A Night Hoff The (Scrabble) Tiles

“I SPOKE to Tom Cruise when I was axed…he helped me,” said David Beckham on the Mirror’s front page last Monday.

The former England captain has yet to appear on daytime TV, jumping on Richard & Judy’s couch and screaming: “I’m in love! I’m in love!” He has also yet to feel a need for speed, or Scientology.

But Dave had leaned much from Tom. “He talked about everything I had done in the World Cup, about the goals I scored and the goals I set up,” said Dave.

“He said I was a great player, that I played for Real Madrid, I’ve got a healthy family and three boys and a wife who love me to bits.”

With his career as an actor in turmoil, perhaps Tom is carving out a niche as a therapist – “Throw down your antidepressants and call 0800 TOM. A free adult dummy for the first 100 callers!”

But Tom was not the only thing helping Dave get over his demotion from the England football team.

What would Dave be without Victoria? She is the Paul Burrell to Dave’s Princess Diana. As Dave said: “Victoria has been my rock”. And in case we were still unsure, Dave repeated himself: “Like I said, she’s been my rock.”

And on Tuesday, Dave told us that he loved his rock. The Mirror listened in as Becks was interviewed by Radio 1 DJ Chris Moyles. And there were revelations aplenty.

“I think women look great when they play football,” said Becks. “Victoria looks great in my kit.”

Moyles pressed the point. “If she turns up for breakfast in bed wearing one of your shirts it must drive you crazy.”

Beckham replied: “It doesn’t get any better than that.”

Psychologists will surely deliberate over what it is about seeing his wife dressed up like him or one of his team-mates that gets Beckham excited. Others will wonder what Posh eats for breakfast in bed. Speculation will be rife.

But not everyone can be as lucky as Dave and Vicky. Sometimes the husband strays. And on Wednesday we returned to the story everyone was excitedly calling “Chris Tarrant’s affair with a blonde woman”.

Before wronged wife Ingrid Tarrant can collect a large cheque from the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? host – the Mail said she was in line for £10m in any divorce; the Sun suggested £17.5m – she addressed the crowd.

Ingrid told us of Chris’s “infidelity”, which she had known about for “several months”.

“I was shocked at the discovery, but I successfully disguised my shattered heart,” said Ingrid. She said she has “maintained a dignified silence”. But: “Unfortunately Chris drew unwelcome attention by behaving indiscreetly in a wine bar.”

It was all so civilised. Even the wine bar smacked of something sterile. This was essentially a middle-class affair. Dirty underwear would not be aired in public – although it’s debatable that the knickerless women of Surrey have any.

There was more news of turbulent celebrity love on Thursday. Anorak’s Ed Barrett told us that cockney hard man Guy Ritchie was getting more grief from his Yankee trouble-and-strife.

Ritchie was refusing to play Scrabble with the missus because she was “too competitive”.

“Madonna doesn’t like losing at anything,” a source told the Sun. “The atmosphere was so intense and she was such a sore loser that he told her he wouldn’t play her again. Even Tiddlywinks could start World War III.”

We knew how she felt. Ed remembered the days when the young Guy would work the pubs of the East End as a Scrabble shark, hustling punters for a game of “Margaret” (Margaret Drabble – Scrabble).

Inevitably an argument would ensue over the spelling of “geyser” or some such, and before long Guy would pull out his shooter and say that things were getting “too Tokyo Hyatt” (rhyming slang: quiet and meditative – competitive).

And then we heard a sound. Hark! What was it? Why, it was David Hasselhoff loosening up his vocal chords. The Hoff was making ready to bring to bring the house down – as he had once brought down the Berlin Wall.

As the Mail reported, The Hoff had written a musical. It’ was called…David Hasselhoff: The Musical.

Said the Hoff: “I am also doing a heart-rending set on my life and the mistakes I have made. It sounds like a bad joke, but it is really going to be a good show.”

We didn’t doubt it. If there is one thing to be relied upon in life, it is that The Hoff will make us laugh…

Posted: 23rd, September 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

The Pope Must Die

“THE Pope must die.”

It’s the title of the new film playing in the Daily Mail.

The Pope (played by Mel Gibson, who wasn’t in the Hitler Youth) will take on the Muslim world, led by Anjem Chouhdray (Alan Rickman).

It’s a sure-fire hit. And given that Pope loves a sequel – we are currently on Benedict XVI – it promises to be the first instalment of a film franchise that will endure until some Iranian leader with chronic short man syndrome blows up the planet. It might even outlast Bond.

That for later. For now, the paper starts filming outside Westminster Abbey in London. Choudary is standing before a gang of “Muslim hardliners”.

Some hold aloft placards “TRINITY OF EVIL: WESTERN CRUSADE AGAINT ISLAM”; “Pope go to hell”; “GOLF SALE”. Others look they are expecting a sudden change in the weather, wearing scarves swaddled around their faces and sunglasses (thus introducing the film’s global warming subplot).

Choudary addresses the crowd. “Whoever insults the message of Mohammed is going to be subject to capital punishment.”

Is he going to kill the Pope? “I am here have a peaceful demonstration. But there may be people in Italy or other parts of the world who would carry that out.”

And over in those other parts of the world, the Mail sees a nun shot dead in Somalia and churches attacked in the West Bank and Gaza.

Meanwhile, over in the Vatican, the Pope apologises for any offence caused and blames it on a moment of madness.

“The Holy Father is very sorry that some passages of his speech may have appeared offensive to Muslims and were interpreted in a way he hadn’t intended them to be,” says Vatican Secretary of State Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone (Harvey Keitel).

A spokesman for Scotland Yard (Helen Mirren) says the protest in London involved around 100 people and “passed off peacefully”.

And at home an audience wonders if the story will live up to the hype…

Posted: 18th, September 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Celebrity Sharking

THE week began on September 11, 2006. There could be only one story. “TARRANT & THE BIMBOS,” announced the Mirror on its front page.

Chris, 59, and married, was said to have got off with a unnamed women in a Surrey bar. After the alleged kiss, Chris was reported to have yelled: “This is the woman I want to be the next Mrs Tarrant!”

Chris had been in the R Bar is Esher, Surrey, known locally as “Divorce Central”. And Chris’s wife Ingrid knew it well: “I’ve been there when completely drunk women throw themselves at him. They lift their skirts up and have no knickers on. It’s disgusting.”

Some of you will think it foolish of Ingrid to allow her husband to return to a bar packed with Surrey’s finest slappers. But she had nothing to fear – Ingrid and Chris’s relationship was as solid as the bull-bars on an Esher woman’s pristine 4×4, if not her knickers?

In any case, Ingrid knew there was CCTV footage of the event, which exonerated her husband.

Just as there was footage of another incident – the death of Steve Irwin. As the Star’s front-page headline said: “CROC HUNTER DEATH FILM ON WEB.”

Branded an “EXCLUSIVE”, the paper said that thousands of sickos and weirdos – and some intrepid hacks in the pursuit of a chilling story – had been scouring the web for footage of Steve’s last moments.

But then we read that this was not the real footage. The Star’s shock-horror story was based on spoof videos of Steve swimming with a stingray.

There was a film of puppets re-enacting Steve’s last moments. The sick and twisted movie was backed by the theme tune to the 1960s TV show Stingray.

Another video turned out to be a game in which Steve’s widow Terri was given the opportunity to shoot murderous stingrays.

This was no joke. The web is a sink of vice and perversion. And it cannot be long until surfers get a peek at Lindsay Lohan’s “full details”.

On Wednesday, for reasons of decency, the Sun covered up the bared area in its up-skirt shot of Lindsay (in London to promote her work and much else), exiting a car in a manner unbefitting a young lady.

Lindsay grinned. But she might not be smiling so broadly were she to ever appear on The Sharon Osbourne Show. That’s the daytime telly programme fronted by – you’ve guessed it – Sha-ron Os-bourne.

