Cilla Black DEAD (3 Viewers)
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Tisch
Serving singing
We've got AI for that!
Once upon a time in the bustling streets of Liverpool, there was a rumor that Cilla Black, the beloved singer and TV personality, had a hidden side—a side that only a few unlucky souls ever saw.
It all started one chilly autumn day when Cilla decided to visit a local bakery famous for its toffee pudding. The owner, Mrs. Wiggins, was thrilled to see her. She hurriedly wrapped up the most decadent pudding in the shop, eager to please the star.
"Here you go, Miss Black," Mrs. Wiggins said with a nervous smile, handing over the package. "It’s on the house. A little gift for you."
Cilla looked down at the pudding, her eyes narrowing. She poked it with her finger, then looked up with a scowl. "This is supposed to be famous?" she snapped. "It looks like something the cat dragged in!"
Mrs. Wiggins, taken aback, stammered, "I—I’m sorry if it’s not to your liking, Miss Black. I can make you a fresh one."
But Cilla wasn’t having it. She leaned in close to the counter and whispered, "If you want to make something of yourself, you better learn to make a proper pudding. This rubbish won’t do."
With that, she turned on her heel and strutted out of the bakery, leaving poor Mrs. Wiggins on the verge of tears. Word of the incident spread quickly through the town. People couldn’t believe it—Cilla Black, the nation's sweetheart, had a mean streak!
The story of Cilla’s toffee pudding tirade grew over time. Some said she demanded her tea be served at precisely 85 degrees Celsius, or she’d walk out of a cafe. Others claimed she once told a florist that their roses were "as droopy as a rainy Tuesday."
But, as with all rumors, there was a twist. A few weeks after the bakery incident, Cilla returned to Mrs. Wiggins' shop. This time, she brought along a basket of her own homemade toffee pudding.
"I’ve been thinking," Cilla said with a mischievous grin. "Maybe I was a bit harsh last time. How about we try this pudding together and see who’s is better?"
Mrs. Wiggins, still flustered but curious, agreed. They sat down, tasted both puddings, and laughed over the whole ordeal. As it turned out, Cilla wasn’t mean—just a bit too honest for her own good. From that day on, Cilla and Mrs. Wiggins became fast friends, and the story of Cilla Black being mean faded into the realm of urban legend.
Or did it?
It all started one chilly autumn day when Cilla decided to visit a local bakery famous for its toffee pudding. The owner, Mrs. Wiggins, was thrilled to see her. She hurriedly wrapped up the most decadent pudding in the shop, eager to please the star.
"Here you go, Miss Black," Mrs. Wiggins said with a nervous smile, handing over the package. "It’s on the house. A little gift for you."
Cilla looked down at the pudding, her eyes narrowing. She poked it with her finger, then looked up with a scowl. "This is supposed to be famous?" she snapped. "It looks like something the cat dragged in!"
Mrs. Wiggins, taken aback, stammered, "I—I’m sorry if it’s not to your liking, Miss Black. I can make you a fresh one."
But Cilla wasn’t having it. She leaned in close to the counter and whispered, "If you want to make something of yourself, you better learn to make a proper pudding. This rubbish won’t do."
With that, she turned on her heel and strutted out of the bakery, leaving poor Mrs. Wiggins on the verge of tears. Word of the incident spread quickly through the town. People couldn’t believe it—Cilla Black, the nation's sweetheart, had a mean streak!
The story of Cilla’s toffee pudding tirade grew over time. Some said she demanded her tea be served at precisely 85 degrees Celsius, or she’d walk out of a cafe. Others claimed she once told a florist that their roses were "as droopy as a rainy Tuesday."
But, as with all rumors, there was a twist. A few weeks after the bakery incident, Cilla returned to Mrs. Wiggins' shop. This time, she brought along a basket of her own homemade toffee pudding.
"I’ve been thinking," Cilla said with a mischievous grin. "Maybe I was a bit harsh last time. How about we try this pudding together and see who’s is better?"
