Cilla Black DEAD (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter That One
- Start date
- Featured
TiShh
Back on the horse
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
Hard Rock Ag-elujah
User
- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2009
- Messages
- 236,127
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
Ha-lucy-nation
ICH BALLER-ER-ER
10 years ago today.
C’est la 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
Ha-lucy-nation
ICH BALLER-ER-ER
jyxz
User
Ha-lucy-nation
ICH BALLER-ER-ER
Suedehead
SAW YOUR FACE AND MINE
I LOVE YOU MISS DIONE WARWICK
Suedehead
SAW YOUR FACE AND MINE
I mean let’s face it this is already more iconic than Cilla’s entire existence
Ha-lucy-nation
ICH BALLER-ER-ER
Well there you are.
Ha-lucy-nation
ICH BALLER-ER-ER
Isn’t he an adulterer and has been?
jyxz
User
More of a never was
Hard Rock Ag-elujah
User
- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2009
- Messages
- 236,127
Well he's a knob as well.
Ig Komme
Like beautiful robots dancing alone
Hard Rock Ag-elujah
User
- Pronouns
- He/Him
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2009
- Messages
- 236,127
Still Dead: A Sociological and Humour Analysis of the Moopy "Cilla Black DEAD" Thread
In the shadowy corners of online subculture, a thread on the Moopy forum titled "Cilla Black DEAD" has evolved from a reaction to celebrity death into a sprawling digital monument to irreverence, community ritual, and anti-fandom. Running since 2015, the thread’s timeline reveals an obsessive, performatively cruel, yet strangely cohesive narrative around a woman who, by all conventional standards, was a beloved British entertainer. Sociologically, this thread is a rich text for understanding humour, memory, identity, and the darker impulses of online collectivity.
Anti-Fandom and Ritualised Disdain
The first and most apparent feature of the thread is its status as a piece of anti-fandom. Unlike traditional fan spaces that celebrate or mourn celebrities, the Moopy thread inverts those impulses. The users are not simply indifferent to Cilla Black—they are ritualistically hostile. Phrases like “REST IN PIGSHIT” or the repeated use of “STILL DEAD” function less as isolated insults and more as recurring mantras, shaping a shared performative space where the object of disdain becomes a form of group glue.
Anti-fandom is not a new concept. It involves sustained engagement with a cultural figure through critique, mockery, or hatred. But the Moopy thread is distinct in how it sustains this disdain long after the celebrity’s death. This long tail of commentary suggests a deeper cultural role: the thread doesn’t just express dislike; it constructs an alternative legacy. One where memory is not reverent but creatively malicious.
Camp, Queerness, and Bitchy Bonding
The tone of the thread is unmistakably camp—exaggerated, sardonic, and theatrical. This style of humour is deeply rooted in queer culture. Camp allows for mockery without malice, celebration through sarcasm, and reverence through ridicule. Cilla Black, with her oversized teeth, Scouse accent, and dramatic career shifts, becomes the perfect camp archetype. She is simultaneously too much and not enough, a star too ordinary to be glamorous but too famous to be ignored.
Moopy itself has a long-standing queer userbase, and the humour deployed is recognisably part of a tradition of queer online discourse: shade as bonding, irony as intimacy, and shared jokes as cultural currency. Users compete to outdo each other in absurdity, creating a community through collective cruelty. The thread operates like a drag performance in text—mocking, theatrical, excessive.
Regionalism and Class Anxiety
Cilla Black was proudly Liverpudlian, and the thread frequently references her accent, regional identity, and the transformation from working-class roots to a more posh lifestyle. This tension becomes a site for coded commentary on British class mobility. Remarks about her voice, her holidays, her “Mersey-to-Mayfair” trajectory, all hint at unresolved cultural anxieties about authenticity, aspiration, and betrayal.
In this way, the thread does not merely attack a woman—it dissects a symbol. Cilla stands in for an entire generation of entertainers who navigated post-war class transformation, only to be seen (by some) as sell-outs or relics. The hostility is not just personal but political, shaped by Britain’s longstanding class consciousness and regional rivalries.
Mourning as Rebellion: Posthumous Satire
Death, in most societies, is a moment for reverence and silence. The Moopy thread deliberately violates this social expectation. In doing so, it becomes a site of rebellion. By refusing to mourn Cilla Black “properly,” users are resisting the sanitisation of public memory. They push back against the idea that fame warrants eternal respect. Instead, they create a space where memory is unstable, contested, and often grotesque.
This approach is uncomfortable, even offensive—but it’s also revealing. Who gets to decide how we remember public figures? Why are some deaths sacred while others become punchlines? The Moopy thread exposes these tensions, using humour as a scalpel to cut through the politeness of official mourning.
Digital Mythmaking and Communal Stability
The remarkable longevity of the thread points to a deeper function: it is no longer just about Cilla Black. It is about the community that continues to revisit her death, to laugh again at the same jokes, and to find comfort in the absurd predictability of it all. “STILL DEAD” is not just funny—it’s grounding. It becomes a touchstone in an otherwise chaotic digital world.
In this way, the thread becomes a microcosm of internet culture itself: a strange, self-sustaining organism built from memes, memories, and mischief. It is a digital monument—not to Cilla Black, but to the strange power of online community to transform grief into ritual, disdain into connection, and mockery into myth.