As the Mail reported, Sharon’s Pomeranian dog Minnie, the pooing pampered creature that sits on her lap during the show – the dog that drinks Evian and gets its teeth whitened by a Beverly Hills pet dentist – had been attacking the guests.

Minnie had bitten Dirty Dancing star Patrick Swayze and nipped David Hasselhoff on the face and hand.

Luckily, Sharon’s show rarely if ever concerns itself with showbiz’s elite. And it is as unlikely Sharon will be featuring someone from the A list. Someone like George Clooney.

And on Friday, we learned that George Clooney had entered the world of politics – and not local politics, like Clint Eastwood, but world politics.

If Ronald Reagan could do it, why not Clooney? And Reagan had once been out-acted by a monkey. Clooney was a TV doctor. We trust doctors.

Clooney (isn’t he dreamy) said Darfur would become the scene of the "first genocide of the 21st century" if (deep brown eyes) peacekeepers were not sent to Sudan by the end of the month.

George wanted action. And with his presence, Darfur was certainly in the news again.

But it might not be enough. George might need to do more – like have a baby in the country, and do for Sudan what Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt have done for Namibia?

We wish him the best luck with it. And if he wins the day, why not stop there? Why not go all the way to the White House.

President George Clooney ER (Elected Representative). Yes, it sounds pretty good. And with George in the top job, the world could have an American President to truly admire.

Posted: 16th, September 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Bakri To The Front

IT looked promising.

Abu Abdullah, 42, had taken over from jailed Abu Hamza as head of the Supporters of Shariah focus group.

Abu’s credentials to be the new face of extreme Islam in the UK were strong.

This new Muslim fundamentalist was called Abu, maintaining a neat link with the past. He had a strange black beard, that was more chin strap than Edward Teach. And he said outrageous things – he called the 7/7 bombers “my honourable brothers in Islam”. He said: “If I had the means to go back there [Afghanistan] and kill an American or British soldier I would love to do so.”

But now Abu is under arrest, taken away on suspicion of involvement in terrorist recruiting. He and 13 others were arrested in a police swoop earlier in the month.

It looked good, but it might now come to nought. If Abu is jailed then who will be the lunatic, gurning face of Islamic extremism?

Where are the nutters when you need them? We only need one. Even the Sun can’t find one. So it looks to the past. And we see that Omar Bakri is back.

The original “mad mullah”, the “Tottenham Taliban”, is in the Sun telling us how “happy” he is that 14 British servicemen died in an aircraft accident.

From his new home in Lebanon, Bakri rants: “After those 14 brothers had been arrested, Allah allowed us to have 14 kuffars killed in Afghanistan.” He goes on: “Allah has his own soldiers and I was so happy. I was just thinking Allah.”

Good old, Omar. When the chips are down and nutters are thin on the ground, you can always bank on this loon to spout some nonsense.

It’s just a shame that the Sun has to search the internet for his thoughts, and can no longer just doorstep him or give him a call.

Posted: 11th, September 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Oliver’s Cooks Army

MONDAY and it was back to school.

After the thrills of summer, children were returning to the classroom. There they went, showing off their new Prada schoolbags packed with the latest electronic aids to learning.

Keen to display their fake bake tans and wow their friends with tales of what they got up to as they holidayed in exotic Heathrow Airport, they skipped from mum’s 4×4 to the school gates.

And standing at the gates to welcome them with a “Wotcha kidz” was Jamie.

Ten thousand school cooks are to be trained to, well, cook. But Education Secretary Alan Johnson, who is masterminding the scheme, cannot do it alone.

As a source close to Mr Johnson said: “One of the first things he did when he got the job was to pick up the phone to Jamie to throw some ideas around.”

And that was not Jamie Redknapp, Jamie Lee Curtis or Jamie Foxx. It was Jamie Oliver, the celebrity known above all else for his cooking. And there he was.

On Tuesday, as the playground was abuzz with talk of Steve ‘The Crocodile Hunter’ Irwin’s death, we half expected Jamie to pop up and tell us how nutritious croc burgers were.

As the Dianafication of Steve went on, the grief groupies breaking from their a weepin’ and a wailin’ to talk of State funerals, statues and porcelain figurines of the greatest Australian since Skippy, Jamie popped up again.

Jamie had a dream. “My dream is for our children to be able to cook THEIR children a lovely roast,” said Jamie, “not out of a box, but out of a butcher’s with fresh veggies and spuds.”

It was a noble aim. But we wondered how it fitted in with Jamie’s professional life as the celebrity face of a supermarket, purveyors of readymade meals.

Like Sainsbury’s Pork Somerset Brandy and Apples (with dextrose and xanthan gum), Sainsbury’s Steak & Kidney Casserole (with palm fat, dextrin and hydrogenated vegetable oil) and Sainsbury’s Just Cook Chicken Topped With Sausage & Bacon (with sodium metabisulphite, sodium ascorbate and tri-Phosphate).

Jamie was dreaming all right. The rest of us were just staring. Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes were posing with their daughter Suri.

Yes! Suri! Some say she was pictured from the front because she has just two-dimensions. Some say if you look into her eyes for too long your brains boil and you start dreaming in Medieval Dutch.

Tom, the baby’s Earth father, said: “She has Katie’s lips and eyes. I think she looks like Katie.” Katie, Suri’s Earth mother, countered: “I think she has Tom’s eyes, I think she looks like Tom.”

Might it be that Suri can change her appearance, altering her eyes to look like the person who gazes upon her? Is she a changeling? A protean. An alien?

Of course not. And before we could get too deeply involved, and fearful, we were slapped back into reality by Jamie’s fearsome tongue. “Jamie has stopped dreaming. He was now keeping it real.

Jamie told us he was “f***ing bored with being polite”. The world is in a terrible state. The time for action is now.

“Now is the time to say ‘if you’re giving your young children fizzy drinks, you’re an a*******, you’re a tosser’,” said Jamie.

He went on: “If you aren’t cooking them a hot meal, sort it out.” Right-on, Jamie.

And: “I’ve seen kids of the ages of four and five, the same as mine, open their lunchbox and inside is a cold, half-eaten McDonald’s, multiple packets of crisps and a can of Red Bull,” says Jamie. Too right, Jamie.

“You laugh and then you want to cry.” You do. You really do, Jamie.

“I’m sure that parent loves that child but if the kid comes home and says, ‘Mummy, I’m tired’ and the parent thinks, ‘Red Bull gives you wings’, you might as well give them a line of coke.”

Damn right, Jamie. Give the nippers a line of coke. Or an entire can of the stuff…

Posted: 10th, September 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Coffee Table Music

IN a cryptic move worthy of his hero Bob Dylan, David Gray has devised a stage set that will have his fans’ heads wobblng in bafflement.

David will deliver an ironic rebuke to critics who have described his records as "coffee table music", by performing on a stage at Glastonbury in a set resembling a giant coffee table.

And he will climb onto the giant table by using – yes, you’ve guessed it – a giant white ladder. David’s breakthrough album was named after a lyric about a "white ladder all covered in water" from Dylan’s "A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall".

Don’t be surprised if Old Wobbly Head orders the heavens to open – and succeeds.

Posted: 1st, September 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

The Revolution Will Be Televised

IT was a week of the best and the worst of British television.

For we Brits, TV may be all dire soap operas (BBC), tatty celebrity vehicles (ITV) and American imports (Channel 4), but for American viewers it is something else. For them British television is period costume and cheap shoes.

The Sun brought news of the Emmy’s, the “US telly ‘Oscars’”. This was the American TV industry’s AGM.

And Dame Helen Mirren – our Dame Helen – was collecting a Best Actress In a Mini Series or Movie gong for her performance in Elizabeth I.

America might make all the funniest comedies, the most entertaining soaps and great innovative news shows, but when it comes to dressing in period costume and reliving history, we British rule the airwaves.

And here was Dame Helen to accept her award. “My biggest triumph is not falling arse over tit,” said she. “If you saw the shoes I had on you’d understand.”