Mrs. Wiggins, still flustered but curious, agreed. They sat down, tasted both puddings, and laughed over the whole ordeal. As it turned out, Cilla wasn’t mean—just a bit too honest for her own good. From that day on, Cilla and Mrs. Wiggins became fast friends, and the story of Cilla Black being mean faded into the realm of urban legend.
Or did it?
jyxz
User
I didn’t appreciate the way that turned out
jyxz
User
I was also expecting it to feature an OXO cube
AGinAg (38)
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A.I basically relays the truth
In the vibrant city of Liverpool, Cilla Black was a household name. Known for her television charm and golden voice, she was adored by millions across the UK. To the public, she was the epitome of warmth and friendliness, the girl-next-door who made it big. But those who encountered her in everyday life often discovered a much different side to the star.
One chilly autumn afternoon, Cilla was out shopping in one of the upscale boutiques in the city centre. The shop was bustling with customers, many of whom recognised her instantly. Some whispered excitedly to each other, hoping to get a closer look at the famous singer and television host.
A middle-aged woman, Mrs. Thompson, who had watched Cilla on TV for years, plucked up the courage to approach her. She had always admired Cilla’s down-to-earth image and thought she might say a quick hello.
“Excuse me, Miss Black,” Mrs. Thompson began nervously, “I just wanted to say how much I enjoy your shows. You’ve been such a big part of my Saturday nights for years.”
Cilla looked up from the rack of designer clothes she was browsing. Her expression was anything but friendly. “Do I know you?” she snapped.
Mrs. Thompson, taken aback, stammered, “N-no, I’m just a fan. I—”
“Well, if I don’t know you, then why are you talking to me?” Cilla interrupted, her voice dripping with disdain. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. You people need to learn to mind your own business.”
The woman flushed with embarrassment, quickly muttering an apology before retreating to the back of the store. A few other shoppers, who had been considering approaching Cilla, thought better of it and turned away.
Not far from the shop, Cilla’s next encounter awaited. As she left the boutique, a young man named David, who was a busker in the city centre, saw her walking by. He had always been a fan of her music and thought she might appreciate hearing one of her own songs played in tribute. With a smile, he began strumming the familiar chords of *Anyone Who Had a Heart*.
Cilla stopped, and for a moment, David thought she might be pleased. Instead, she marched over to him, her face thunderous.
“Do you have a licence to perform here?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the air.
David, slightly startled, replied, “Well, no, but I—”
“Then pack it in, lad,” Cilla barked. “The last thing I need is some amateur butchering my songs on the street. You’re lucky I don’t report you!”
David’s smile faded as he watched her walk away, leaving him to pack up his guitar in humiliated silence. Passers-by, who had been enjoying the music, were left in stunned silence at Cilla’s harsh words.
Later that day, Cilla decided to stop by a local café for a quick cup of tea. The small establishment was cosy and filled with the chatter of afternoon patrons. A young waitress, barely out of school, recognised Cilla the moment she walked in. She hurried over with a menu and a bright smile.
“Good afternoon, Miss Black! It’s such an honour to have you here. Can I get you anything to drink?”
Cilla didn’t look up from her phone. “Tea. And make sure it’s hot. Not like the dishwater you lot usually serve.”
The waitress, eager to please, nodded and rushed to the kitchen. When she returned with the tea, she placed it gently on the table. Cilla took a sip and immediately grimaced.
“Is this what you call tea?” she spat, pushing the cup away. “It’s disgusting. Can’t you do anything right?”
The young waitress turned crimson, fumbling with the cup as she apologised profusely. Cilla waved her off with a dismissive hand, not even bothering to acknowledge her further.
Word of Cilla’s behaviour began to spread. The fans who had once adored her now spoke in hushed tones about the way she treated ordinary people. They shared stories of being snubbed, belittled, and insulted by the woman they had once admired.
Cilla continued to bask in her fame, oblivious to the growing resentment. She appeared on television, smiling and laughing as always, but the sparkle in her public image began to dim. People no longer saw the lovable star they had once cherished; instead, they saw a woman who had forgotten where she came from, a woman who believed she was above the very people who had supported her career.
