Peter Andre Haunts My Dreams
When insomnia drives you insania.
I’ve not often suffered insomnia. I may have casually bandied the word around here and there when I haven’t had my standard ten hours, but for the most part sleep is something I’ve always thrown myself into pretty enthusiastically and with few difficulties. That’s why I was so surprised to find myself wide awake at 4am this morning, for some reason recounting the time Peter Andre coined the term ‘Insania’ on I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. Thirteen years ago.
“It’s like a cross between insane and mania,” he spent the day telling everyone, in case they didn’t understand how a clumsily conceived portmanteau worked. And there’s a chance they might not have. It was I’m a Celebrity’, after all.
To this day I can see the expression on his face. The unbridled delight in his own genius. It was a similar expression, I assume, to that worn by Einstein when the light bulb came on and he discovered relativity. Or Edison, when the light bulb came on and he discovered the light bulb. He was so very pleased with himself, like an infant who just understood it was responsible for its own deification — and then went on to release it as a single.
This, of course, was the same heady season that Pete met Jordan. A great time for him and his resurging career. But that doesn’t explain why, of all the myriad subjects and important cultural and historic moments to choose from, my grey matter had deemed this the most worthy of dissection in the middle of the night. Why am I being haunted by 90s pop stars at such an ungodly hour, like the central character of the world’s shittest Dickens adaptation? What will happen next? Will I start thinking about how Lee Ryan used to tweet about badgers a bit too much? Apparently, yes. Apparently I will think about that today.
This is the third night in a row I’ve had difficulty sleeping, and my mind has begun to enter a sort of Safe Mode where, although technically working, it’s refusing to commit to any real heavy-lifting — more just trundling along with bits of pop trivia and questions I don’t have the answers to: ‘Why are they called musketeers if they mostly used swords?’ it’ll wonder, irritatingly. ‘Is this a good joke about the Chuckle Brothers? There’s a third Chuckle Brother. I remember reading their official website once and it said they were “literally born in a suitcase”. Hope that’s not true,’ it goes on.
“God I wish I was asleep…HANNAH FROM NEIGHBOURS IS A JOURNALIST NOW.”
This lack of rest is taking its toll, too. I’m not functioning well. Yesterday a man asked me for directions, and my response was so confusing and breathless that he stopped me half way through with a “you know what, I think we’ll be fine.” And today I overslept, which resulted in me opening the door to our electrician in my boxers. ‘This is probably how people accidentally get into porn,’ I thought. But even if that was my calling, I’d be far too tired.
So what is the remedy for this condition? How do you trick your body and mind into sleeping? What I need is to force it into submission. Perhaps with something so cringe-inducingly awkward that my being will just opt to shut down altogether and allow me some rest. Something slightly more humiliating than the most embarrassing events of my own life, which seem to have become rather par for the course.
On that note, here’s a video in which Peter Andre tirelessly explains the complex etymology of ‘insania’ before doing a Doctor Evil impression and being called “non-threatening” by a female journalist reaching for a compliment.