Good on her. Not only did Dame Helen not fall over in her $49.99 Hollywood Boulevard stripper’s shoes, but she scored a palpable hit by lacing her speech with a quintessentially British phrase. Aspiring British actors should note that Dame Helen said “arse” and not the Americanised “ass”. Bravo!

Helen tottered off. And it was time for Jeremy Irons to collect his Best Supporting Actor in a Mini Series for his role as the Earl of Leicester in Elizabeth I (more period costumes and lusty thigh slapping).

The Mail looked on as Jeremy (shoes unseen) said: “I don’t watch television – it destroys my reading time.” Bravo!

While Helen performed her role as game British gel with aplomb, Jeremy was the classic snotty British male.

And, of course, Jeremy was wrong. You can still read and watch British telly. And here was Sharon Osbourne reading on the box, introducing her new daytime chat show.

“What’s smooth, hot and so long it makes women wince just to hear in the inch measurement?” asked the demented-Pixie-voiced professional mum.

Clue: it was not Sharon’s script. So it must have been “Penny Lancaster’s legs”. Correct. And Penny’s legs duly arrived, bringing with them the rest of Penny.

Sharon could do a lot worse than get Russell Brand, the gauche presenter of Big Brother spin-off shows, to write her bits to camera. Who knows’ she might even get more action that way.

We learned that Russell had bedded crusty rocker Courtney Love. “He was delicious,” said Courtney of the night she and Russell spent together in London’s Claridge’s hotel. Courtney said she gave Russell a cravat as a “love token. “He certainly earned it with his performance,” she added.

This was no slur. For many of us, having our lover hand us a cravat after making love would be an insult, a snide inference that we are blessed with all the sexual know how of a member of the Morris Minor owners’ club, Bromsgrove chapter.

But to Russell this was praise. The man who dresses like a demented fop is probably delighted with his rag.

And he may have earned more neckerchiefs after romping with three girls after his Edinburgh Fringe show. One 18-year-old groupie, who said she did not sleep with 31-year-old Russell (she’s called Nadine and her mum might be reading), said the telly star seduced his fans with the line: “We have maters to discuss.”

Sharon Osbourne should try it. It might just stop her dying on camera.

But it’s too late for President George Bush. He is already dead.

“FURY AS DUBYA ‘ASSASSINATED’ BY C4,” announced the front page of the Mirror.

And there surely was much upset. Not since Noel Edmonds was offed by the BBC had a British broadcaster cancelled a world figure.

But the pictures did not lie. “BUSH WHACKED,” said the bigger headline. “President Bush staggers after being ‘gunned’ down by an assassin,” ran the caption beneath a shot of a suited President staggering.

“I am appalled and shocked,” said Mitchell Reiss, the UN special envoy to Northern Ireland in the Mirror. “It sounds obscene. What on earth is the justification for television like this?”

That’s right. The murder of President Bush was part of a Channel 4 drama. It was a film about how Bush will be murdered in 2007 after flying to Chicago. Bush will be killed, and his Syrian murderer put on trial.

Pete Dale, head of More4, the Channel 4 cable station which will screen the 90-minute movie, said it was a “thought-provoking critique” of contemporary US society. Lest we think it was cheap sensationalism, Dale told us it was a “sophisticated piece of work”.

Indeed. It was not real. It was art. “It’s a film. Just ignore it,” said the Mirror’s TV critic Jim Shelley. “The publicity is exactly what the film-makers want… Nothing will change. No one will die.”

Won’t they? The Mirror’s front page said, “There are even fears it could lead to a real-life assassination. John Beye of TV watchdog MediaWatch said the film “may well put ideas into people’s heads”.

“If something happens as a consequence of this film, the blood will be on their hands,” he continued, referring to the TV executives who have backed the show.

This was, of course, utter bunkum. A deluded American with dreams of fame needs little encouragement to fire a gun at their president. And a Syrian killer might well just get Hezbollah do the job for them and then blame the thing on an Israeli conspiracy. Or on Tony Blair. The film has him on trial for war crimes.

The revolution will be televised…

Posted: 1st, September 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

It’s In The Bag

THE special souvenir edition had been planned.

Each copy of Monday’s Star was to come with a free syringe-shaped kazoo on which readers could play “Here Comes The Bride” and the theme tune from Disney’s Beauty & The Beast. Angela Lansbury would weep.

But things did not go to plan. The Star said Kate Moss and Pete Doherty were to get married over the weekend in a “spiritual ceremony on the beach” in Bali.

The only thing missing was the groom. He’d been ordered by the Beak to check into The Priory clinic for the tired and emotional celebrity.

Meanwhile Kate was in Bali. And the Mail had a shot of her “visage dotted with spots” as she left a local club. She was “sweaty and spotty” in the Mirror. She had a “haunted appearance”. She was “tired, sweaty – and with a crop of pimples” in the Sun. The Express said her “anguish” was visible to all.

It could have been so different. If only Pete had not gone into rehab, Kate could have looked spotty, tired and haunted in the company of her true love. And he could have looked the same; the lovers together – mind, body and complexion as one.

Tuesday brought more news of crazy love. Kola Boof, who claimed to have been Osama bin Laden’s mistress in the 1990s, has written a book called ‘I’ve Been Laid-en’, or something, and in it she told us about life with the world’s most wanted man.

“In his briefcase, I’d come across photos of the star, as well as copies of soft-porn magazines,” she wrote. It all sounded very normal. As with most Western men, Osama’s briefcase contained pornography and, possibly, an egg and cress sandwich, a pair of Marks & Spencer black woollen socks and a picture of Whitney Houston.

Kola said Osama was besotted with Whitney. “He said he had a paramount desire for Whitney, and, although he claimed music was evil, he spoke of one day spending vast amounts of money to go to America and try to arrange a meeting with the superstar,” said Kola.

And there was worse. Kola said Osama told her Whitney had been “brainwashed” by American culture and by her husband. The chilling news was that Osama had talked about killing Bobby Brown.

And do not doubt that he knew how. Kola said Osama was prone to “ramble on” about his favourite TV shows – The Wonder Years, Miami Vice and MacGyver.

So if you’re reading this Bobby Brown – and we hope to God you are – look out for a bearded fundamentalist dressed in a pastel pink jacket with rolled up sleeves, driving a fortified Ferrari Daytona Spyder and muttering about “Winnie” and death to all.
And on the subject of driving, Wednesday brought news of Caprice, the mo-del. She had been arrested for drink driving and was appearing in Highbury Magistrates court, London.

PC Paul Flashman was addressing the court. “I could see a white female of scrawny build with bare shoulders in her late 30s wearing heavy make-up and she had a reddened spot on the right centre of her cheek,” said he. Yer honour.

Of course what he meant to say was that at 3:45am on December 10 2005 he had reason to pull over a flawless beauty with to-die-for blonde tresses and skin made of a lustre not seen since the days of Aphrodite in her pomp. Yer honour.

Caprice was banned from driving for 12 months on Friday. She should have taken a taxi. Like Victoria Beckham, who on Thursday was seen spilling out onto a London pavement.

She had a new look. Very soon everybody will be doing it. As soon as Victoria Beckham used her handbag as a hat, we knew we were witnessing the birth of a trend.

Of course not everyone can carry the look off, and for every successful bag-hat adopter, there will be many failures.

Coleen McLoughlin may seek to get the look at Asda, for whom she works, but we warn her that supermarket bags are fashioned from plastic and liable to cause suffocation if worn on the head.

Wise would be the Wags and women who study the picture of Posh wearing her bag (made from breathable leather and diamante) as she made her exit from a London casino.

Posh was celebrating a pal’s birthday and was the worse for wear. And she was without her wedding ring. Was she hinting towards a possible split from husband Day-vid?

We hoped not. And if the Beckhams want to put the magic back in their love life, why, Vicky can always put a bag on her head. She’s done it before.

