
Wearing the outfit later that day, the corpse ran from the graveyard and hurtled herself off a nearby cliff. Several eyewitness accounts reported the body of Dave smashing against the rocks below, before being engulfed by a Tsunami sized wave and carried out to sea.
Journalists had a field day, interviewing colleagues, acquaintances and his wife, Gillian, all of who said: “He was a simple sort who kept himself to himself. “
This made for a pretty boring story and the newspapers instead wrote about a turnip farm, which had just opened up down the road. And so Dave became a distant memory before he was even cold in the corpse’s grave.
For years and years the corpse lived a feral life, eating the brains of various wild animals as well as the odd poodle, which had escaped from its owner. It was about 1,576 years later, which seems nothing to the average dead person, that the boredom of such a low standard of living drove her near stir crazy. Craving human company, a plot formed in her decayed mind.
We’ve all seen, reader, the magazine articles encouraging people to starve themselves to gravely malnourished yet “In Vogue” proportions. And the zombie was no different. Flicking through these magazines had helped her realise that she had “the look to die for”, quite literally, and that this would most certainly allow her to create an army of followers so large she would be able blend into the crowd – no questions asked. At last she would be able to move into a house, maybe get a cat, and go to such social events as Tupperware parties, Pilates and knit and natter sessions down her local W.I.
The possibilities were endless!
And so, naming herself after Dave’s wife, Gillian McKeith soon became a teatime sensation. People settled down with their microwave ready meals to observe the faeces of the morbidly obese being scrutinised and all but nuts and cabbage seized from their homes.
That friends, is the long sought after proof that Gillian, as we know her today, is in fact a zombie. With the death-span of Adolf Hitler, Elvis Presley, Henry VIII, James Corden (we can but dream), and countless others put together, she is something of a medical phenomenon.
Now that we know the truth Miss Mckeith must be captured immediately before she devours the brains of her little-heard-of jungle dwelling comrades, leaving incoherent Stacey Solomon to be crowned Queen.
