News Week: Wimbledon, Live Earth, 21/7, La Beckhams And Bin Laden
MONDAY
HOORAY for Murray (J)!!
A “BRIT WINS WIMBLEDON,” said the front of Monday’s Mirror. (Pic: Beau Bo D’Or)
Hooray. Our plan to have Roger Federer repatriated worked. Well, down Roger. The golden cup is yours, so too the “Federer Facilities” portable male and female conveniences by mighty Henman Hill. (Pic: Beau Bo D’Or)
But this good news was accompanied by more good news that Murray (J) had taken top spot in the mixed doubles.
Partnered by migrant worker Jelena Jankovic (Serb), 21-year-old Jamie Murray said: “It was destiny.”
A good Monday not just for we Britishers but for the world, too. People from Congo to Bolivia and aboard private jets rejoiced to the news that the world had been saved.
Madonna had successfully coerced every “motherfucker” to watch their telly, buy her album and save the planet. Madonna was a forced of sustainable and renewable energy (she’s in her 40s) creating no little static in her skin tight Spandex suit as she dry humped a stereo and proved that wind and so much hot air can power an entire stadium.
“If you want to save the planet, let me see you jump,” said Madonna. So we jumped and over in Greenland the vibration caused a lump of ice to works itself loose. There was a mudslide in Bolivia. The Wembley groundsman winced. This was joined-up geography. No-one was safe from climate change.
TUESDAY
On Tuesday the world became that bit safer still when four refugees were guilty of trying to bomb the London Underground and the No. 26 bus.
Muktar Said Ibrahim, Ramzi Mohammed, Yassin Omar and Hussain Osman wanted to kill and maim indiscriminately. They failed because Ibrahim made one error in producing the hydrogen peroxide explosives.
“MORON TERROR,” said the Sun. The words a comment on Ibrahim, the ringleader. He was a “dunce”. He was “simple-minded”. He was “buck-toothed”. “CHEMICAL WALLY,” said the Mirror.
The picture showed Ibrahim to be overweight, dull of eye and unable to breathe with his mouth closed. If he wasn’t an Islamist he’d be drinking alcopops in the precinct and moving his lips as he read the Daily Star in the park. He was the one who made the bombs that failed.
WEDNESDAY
But there can be peace, a coming together. On Wednesday we celebrated the news that Jane Felix-Browne, 51, a five-time married mother of three, had married Omar Osama Bin Laden, son to Osama bin Laden, harbinger of death. What she wore – something borrowed, something, blue up (sic) – was not reported. And the wedding video has yet to be revealed in grainy footage on Al Jazeera. We saw only love.
“Cheshire housewife marries Bin Laden,” announced the Sun’s front-page headline.
How long before the world’s most wanted man joined the Cheshire set, dressed in Ugg boots, drove an immaculate 4×4 and hung out with footballers?
“You should see that Bin Laden,” the neighbours will say. “He’s got the new 900 Jihad convertible in tope. He knows the Nevilles.”
More religious ceremony in Northern Ireland. On the eve of the Battle of the Boyne, at which the Protestant King William of Orange defeated the Catholic King James, locals on the Ballycraig estate set a beacon alight, possibly with a flaming Vauxhall Nova.
Twice the height of nearby houses, this toxic cake of wooden pallets interlaced with rubber tyres dominated the skyline. On its top sat an Irish tricolour, ready to burn.
Hard line Islamists could only look on in envy – while they burn the Union Jack with handheld lighters and matches, Northern Ireland’s loyalists construct a towering inferno and cover it in petrol.
THURSDAY
It’s all for Her Majesty the Queen. Regal and grand she sits before Annie Leibovitz, American snapper of renown.
Queen Liz was dressed in “full Royal regalia”, not her pastel two-piece with matching hat and pistol holster, rather the trappings of the Order of The Garter.
Leibovitz considered the ensemble. “I think it will look better without the crown because the garter robe is so…”
The American never finished. Her words were not punctuated by the thud as her severed head hit the carpet. Nothing so light.
Her Majesty is no fool. “ANNIE HORRIBILIS,” said the Mirror. She would be aware of the snapper’s work and realise that where the crown goes the cape, blouse and bra are likely to follow. Before too long, Liz will be naked and curled up on Philip’s lap, or naked with her outfit reapplied in emulsion paint.
She flounces out. Or not. As the BBC, which filmed this seminal moment, said, it was all a mistake and Her Majesty had not thrown a hissy fit. The footage of her mobbing was of her coming not going.
FRIDAY
Not going like David Beckham and his fragrant wife. They were off to Los Angeles.
Reborn in the USA, David Beckham was telling the world that he had come to bring football to the masses, a soccer missionary to deliver the light of goalless draws, jumpers for goalposts and a new kits retailing at $49.99 to the non believers.
“Go Dave!” yelled the British hacks massed in sunny LA. “We lurve, you Day-vid,” they chimed as one. “We love you for getting us out of watching Wigan reserves take on Melton Mowbray FC in pre-season jog about. Hallelujah!”
And Dave smiled. He read his autocue. He paraded his three sons into the rosy-fingered dawn, the boys identically dressed in red-and-white striped tops, beige shorts and shaved heads. “Soccer it to ’em, Becks!” said the Mirror’s front-page headline.
And here was Rebecca Loos to see him off. She taken off her bra and was waving it above her head.
“There are plenty of gorgeous girls in LA,” said Loos, “I don’t know whether he’s going to be a good boy.”
And Ms Loos is going to LA. She spends one week a year there. What if Loos should happen upon Dave? “I don’t know what I’d say if I bumped into the Beckhams,” said she. “But I’m sure Victoria would talk to me.”
After all, Loos and Posh are kindred spirits. She told us that “he is the only one to blame. He knew what he was doing when he seduced me… It was all down to him.”
David Beckham scores and gets the assist(ant). Who says you can’t have it all? Not David Beckham. Go Dave! And don’t turn around lest you lock eyes with Rebecca’s naked chest. So long, Golden Balls.
What ho, Murray. New balls please…
Posted: 15th, July 2007 | In: Tabloids Comment | TrackBack | Permalink