And on Friday we heard that her fashion sense has scored a show on American TV. They give us gangsta rap, Gap and Jerry Springer, we give them Victoria Beckham and the bag-hat. It’s a fair swap…

Paul Sorene

www.anorak.co.uk

Posted: 26th, August 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Keeping Up With The Blondes

IT was a lucky break. With an alleged plot to blow up ten airliners foiled, the Mirror reported that the “teenage girlfriend” of one of the suspects was blonde.

This meant her picture had to appear on the front of Monday’s paper (it did). It was a far more inviting proposition for readers tired to shots of swarthy, wire-haired men.

This blonde was called Faith Wall. She was just 17. And she said that when she heard Muslim convert Donald Stewart-Whyte had been arrested in connection with the alleged plot she “was shaking and crying. I kept saying ‘They must have made a mistake’.”

He had written her poems. The Mirror reproduced one. It went: “…Take life seriously/ And live well not die young as I will/ If I follow this path/ This lonely/ dark/ off-road path.”

It didn’t rhyme – Faith never said he was good at writing poems. But “he was very cheeky”. He was “very nice”. And “you felt you could trust him”. And that’s better than “Faith, your love is better than an eighth…of hash” – the Sun said Donald was once hooked on dope.

It was your usual tale of blonde meets drug-raddled brunette. Drug–raddled brunette lets down blonde. Blonde gets her picture in the papers. Drug-addled brunette helps the police with their enquiries. It was Pete Doherty and Kate Moss all over.

And on Monday we read that they were back together. As the Mail said (“I’m still hooked on Pete”), Pete and Kate were an item once more. And it may be a permanent reunion.

In “I’m with the band”, the Sun spotted a big silvery ring on Kate’s finger. This, it said, was an engagement ring. The band, and the Mail’s news that Kate had told newlywed friends “It’s going to be me next”, pointed to a wedding.

But Kate should not make plans just yet. On Tuesday, the Sun said Pete had lost his passport; the Star said it had expired when he had been in rehab. Whatever the reason, Pete needed a new one.

But in the race to get the paperwork completed in time, Pete had failed to read the rules and submitted photographs of himself in the incorrect mode.

A source who saw the pictures said: “Pete’s head was leaning forward. It looked like he was nodding off.”

This was clearly pickiness on the part of the border guards. Rather than lowering the rules Pete was raising the bar, producing photographs that not only showed his face but explained his character and general demeanour, too.

For his pictures, Pete could dress up in a tuxedo and sit with back erect, steely eyes staring straight ahead, but the snaps would fail to capture the essence of the person. They would be less than useless.

For instance, if Prince Harry had a passport – and maybe he does – the picture should do the lad justice. It should show him smoking something, quaffing some booze and shoving his hand onto a girl’s breast.

And he would be all the more popular for it. On Wednesday, the Sun claimed that “his popularity had sky-rocketed” and “he is now being hailed as the greatest playboy prince”. Furthermore, “Girls dream of a date while guys list Harry as the person they’d most like a beer with.”

A survey of the Anorak offices revealed a slightly different result. The “girls” put Harry below Tony Blair, Julian Barnes and Fred West on their list of dream dates, and he failed to make the “guys’” list of drinking companions at all.

Indeed, in interview with Ed Barrett, old Mr Anorak said he would rather be tied to a radiator and forced to drink Terry Waite’s urine. But no matter, we accepted that the Sun was more in tune with contemporary Britain than we were.

If the Sun said Harry was a playboy prince, then we would not argue. If the Sun said Paris Hilton was to star in a new TV show called America’s Cutest Pup (and it said just that on Thursday), we bowed to its esoteric knowledge of the American TV listings.

All we asked was that the star of the feature was blonde. But it was always so. And not just in the Sun. On Friday the A-level results were published and they were many shocks. Nine out of ten students FAILED to get an A grade!

This was awful. So to soften the blow the paper produced a comforting shot of a blonde girl celebrating being one of the worrying minority.

And, no, since you ask, she has never dated a terrorist suspect – at least we think not…

Posted: 19th, August 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment (1)

Jordan’s Hedgehog Horror Shame – 2008

JORDAN was last night relieved of her duties as a roving ambassador for the Spiny
Friends Hedgehog Hospital.

Since undergoing treatment for alcohol and fame addiction, the voluptuous model has thrown herself into her charity role. On this occasion, however, she threw herself too hard.

Jordan recently split from her latest boyfriend, Fisher Athletic goalkeeper Jason Pike, and sources in her favourite eatery, the Café Classique kebab house in Uxbridge, say that that they have seen her drunk and unsteady in recent weeks.

She seems to have been the worse for drink yesterday while opening a new hedgehog counselling centre – a project close to her heart, which helps hedgehogs overcome feelings of low esteem, often brought on alcohol and drug abuse.

After posing for pictures, Jordan became annoyed by photographers who jokingly asked her to fall over. Eventually she snapped and lunged at one of them – falling over in the process and squashing Henry, a six-year old hedgehog with a long-term eating disorder.

Henry was retrieved from the celebrity’s cleavage but was put down soon afterwards.

A tearful Jordan was seen leaving the sanctuary in a cab. A spokesman for Spiny Friends said that Jordan’s involvement with the hospital had reached the end of its natural life, and thanked her for her work.

Posted: 17th, August 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Carbs & Copy

ON Monday we saw that Victoria Beckham had removed her hair extensions.

These things can be heavy and without them Her Poshness looked lighter than ever.

There were rumours that if Vicky removed her sunglasses and lip gloss she would blow away. It’s not just her family that keep her grounded.

Vicky needed ballast. And husband Day-vid had just the thing. It was called food. And not just any food, but what the Mail called a “carbohydrate-laden diet”.

Since no-one who isn’t a celebrity or an American has a clue what a carbohydrate is, let alone how you pick one and cook it, we were awestruck and impressed.

But carbs it was. And carbs – don’tyerknow – are what Vicky needs to make babies. Vicky and Day-vid were trying for baby No. 4.

It has been reported that Vicky wants a girl and has been saving all her old clothes to give her offspring a fighting chance in life.

Vicky had best succeed in her mission or else young Romeo could well be seen about town in years to come dressed in a black bodice, silver Dolce and Gabbana greaves and stapled on hair.

But Vicky and Dayve usually get what they want so a girl is likely. And in years to come young Davtoria may well turn to her mother and say: “I see myself as a mini-mummy. I kind of have this image that anything you can do, I want to do better.”

That’s what Princess Beatrice was telling her mother Sarah Ferguson on Tuesday. It was a noble ambition. And we look out for Bea trumping her mother’s many notable achievements – getting her hair redder, her children’s helicopter to soar higher and her boyfriend’s toes to be longer and fuller to the suck.

And making her lemons more lemony. On Wednesday we got an insight into what carbs might be. The Star told us that to increase her chances of giving birth to a girl, Her Poshness was sucking on lemons.

And she might even be sucking on one when she meets Suri Holmes-Cruise. Victoria and David Beckham have been invited to gaze upon the girl child. But that is pretty much all.

The Star said that Tom Cruise has decreed that his guests observe a set of requests.

As the doctrine of Scientology says, parents are forbidden from “fawning” over their children or taking photographs of them during their first few months on planet Earth. And the rules extend to their relatives and guests.

As a source said: “David and Victoria are honoured that Tom and Katie have asked them along.” Indeed. The source continues: “Apparently they can’t take any photographic equipment, they’re banned from touching Suri and they’re not allowed to do any baby-talk around her.”

And: “It will be very difficult for Victoria, because she loves babies.” For sure. But Victoria must take care when she talks, especially to Day-vid, lest Suri become “mentally unstable”.

That would be terrible. Although mental upset can have as much to do with inherited traits as nurture. Although it’s nothing that carbs cannot cure…

Posted: 14th, August 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Wings Of Love -2008

TRIBUTES have been flooding in for Ollie “Mrs” Slocombe, regarded by many as the finest one-armed transvestite never to play rugby for England.

“He was without doubt the hardest one-armed tranny I ever came across in all my playing days,” said former England captain Bill Beaumont. “If it hadn’t been for his decision to go on the rebel tour to South Africa in the early 1980s, I’m sure he’d have got the call up he deserved.”

