This woman irritates the crap out of me. When I turn on the telly and she’s there, she makes me gnash my teeth and start ranting.

For a start, she’s got this rubbery gob that she manages to manipulate like Play Dough. (In a bad way boys, so no getting funny ideas and letting your minds wander while you’re reading my blog, ok). She gurns and grimaces through the autocue while she peddles her second rate, Butlins-esque brand of presenting. She makes Lesley Ash look thin-lipped in comparison.

She’s currently pissing me off even more than usual because she’s co-presenting Strictly Come Dancing with that geriatric bore, Bruce Forsyth. I can’t believe they’re still wheeling him out. The pair of them together are insufferable, but I continue to tune in when I’m in the house of a Saturday evening (which isn’t that often, party people), because I like the prancing. It’s entertaining, unlike Ms Daly who would do better as the back end of a pantomime horse.

All that hammy fist punching, kissing Forsyth’s arse and attempts at ‘dead serious’ interviewing of the contestants does my frickin’ head in. She is inane and vacuous and makes me irreversibly cranky.

And have you seen some of the atrocities she’s been wearing lately? I ask you. At what point do you think, ‘Hmmm, should probably start flicking the light switch to ‘on’ when I get dressed.’ Who the fuck is advising her? And are they on some monumental piss take? Take this weekend just gone, for example. Floor length royal blue taffeta, the shape of which was clearly modelled on those cut-and-shut Cindy dolls that have been made into toilet roll covers by your Aunty Maureen. It was cinched in at the waist with a random gold belt that was not only mismatched, but looked like the kind of tat you find in a Primark bargain bin. Then the crowning glory was the asymetrical sleeve arrangements. One was down to her elbow, and t’other one was a scrappy bit of off the shoulder idiocy.

Fuck knows what was on her feet. I couldn’t see past the horror of bouffant blue, which all things considered is probably a very good thing.

She’s an assault on the eyes and I’m going to write to the BBC wardrobe department to complain. Is this what my licence fee is going on? Tess Daly’s dressing up box? I can’t take it any longer and neither can my blood pressure.

There’s only one thing that could push me over the edge: a guest presenting slot with Vernon Kay.

Arrrrrgggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.