Conclusion: Cruelty, Creativity, and Collective Catharsis
Is the Moopy "Cilla Black DEAD" thread funny? Yes—if you appreciate black comedy, camp, and ironic cruelty. Is it smart? Undoubtedly, in its use of satire, referentiality, and community cohesion. Is it interesting? It is sociologically invaluable.
It reveals how online spaces turn celebrity into folklore, how humour can serve as both dagger and balm, and how communities bind themselves together through the shared act of remembering—and ridiculing—the dead. Cilla Black may be gone, but in this bizarre corner of the internet, she lives on in infamy, laughter, and a thousand screaming capitals: STILL DEAD.
In the shadowy corners of online subculture, a thread on the Moopy forum titled "Cilla Black DEAD" has evolved from a reaction to celebrity death into a sprawling digital monument to irreverence, community ritual, and anti-fandom. Running since 2015, the thread’s timeline reveals an obsessive, performatively cruel, yet strangely cohesive narrative around a woman who, by all conventional standards, was a beloved British entertainer. Sociologically, this thread is a rich text for understanding humour, memory, identity, and the darker impulses of online collectivity.
Anti-Fandom and Ritualised Disdain
The first and most apparent feature of the thread is its status as a piece of anti-fandom. Unlike traditional fan spaces that celebrate or mourn celebrities, the Moopy thread inverts those impulses. The users are not simply indifferent to Cilla Black—they are ritualistically hostile. Phrases like “REST IN PIGSHIT” or the repeated use of “STILL DEAD” function less as isolated insults and more as recurring mantras, shaping a shared performative space where the object of disdain becomes a form of group glue.
Anti-fandom is not a new concept. It involves sustained engagement with a cultural figure through critique, mockery, or hatred. But the Moopy thread is distinct in how it sustains this disdain long after the celebrity’s death. This long tail of commentary suggests a deeper cultural role: the thread doesn’t just express dislike; it constructs an alternative legacy. One where memory is not reverent but creatively malicious.
Camp, Queerness, and Bitchy Bonding
The tone of the thread is unmistakably camp—exaggerated, sardonic, and theatrical. This style of humour is deeply rooted in queer culture. Camp allows for mockery without malice, celebration through sarcasm, and reverence through ridicule. Cilla Black, with her oversized teeth, Scouse accent, and dramatic career shifts, becomes the perfect camp archetype. She is simultaneously too much and not enough, a star too ordinary to be glamorous but too famous to be ignored.
Moopy itself has a long-standing queer userbase, and the humour deployed is recognisably part of a tradition of queer online discourse: shade as bonding, irony as intimacy, and shared jokes as cultural currency. Users compete to outdo each other in absurdity, creating a community through collective cruelty. The thread operates like a drag performance in text—mocking, theatrical, excessive.
Regionalism and Class Anxiety
Cilla Black was proudly Liverpudlian, and the thread frequently references her accent, regional identity, and the transformation from working-class roots to a more posh lifestyle. This tension becomes a site for coded commentary on British class mobility. Remarks about her voice, her holidays, her “Mersey-to-Mayfair” trajectory, all hint at unresolved cultural anxieties about authenticity, aspiration, and betrayal.
In this way, the thread does not merely attack a woman—it dissects a symbol. Cilla stands in for an entire generation of entertainers who navigated post-war class transformation, only to be seen (by some) as sell-outs or relics. The hostility is not just personal but political, shaped by Britain’s longstanding class consciousness and regional rivalries.
Mourning as Rebellion: Posthumous Satire
Death, in most societies, is a moment for reverence and silence. The Moopy thread deliberately violates this social expectation. In doing so, it becomes a site of rebellion. By refusing to mourn Cilla Black “properly,” users are resisting the sanitisation of public memory. They push back against the idea that fame warrants eternal respect. Instead, they create a space where memory is unstable, contested, and often grotesque.
This approach is uncomfortable, even offensive—but it’s also revealing. Who gets to decide how we remember public figures? Why are some deaths sacred while others become punchlines? The Moopy thread exposes these tensions, using humour as a scalpel to cut through the politeness of official mourning.
Digital Mythmaking and Communal Stability
The remarkable longevity of the thread points to a deeper function: it is no longer just about Cilla Black. It is about the community that continues to revisit her death, to laugh again at the same jokes, and to find comfort in the absurd predictability of it all. “STILL DEAD” is not just funny—it’s grounding. It becomes a touchstone in an otherwise chaotic digital world.
In this way, the thread becomes a microcosm of internet culture itself: a strange, self-sustaining organism built from memes, memories, and mischief. It is a digital monument—not to Cilla Black, but to the strange power of online community to transform grief into ritual, disdain into connection, and mockery into myth.
Conclusion: Cruelty, Creativity, and Collective Catharsis
Is the Moopy "Cilla Black DEAD" thread funny? Yes—if you appreciate black comedy, camp, and ironic cruelty. Is it smart? Undoubtedly, in its use of satire, referentiality, and community cohesion. Is it interesting? It is sociologically invaluable.
It reveals how online spaces turn celebrity into folklore, how humour can serve as both dagger and balm, and how communities bind themselves together through the shared act of remembering—and ridiculing—the dead. Cilla Black may be gone, but in this bizarre corner of the internet, she lives on in infamy, laughter, and a thousand screaming capitals: STILL DEAD.
jyxz
User
She was not ‘proudly Liverpudlian’. She was a professional scouser when it suited. And a Tory.