His former team-mate Peter Winterbottom, with whom Slocombe formed a devastating partnership in the Bath back line, was just as forthcoming. “I’ll never forget the time he single-handedly beat the All Blacks,” said he. “Literally.”

A service for Slocombe, who is also remembered as a gifted and committed all-rounder for the England ladies cricket X1, will be held at the Rugby Church, Twickenham, this coming Sunday.

Posted: 11th, August 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Wimbledon Abandoned 2008

HENMAN Hill was in shock yesterday, as history repeated itself – the second time as tragedy.

It all started perfectly, with the sun shining down on Tim Henman as he entered the Centre Court for his first ever Wimbledon final.

The Queen made her first public appearance of the year to be there for the great event.

For an hour everything went to plan, as Henman played the game of his life against Roger Federer to take the first two sets 6-3, 6-2, and establish a commanding 3-0 lead in the third.

Then disaster struck. With temperatures reaching the high nineties on centre court, a muffled moan was heard from the royal box, followed by what The Times describes as "a flurry of activity".

The seriousness of the situation was immediately apparent from the grave expressions on the faces of the All England Club officials.

The Queen’s favourite Corgi, Kirsti, died minutes later in an ambulance after suffering two heart attacks in quick succession.

The final was immediately abandoned as a mark of respect. It will not be replayed and the championship trophy will not be awarded this year.

The Mail – whose pages are bordered in black – reports that Henman is "devastated". "My thoughts go out to Her Majesty the Queen," he said. "She has lost her friend, and so has the nation."

When asked about the decision to abandon the final, he replied that an event of this nature "puts tennis in perspective".

Posted: 31st, July 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Heath Extension

I WANT your sex, Norman Kirtland. Norman was 58-years-old and had a pot belly.

On Monday the Sun had a picture of Norman standing on his local Brighton beach. And it told its readers that Norman was the man caught having a “seedy liaison” with George Michael on London’s Hampstead Heath.

For his “romp” with George, Norman wore shorts, T-shirt and rubbish trainers. The man described as a “gay dogger” went on to explain.

“I don’t even like George Michael’s music,” said Norman, although it was not thought George was singing at the time of their meeting in the bushes at 2am on a weeknight. “I’m not a fan. I prefer soul music myself. I never liked Wham! or any of his stuff.”

Any soul singers striding manfully across Hampstead Heath would be advised to look out. If Norman kisses and fondles (Mirror) a singer he does not like, the mind boggles at what he’d do to one he does.

On Tuesday it was hot…again. Evidence of global warming it might have been, but our advice to bosses looking round their empty offices was (pace Noel) to See (Climate) Change As A Good Thing.

And might environmental change have played a small part in George and Norman’s entanglement? It’s hard to look anything but shady when hiding in the bushes out of the reach of the merciless sun.

Not that George was looking to excuse himself. “I’ve got no issue with cruising,” he said on Wednesday. I’ve talked about it many times. So they have to make me look like the gay Wayne Rooney, don’t they?”

By cruising the singer meant to search the streets and other public places for a sexual partner. He did not mean the kind of cruising Wayne Rooney had been up to of late, namely getting sunburnt on a boat in the South of France.

Indeed, what Wayne had to do with George’s kiss and grope on Hampstead Heath with Norman Kirtland was a moot point. Perhaps in the course of their entanglement, George had planted his metatarsals in Norman’s groin. Perhaps Norman, described in the Star as “fat, balding, unemployed”, asked him to?

On Thursday we were looking at another star’s groin. David Hasselhoff was sat on cart at Heathrow Airport. He wore dark glasses, a shirt and a wet path on his crutch.

Had David, fresh from saving lives in the fountain below Nelson’s Column in London’s Trafalgar Square pulled on his jeans over his swimming trunks without first letting them dry?

Whatever the reason, Hoff, who had been seen drinking, was deemed unfit to fly. The lounge manager approached. “I don’t think you’re fit to fly, sir,” he said. The Hoff looked up. “I think you are right,” came the reply.

He was advised to sleep it off and board a later flight. But there will be Press photographers keen to examine his stain. “Why?” he asked. “I’m not a bad man. Kill them.”

We never did get to the bottom or, indeed, the wet front of The Hoff’s wet patch. But on Friday we were promised a look at what Harry Potter looks like naked.

News was that Daniel Radcliffe, who played the class swot in the Harry Potter films, was now 17 years old. That was shock enough, but there was more. He was to star in a stage play in which he will be seen “simulating a sex act while riding on a horse”.

There was a temptation to applaud Daniel’s versatility and agility. But his stagecraft was overshadowed by something else, something almost morbid.

Daniel was to star in Equus, in which he will play Alan Strang who enjoys an “erotic relationship with horses”.

Although not with George Michael. That would be too weird…

Posted: 30th, July 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Tony Blair & George Bush are Grrrr8!

“FORSOOTH! I eyed him narrowly…”

On Monday we read the opening line to Wayne Rooney’s autobiography. The Story So Far promised to show us the real Wayne.

Of course, Wayne is only 20 years of age, and as is the way with footballers, many more autobiographies are planned.

A footballer’s life moves on at great pace, and already this vital tome fails to take in Wayne’s recent holiday to St Tropez, his new T–shirt (with blue stripes!) and his use of the word “nugatory”.

But for the first time in public, Wayne was talking about his moment of madness with a woman trading under the name Auld Slapper.

“Yes, I had been to a brothel, a massage parlour, call it anything you like, when I was 16,” said Wayne. It was not long after he’d met Coleen McLoughlin. “I felt so ashamed that I’d let her down so much,” he added. He asks himself why he’d done such a “shameful thing”.

And he wondered how he can make things right. And if showering his lover with two engagement rings and assorted other gifts can heal the wound? The Star said Wayne told Coleen: “Spend, spend, spend!”

Can buying things for a loved one curry favour? We wondered when on Tuesday we read Tony Blair had bought a gift for his great mate George Bush.

There is a rather strange habit among the world’s foremost leaders of exchanging gifts at summits. And at the G8 get together in Moscow, Tony had bought George a blue sweater. Made by Burberry’s, there were fears that it would make the American leader look like a chav. But it was an unthreatening dark blue and George liked it.

After greeting Tony with a hearty and belittling “Yo Blair”, George thanked him for the top. “Thanks for [inaudible] it’s awfully thoughtful of you”. Tony looked pleased.

And while we listened to their exchange – off the record and on the open mic – we got hot. That’s because on Wednesday it was hot. We didn’t know how if happened but there it was.

The weather was hot. Perhaps it was evidence of global warming. We could not be sure. It might have had something to do with the thing ancient voices call “summer”, that mythical week in late July when the “sun” shines. But, as we say, we could not be sure.

The papers were excited and intrigued by his “heat”. The Telegraph told us that temperatures could reach 100 degrees Fahrenheit.

And the Guardian’s man with an air conditioning unit told us to “keep to the shady side of the street” and “keep a bottle of water with you at all times”.

It was important advice, rooted in years of journalistic endeavour and excellence.

But these days anyone can write and on Thursday we read that Richard Brunstrom, the so-called “mad-mullah of the traffic Taliban”, had become the UK’s first blogging chief constable.

Brunstrom, head of the police service in North Wales, had much to say. He wisely avoided talking about the weather, realizing, correctly, that he is not yet expect enough in that to take on the old press. Instead he stuck to writing about what he knew – nicking drivers.

Monday, July 17: “On Saturday I spent the day (should have been my day off, but my wife’s away, so I can sneak off to have some fun) out near the Wakestock Festival at Abersoch with our ANPR (Automatic Number Plate Recognition) team.

“We did a 12-hour stint on the A497 in the outskirts of Pwllheli, in baking sunshine. This part of Wales is one of the nicest places on the planet in good weather — shame it doesn’t happen more often! The camera read 5,891 number plates, from which we had 321 hits, resulting in us stopping 109 cars.”

