I’m not too interested in space. Well, not the stars and the moon but every now and then my husband has Prof Cox on the telly and I sit there not paying attention.
I see his name all over Twitter, full of love for the guy, some intellectual waify heartthrob and the object of many a crush. Folks seem to love him.
But I can’t watch the guy with his…long….draw…out…sentences, delivered with the charisma of William Hague and a meek voice, like a northern Michael Jackson, his tight tee-shirts extenuating his manly mammaries, the whisps of silver threaded through his brown haired curtains, that were in fashion at the same time as his pop career and his arty poses in the haze of a mountain mist.
His intelligence and the content of his sermons, I don’t doubt and I’m sure he is a likeable, super clever fellow but his enthusiasm and passion remind me of a born again Christian preaching to convert. He would be the perfect cult leader… Brian Cox and the Children of the Stars.
I can see if now, his followers all chanting ‘Fooking brilliant’ in a soft Mark Owen like voice, as D:Ream – Things Will Only Get Better plays euphorically in the background. Professor Brian standing at the pulpit in his Chinos, reminding his flock how they are all made up of star dust.