As time went on, the invitations to events became fewer, and the roles on television grew scarcer. The public, once enamoured with Cilla Black, gradually turned
In the vibrant city of Liverpool, Cilla Black was a household name. Known for her television charm and golden voice, she was adored by millions across the UK. To the public, she was the epitome of warmth and friendliness, the girl-next-door who made it big. But those who encountered her in everyday life often discovered a much different side to the star.
One chilly autumn afternoon, Cilla was out shopping in one of the upscale boutiques in the city centre. The shop was bustling with customers, many of whom recognised her instantly. Some whispered excitedly to each other, hoping to get a closer look at the famous singer and television host.
A middle-aged woman, Mrs. Thompson, who had watched Cilla on TV for years, plucked up the courage to approach her. She had always admired Cilla’s down-to-earth image and thought she might say a quick hello.
“Excuse me, Miss Black,” Mrs. Thompson began nervously, “I just wanted to say how much I enjoy your shows. You’ve been such a big part of my Saturday nights for years.”
Cilla looked up from the rack of designer clothes she was browsing. Her expression was anything but friendly. “Do I know you?” she snapped.
Mrs. Thompson, taken aback, stammered, “N-no, I’m just a fan. I—”
“Well, if I don’t know you, then why are you talking to me?” Cilla interrupted, her voice dripping with disdain. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. You people need to learn to mind your own business.”
The woman flushed with embarrassment, quickly muttering an apology before retreating to the back of the store. A few other shoppers, who had been considering approaching Cilla, thought better of it and turned away.
Not far from the shop, Cilla’s next encounter awaited. As she left the boutique, a young man named David, who was a busker in the city centre, saw her walking by. He had always been a fan of her music and thought she might appreciate hearing one of her own songs played in tribute. With a smile, he began strumming the familiar chords of *Anyone Who Had a Heart*.
Cilla stopped, and for a moment, David thought she might be pleased. Instead, she marched over to him, her face thunderous.
“Do you have a licence to perform here?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the air.
David, slightly startled, replied, “Well, no, but I—”
“Then pack it in, lad,” Cilla barked. “The last thing I need is some amateur butchering my songs on the street. You’re lucky I don’t report you!”
David’s smile faded as he watched her walk away, leaving him to pack up his guitar in humiliated silence. Passers-by, who had been enjoying the music, were left in stunned silence at Cilla’s harsh words.
Later that day, Cilla decided to stop by a local café for a quick cup of tea. The small establishment was cosy and filled with the chatter of afternoon patrons. A young waitress, barely out of school, recognised Cilla the moment she walked in. She hurried over with a menu and a bright smile.
“Good afternoon, Miss Black! It’s such an honour to have you here. Can I get you anything to drink?”
Cilla didn’t look up from her phone. “Tea. And make sure it’s hot. Not like the dishwater you lot usually serve.”
The waitress, eager to please, nodded and rushed to the kitchen. When she returned with the tea, she placed it gently on the table. Cilla took a sip and immediately grimaced.
“Is this what you call tea?” she spat, pushing the cup away. “It’s disgusting. Can’t you do anything right?”
The young waitress turned crimson, fumbling with the cup as she apologised profusely. Cilla waved her off with a dismissive hand, not even bothering to acknowledge her further.
Word of Cilla’s behaviour began to spread. The fans who had once adored her now spoke in hushed tones about the way she treated ordinary people. They shared stories of being snubbed, belittled, and insulted by the woman they had once admired.
Cilla continued to bask in her fame, oblivious to the growing resentment. She appeared on television, smiling and laughing as always, but the sparkle in her public image began to dim. People no longer saw the lovable star they had once cherished; instead, they saw a woman who had forgotten where she came from, a woman who believed she was above the very people who had supported her career.
As time went on, the invitations to events became fewer, and the roles on television grew scarcer. The public, once enamoured with Cilla Black, gradually turned
VoR
Take it or leave it
Every time I open this thread I crease that this was the immediate response to the breaking news of her passing