It was gripping stuff, and showed that policemen, rather than being distant, remote and slavishly obeying orders, enjoyed nicking people. We admired him for his openness.

A policeman’s lot is not easy. What with all the arresting people, paper work and plodcasting, policing is busy, busy, busy.

Just look at Kellogg’s. On Friday, the Times said that the makers of breakfast cereals, Pop-Tarts and more, were asking all visitors logging onto their websites to provide personal details. Anyone younger than 16 needed to get parental approval to play some of the interactive games, receive messages and enter competitions. The food police were in operation.

The fear was that anyone less than 16 would at the click of a mouse button become obese, or even more obese than they already were.

A spokeswoman for Kellogg’s explained: “We are trying hard to ensure we have age restrictions on our sites, but we cannot regulate for what is happening in every household. That is a matter for parents.”

Indeed it was. And is. And we look forward to learning more about it in Tony the Tiger’s autobiography and blog…

Posted: 23rd, July 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Omar Bakri Is Back

HE’S back. And he might well have been on his way back to London had the Royal Navy allowed him to board one its warships and leave Lebanon.

As it is, Omar Bakri, the “mad mullah”, the “Tottenham Taliban”, the onetime driver of a green Ford Galaxy, the founder of the radical Islamic group Al-Muhajiroon and a “dole scrounger” is only back on the front page of the Sun.

Ever since Bakri left these shores for a better life in Lebanon the papers have been scanning the parks and streets of Britain for a bearded loon shouting at pigeons and cursing infidels to be the new face and beard of fanatical Islam. But they have had no luck.

But now Bakri is back. The Sun, which claims that its campaign led to Bakri leaving Britain, and then being banned from ever returning by then Home Secretary Charles Clarke, leads with a shot of their favourite mad mullah.

And it sees Bakri’s letter to the British embassy in Lebanon. In it, Bakri asks to be allowed back into the country. It’s not that he’s afraid of being a martyr or anything like that, it’s just that wants to see his children, the six little Bakris he “deserted”.

“What concerns me know is my safety,” he tells the Sun. “My family are very concerned…I’d be happy with a month’s visa but when I turned up this morning they told me I couldn’t because I’m not a British citizen any more.”

Not to worry. The front page of the Express is offering Bakri a way out. “GO TO HELL,” it advises. Problem is, as the paper says, his native Syria wants to put him in trial for trying to overthrow its government in the 1970s.

It seems that Bakri’s best option is to stay and fight. As he once said: “Dead terrorists are calling you, my Muslim brothers…Where is your weapon? Come on to the jihad.”

And as soon as he has found his NHS prescription glasses and rent book, he’ll be right in the thick of it…

Posted: 21st, July 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Victoria Beckham & Other Wags

WITH the serious business of kicking a ball in the sun out of the way, some of England’s footballers unwound by kicking a football on a beach.

On Monday, the Sun looked on as “England’s football flops…chatted up girls and guzzled champagne” on the Costa del Sol.

This was a sly kick in the metatarsals for the legions of Sun readers who had stuck little plastic crosses of St George flags on their ears and supported England through thin and thinner.

While Rio Ferdinand and the lads were behaving like male Wags, Tuesday brought a sighting of Wayne Rooney.

Wayne was sitting on a table at a café in the South of France. And Coleen McLoughlin was standing on a boat. She was wearing a yellow bikini. And she had a protruding tummy.

“Could Wayne be starting a team of his own?” asked the Mail. We studied Coleen’s belly. And we remembered the partying in Germany. And we wondered if maybe, just maybe, Coleen was less pregnant than she was bloated. Had Coleen retained water, or champagne, as it is known among the Wags?

While we pondered that, on Wednesday we saw yet another England footballer on holiday. Ashley Cole was posing with his fiancée Cheryl Tweedy. Cheryl and her footballer were promoting an advert for the National Lottery’s new game.

For a mere £1, punters had the chance to win up to £500,000.

Just imagine what you could do with all that money. You can buy a watch, a ring or a football season’s worth of fake bake. You could even secure your own booth at Garibaldi’s bar and spit roast in downtown Baden-Baden.

On Thursday we one again saw Wayne. Wayne looked to be on the verge of tears. Why? We never did get to find out.

And while we wondered if Wayne had the baby blues, or had heard the news that Cristiano Ronaldo was staying at Manchester United, Victoria Beckham popped up to remind footballers and their wives and lovers that she is alive and in charge.

Vicky has written a book. It was called The Extra Half An Inch. And the Mirror had some extracts.

“The problem is with skinny jeans is if you wear them with flat shoes, like flip-flops or trainers, you end up looking like a golf club,” said she. We nodded our lollipop heads in agreement.

“I hate those silly lacy bras with all those bits poking out beneath your top,” said Her Poshness. “You end up looking like you have four breasts.” Posh has two breasts, although rumours persist that she has had more.

More observations will surely surface in her book. It’s a study in how to look like Posh. And will be required reading for Wags footballers who aspire to the profession…

Posted: 16th, July 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Going Down

“I’D like to thank Robert Kilroy-Silk for being an inspiration, my mum and dad for buying me a Satsuma for my sixteenth birthday, the team at the Fake Bake salon and…”

And there it ended. Just as Michaela Henderson-Thynne was accepting her award for the Orangest tan in Germany, seeing off the challenge of Carly Zuker, Victoria Beckham and that little fat guy from the Tango ads, England were out.

Monday was a dark day. And while the Wags and their footballers looked forward to spending more time with their hair, we realised it was time to move on.

Pausing only to accept the Sun’s invitation to fire a dart into the head of Portugal’s Ronaldo, we struggled forward in the manner of Owen Hargreaves and his team-mates.

But it was hard. Even Jordan was down. On Tuesday we heard the model say in the Sun that she was too “busy and knackered” to have sex with Peter Andre.

Such were the pressures of raising children, conducting magazine interviews and writing a book, that barely a year after marrying the signing acorn, love had given way to drudgery.

Problem was that Jordan wanted more children. “I spoke with someone last night,” said she. “They’re going to look out for me – the way Angelina Jolie gets them.”

No, not by shagging Brad Pitt but by jetting off to Asia and Africa and picking up children. Jordan might adopt. It is a terrific plan – and so much less arduous than having sex with Pete.

Things were looking up. And the sun had come out. As the Star said: “IT’S HOTTER THAN RIO.” Over here temperatures had soared to 91.4 degrees Fahrenheit, while Rio de Janeiro could only mange a “paltry” 71 degrees.

The Brazilians might well have argued that it was their winter time, but their excuses fell on British ears blocked up with sand, sea and suncream.

So hot was it that many of us contemplated stripping off our anoraks and summerweight cagoules and going for a paddle. Sure England had failed, but we could still make use of a fountain.

And we had no fear of drowning because David Hasselhoff was in town. Last time Dave was in London, no-one drowned in the fountain in Trafalgar Square, nor the fountain that sits so splendidly in the Brent Cross shopping centre. Fact.

Moves to have the lifesaver permanently stationed on the spare plinth that sits empty on one corner of Trafalgar Square should be hurried along. Do we need an accident before something is done?

Until then, David was killing time by taking in the sights. And the Mail spotted him at Wimbledon.

But something was wrong. Maybe it was something in the water, but David was “steaming drunk”.

The paper looked on as the actor argued with security guards at Centre Court. He had no ticket and they would not let him pass. He then tried to get another drink but was banned from doing so.

“You should let me in,” he said. “Do you know who I am? I am the Hoff.”

Or was he? Sure there is only one Hoff but there are many impostors who think nothing of popping on a pair of too-tight red swimming briefs and puffing out their chest in a manly fashion.

Might it have been that this Hoff was not as he claimed, that he was a man who liked to pretend to be a superhero? Could this Hoff have been a member of the campaign group Fathers 4 Justice?

On Thursday, the Sun spotted two F4J dads invading Centre Court for a knockabout. That both campaigners, Simon Wright and Alan Jamieson, were British was not to be overlooked – any domestic involvement at so late a stage in the tournament was appreciated. But it could never last and the pair were hauled away by the police.

