Dead Pool 2011

We're almost a couple of months into the new year, and the dust has well settled on my New Year's eve trivial pursuit and bollinger-sponsored ushering in of 2011. A new year gives one the chance to take stock, to re-appraise, to set one's priorities for the year ahead. These are very personal, specific, but above all, dull tasks to report, and hence it's my dead pool that you really want to hear about, don't you?

For the uninitiated, this is a marvellous parlour game for all the family. It's not exactly fast-paced, bearing in mind that you'll have to wait 365 days to find out who's won. But it's free, and you really do get out what you put in. Those who approach the game with a casual air of picking names out of a hat will rarely succeed, but those who spend hours engaged in careful research will find themselves richly rewarded.

So here's how you play. Decide how many names you're going to pick (everyone picks the same, and I'd suggest 8 for starters). This is the number of celebrities you are going to have to gamble that will die in the next year. You can pick them by order, and then you receive 8 points (on a sliding scale down to 1 point) for your number one choice. There's no rules that apply re: celebrity ages and health conditions, but you should be aware that though no points are awarded for flair picks, the sense of satisfaction one gains when a real gamble pays off can't be underestimated (think of the 15 year old Schoolboy Ben who picked out Freddie Mercury back in 1991, or those more up to date gamblers who went for Brittney Murphy a couple of years back).

I've posted my choices on twitter already, but this is my final selection. In case you feel that I've boobed by missing out a couple of obvious ones, I've refused to pick the following people:

Zsa Zsa Gabor: as much of a gimme as you can get; in fact, I'm not sure that she hasn't croaked already. She seems to be losing limbs at a rate of knots, and she'll have turned into some kind of OAP version of 'boxing Helena' well before the year is out. She's the dead pool equivalent of the 1 yard open-goal tap in, and hence is not one to be celebrated.

Fidel Castro, Nelson Mandela, Kim Jong-Il: they may well all already be dead. Even if they are, or if they pop off during 2011, we'll never know about it, and as they get lowered into the ground, we'll still be assured that it's nothing more than a cold, and that it's a mere percautionary measure.

The list:

1. Bruce Forsyth: rapidly becoming a liability, even on saturday night snooze-fest strictly, and makes Paddy McGuinness look like a master of the auto-cue. Undoubtedly a trooper, but looks to be on borrowed time.

2. Kerry Katona: the 'I've got my life back on track' mantra isn't fooling me. You're still doing ads for Iceland, and you're only one batch of dodgy showbiz sherbert away from me being quids in.

3. Bob Dylan: this is more about gut-instinct. Health scares, limited output for the last few years and he must be getting on more than a bit. Still sings like he's listening to one of his own songs on an ipod, but that's not a reason to put him on the list on its own.

4. Gregg Wallace: sad to report this one, as no-one licks chocolate mousse from a spoon quite like Gregg. Have you seen him lately on Masterchef though? He looks like a barrow-boy who's eaten all his produce, and the barrow too. He's gaining weight in a hurry, and looks to be out like Atkins.

5. Terry Christian: can't believe he's still in work, but he also looks like a skeleton these days. Reminds me of the chap from the Stereo MCs.

6. Daphne Fowler: you know, the old one (oldest one?) from eggheads. Bit of a cheap pick, but can't see her getting through the winter.

7. Margaret Thatcher: she almost made it into my Castro etc list, though I suspect there'll be a few street parties when she heads up to the great trade union in the sky. Shame to see her go, but when you're too ill to have a cup of horlicks at your own party, the next 12 months look a very long way away.

8. James Corden: I'm not sure that being fat and a shamelessly un-funny England footballer suck-up qualifies our James to be a victim of the grim reaper at any time in the next 300 days or so, but wouldn't it be great? Wouldn't it?

So there you have mine. Who's in yours?