But just as we thought British involvement with a summer of sport was at an end, we spotted Theo Walcott. Back from his summer holidays with the Team England holiday camp, young Theo was in a Brazil kit.

Well, with England on fire and so much ferocious competition for places, it was probably the lad’s best chance of getting a game…

Posted: 8th, July 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

To Be Blunt

THE week began with joy. Nicole Kidman had M.A.R.R.I.E.D country music singer Keith Urban. And that the D.I.V.O.R.C.E.E had done so in a Catholic church was no less wonderful.

“We just want to thank everyone in Australia and around the world who have sent us their warm wishes,” said Nicole as she tied the knot in Sydney.

Her thanks were not needed. Her happiness was our happiness. And her tears were our tears.

While the celebrity guests – Russell Crowe and Naomi Watts – mingled at the Romeo and Juliet-themed reception (family rows and suicide?) – Londoners were treated to a sight of Paris Hilton.

Paris was in a golf buggy on her way to a concert in Hyde Park. There she met James Blunt, and the pair partied the night away. Perhaps she hoped to sweep the ex-army officer off his feet, as Natalie Loddo had.

Natalie had much to tell. “We started kissing but he was quite a bit shorter than I am so I dragged him over to a beer crate and he popped himself on top,” said she in the Sun. “I remember he put a cap on me – it was like a Richard Gere moment.”

Indeed. Only in this version James Blunt was cast in the Debra Winger role and Natalie was macho Gere. Overlooking the fact that Natalie was married at the time, and that the passion reached fulfillment in a Ford Escort, it was desperately romantic. And made no less so when Natalie tracked down her old flame in Cardiff. “It was a real quickie,” said Natalie, now divorced. “There were people knocking on the [changing room] door because we had to leave the building.”

Blunt is some lover. And from one of his exes we move to another – Tara Palmer-Tomkinson. And Tara’s hooter.

Being a “telly toff”, Tara has, naturally, got her nose pushed high into the air, enabling her to look down at us, and we to look up at her.

And from our viewpoint things were not looking good. The Star said Tara’s nose had developed a “large and worrying dent on the bridge”. It said that the eyes of the showbiz world were on her conk.

As were ours. The paper’s shot of Tara’s face in September 2004 showed a neat snub nose with a straight bridge. In June 2006, the nose had altered. The straight lines were disturbed by a bump, a mogul in Tara’s gentle ski jump.

Had cocaine bend TP-T’s nose out of shape? And should other cocaine users be worried about their own noses?

Moving on, on Thursday, we saw Kate at the opening of a new bar in London’s Dorchester hotel.

For the record, Kate sported a “revealing” leopard skin dress. And a new friend called Kelly Osbourne.

The Mirror heard Kate say a few words about her recent past. “I know I’ve been really stupid and childish,” said she. “I mean, I’m still very childish and always will be. But I am 10,000 times smarter than before.”

Of course, being childish, Kate meant to say she’d become a million, billion, trillion, gazillion times smarter than she’s ever been in her entire life – ever! But it was rude to interrupt. And we would have allowed her to continue if it hadn’t been for Pete Doherty wanting to say a few words.

Pete has written a book, and some of its contents caught the Mirror’s eye. “Anyway, I love you so much it has estranged me from myself even,” wrote Pete, whose book will hit the shelves of a bookshop near you very soon – and then slump into a broken heap on the floor. “To say it on paper is a bit off but marry me and I’ll do the crack off if you want.”

Beautiful words. And had cocaine Kate seen them, she would surely now be Mrs Kate Doherty. And to go with her new husband she’d have a new dress and a new epithet…

Posted: 1st, July 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Oranges & Felons

SATURDAY’S news that over 100 England fans had been arrested for behaving badly in Stuttgart made us blanch, or at least turn a lighter shade of orange. How many of this group were members of the Wags, the footballers’ wives and girlfriends, we wondered?

We feared the worst. On Monday Frank Lampard’s lover Elen Rives was heard yelling “F*** off!” to a group of Germans in a Baden Baden bar.

Surely the tone had been set. Just as we copy Elen and her pals’ love of orange skin, we ape other elements of their behaviour.

Who among us has not walked into a shop in Germany and in the style of Coleen McLoughlin spent £1440 on a Fendi handbag, £154 on Gucci sunglasses and £300 on a pair of Roberto Cavalli shorts, and teetered back onto the street atop two Louboutin stilettos (£395)? None that dare call themself an England fan.

While England supporters did as Elen and Coleen, the future Mrs Wayne Rooney jetted home to have her hair done.

A Number 1 all over for Coleen? We heard the Mail say that Victoria Beckham has developed a small bald patch on her head. This is surely a test area for Vicky’s ‘Skins’ look as she and the Wags look to further develop their football fan chic.

Would Coleen be first for the chop? “Before I left for Germany,” said Coleen, in that voice that makes whales sit up and listen, “I had copper and blonde hair extensions put in.” She went on: “I liked them at first, but after a while I decided I preferred my usual look.” So she had the false hair unwoven from her scalp and her own locks dyed to her “original” colour.

That was clear. But then came more trouble. With the plane booked and the Wags on a bus to the airport from England’s game against Sweden, someone needed the toilet. Who? We may never know. But the bus stopped and that delay caused the group to hit traffic and endure a lengthy trip to Cologne airport.

Upon arrival at Cologne airport the mood was dark. And now the plane was not ready. “What’s going on? We have children and pregnant women here and have been waiting hours?” asked Her Poshness, doing a passable impression of Gene Hackman in the Poseidon Adventure, hair and all.

“What is going on here?” Posh continued. “A dog gets better treatment than this.” It was a rather unfortunate comparison. And one that made no difference. Posh just got hotter under her England kit. And a full one hour after the scheduled departure time, she and the Wags were in the air.

When landed, they wasted no time getting back in shape, spending £10,000 on flying three beauticians to Germany to spay them a uniform orangey colour.

And there was no time to waste. If this was to be a fashion statement, the girls had to hurry. Everyone wants to be a fashion leader, and there was Kate Moss already showing us her orange peel thighs.

What with this being Kate, chances are that cellulite will become the next big thing.

So look out for women displaying their cellulite with pride and teenage girls sticking orange peel to their legs in a desperate attempt to look fashionable and hip.

And also look out for the Wags and their families, who may well be languishing in a prison cell in deepest Germany.

Or they might have escaped and right now are passing themselves off as the Dutch, dressed as they are in all that lovely all-over orange…

Posted: 24th, June 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Trying To Be Funny

ON Monday the Mirror told us that Heather Mills McCartney, aka Lady Mucca, had spent an hour talking to her estranged husband, Paul McCartney, on the telephone. They had discussed allegations that, before they met and married, she had been paid thousands of pounds to sleep with rich Arabs.

We could have worked out how much an hour of Heather’s time was worth, but to have done so would have been crass, insensitive and wrong. Heather told Paul there is no truth in the claims that she has had sex for money.

Of course the matter will not end there. This is a story with more juice than Del Monte.

And while we waited for the next instalment, Germany was getting ready to launch an attack that would take more than inflatable Spitfires to see off.

On Tuesday we read that German newspaper Bild, what the Star perhaps enviously called a “downmarket” tabloid, had attacked David Beckham…and his family.

BLITZKRIEG! Multi-talented Victoria Beckham was described as “a trophy wife”.

DOODLEBUG! Brooklyn and Romeo were called zwerge (dwarves) and Posh was accused of dressing her youngest son as a girl.

LEBENSRAUM! Victoria’s sister-in-law Joanne was “chubby”. “Arms, bust, bum, all very British,” it said. “Joanne is the sort of girl who drinks sangria on the beach in Majorca. And then dances on a table with her top off.”

MEIN KAMPF! Victoria’s mother-in-law had a peasant smile, was an ex-hairdresser and – vilest of vile slurs – “is a Robbie Williams fan”.

On Wednesday, David was ready to fight fire with water. “I don’t want to give these people more publicity then they’ve already had,” said Day-vid, “I’m not accepting it but you have to realise there are some people out there who are a little bit sad.”

As counterattacks go, that was right up there with team England’s best efforts to date.

But not to worry, it was all a misunderstanding. The true meaning had been lost in translation.

“It was meant to be funny and should not have been taken so seriously,” said Herr Tobias Holtkamp, the German journalist behind the assault.

“In German,” said he, “speck was used as a play on words which means that you have a big stomach and you are overweight. I did not mean to say she [Joanne Beckham] looked like a pig.”

It’s just an example of what can happen when you start trying to be funny. Germans will surely think twice before having another go at making a joke.

Back in Blighty, Thursday brought news of Kate Moss. The Mirror’s dire 3AM Girls told us that while dressed in a pair of “sexy beige” shorts and other clothes (details available on request), Moss had visited a cafe and ordered a “large white roll with tuna, mayonnaise and sweetcorn and a full-fat Coke”.

You half expected the headline to scream “Moss Does Coke”, and shame on the Mirror for missing this opportunity to shock.

But, of course, Moss does not take cocaine. She may never have taken the stuff. As the Sun said, those infamous shots of Moss in a London recording studio were not proof of her dalliance with the narcotic.

On Friday we read that it was official – Moss was free to go.

Looking at the pictures of Moss chopping lines of cocaine/talcum powder/anthrax in a London recording studio, the Mail heard Rene Barclays, the top lawyer at the Crown Prosecution Service, say there was an “absolutely clear indication” Kate was taking drugs and providing them to others.

But: “However in the absence of any forensic evidence, or direct eye-witness evidence about the substance in question, its precise nature could not be established.”

So that was that. Photographs can be inconclusive. Moss might not have taken cocaine – just as Heather Mills might not have showed a curly-haired man an intimate use for baby oil.

Posted: 18th, June 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

In Other Words

PICTURES can say a thousand words, but last week’s best were saying just one, or two.

The Mail’s shot of Wayne Rooney kicking a football in anger – he appeared to fly as he refulgently volleyed a ball towards the net – said “YES!”

The Sun’s picture of Heather Mills McCartney in a clinch with a curly haired man said “Yes! Yes!”

But the pictures of Mrs Paul McCartney, as published in the self-help manual Die Freuden der Liebe (The Lover’s Guide), carried no words.

Heather’s work with baby oil is an educational tool founded on the international language of love. And who needs mere words when you have such enraptured and enthusiastic teachers?

But words can be powerful. And later in the week the Sun told us that Heather’s relief teacher (lets’ call him Helmut) will tell all. He will tell the world that after the cameras stopped clicking, he and Heather made love.

And this might be bad news for Heather. The paper said that in light of Heather’s artistic past, her divorce settlement could be slashed. This divorce between Paul and Heather threatens to get messier than a baby oil orgy.

Heather knows that reputations hard won can be lost in a moment. Just take Roan Keating, the fresh-faced crooner so clean he squeaks when he walks.

Or at least he did before we learned that he has taken drugs.

“I think people would be shocked if they heard Ronan Keating took drugs,” said Ronan. “I was a bit naive towards them. I was afraid that I’d be the unlucky one. Between you and me I’ve tried it (dope). We went to Holland, as everyone does, we tried it. I have to say it wasn’t for me. I didn’t enjoy it.”

That Ronan should equate a trip to Holland with trying drugs makes us wonder how far he immersed himself in the Dutch way.

Did Ronan go for a full Dutch experience and hire a prostitute? Did he return from his trip laden down with tulip bulbs and large round cheeses? Did he marry a homosexual?

And then there was Sir Cliff Richard. On Friday came the news that we never believed possible – Cliff used a bad word.

“F**k yourself.” That’s what the Mirror said Cliff hissed in Gordon Ramsay’s ear. We have consulted our Bible and can find no mention of the F-word therein.

Some things are best left unsaid…

Posted: 11th, June 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

A New Messiah

And on Monday the papers were full of the news that Shiloh Nouvel Jolie-Pitt was among us. Hallelujah!

All the papers said that Shiloh is Hebrew for Messiah, while Nouvel is French for new. All hail the “NEW MESSIAH”.

This is some name to live up to, and the girl could have got off to a flying start had, as the Sun reported, Angelina opted for a water birth.

What joy Shiloh would have brought to us all had she stood on her legs and walked across the waves that lap the beach at Namibia’s Burning Shore Beach Resort.

While Angelina nursed the wound left by her C-elebrity-section, we were treated to more hilarity and high politics from John Prescott, the shirking class hero.

Prescott had been caught playing croquet on the lawn of his grace-and-favour mansion. The Sun calls him a “lazy idiot”. The Mail’s front page featured a quote from one of its writers asking: “What next, fox hunting?”
When croquet fans attack

But let us consider things calmly. If Prescott is an idiot – and there exists a considerable weight of evidence to suggest that he is – wouldn’t we prefer him to be playing croquet than paying politics?

But Prezza was working. He was. Really, he was. On Tuesday we heard Joan Hammell, Prescott’s special adviser and croquet partner, tell the Times: “Work continued all the way through, even the croquet game. I had three faxes brought out. I then went back inside to make phone calls. We are working seven days a week, we can promise you.” And croquet may be the ideal way for a politico to unwind. In its leader the Telegraph suggested that far from being a sport for effete fops, croquet is a brutal game full of aggression and spite. “Croquet is snooker with malice,” it said. It is “bare-knuckle fighting embourgeoisé, and so much more vicious for the appearance of gentility…It is therefore a good game for politicians.”

Talk softly and carry a big wooden hammer, as they say in Westminster.

On Thursday, we heard that Prescott had seen the light and given up his Dorneywood pile. We speculated on the reasons for this move. Perhaps he saw that swanning around playing croquet was not the stuff of the self-styled working class hero, the tireless grafter. Perhaps he realised using such a massive house made him look greedy. Perhaps he lost the keys to the place in a croquet bet.

Helpfully, the Guardian had an interview with the Deputy Prime Minister. Over a bacon roll on a train up north – he just so happens to be going home for his 68th birthday dinner with wife Pauline – Prescott talked.

The croquet was not his idea. “They say ‘Can we play croquet?’ I can’t reply ‘Sorry, you can’t play croquet, it’s against my ideological position’,” said Prescott.

He pleaded ignorance. “I don’t know the rules. Isn’t it to put the ball through the hoop and beat the other bugger? It’s the imagery. It’s really just a competitive game, like Monopoly.”

Monopoly? Isn’t that the game where you buy loads of land and stick houses on it?

Prescott might be an idiot, but he is not peerless. Look, here comes England footballer Rio Ferdinand.

Rio was making some dire TV show and thought it a good idea to play a joke on England’s captain and best surviving player.

With barely a week to go before the big World Cup kick off, Ferdinand staged a mock kidnapping of David Beckham.

Beckham, sat in the back of a car driven by his would-be captors, panicked and made a dash for it for it. As the vehicle slowed down, he opened the door and fled. He crossed a dual carriageway and legged it towards a less salubrious part of Manchester.

Thankfully, Beckham is OK, not breaking a metatarsal as he escaped his would-be captors.

Although had Beckham been injured in the course of this caper, all might not have been lost – Shiloh Jolie Pitt could always have healed him…

Posted: 6th, June 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

A Meaty Role

Jade is to embark on a movie career. And from France, Jade was telling us about her debut acting role in the film version of Catherine Tate’s TV show.

It all so terrifically exciting but we found it hard to rejoice. Even at the Beckham’s pre-World Cup party, it was almost impossible to chug down more than a gallon of pink champagne such was our troubled mind.

You see, we had seen Heather Mills on her travels to Slovenia, and she had cut a sad figure.

“ALONE,” said the Mirror’s front-page headline. Only, Heather was not, for she was being observed by other travellers and at least one man with a camera whose good fortune it was to see Heather struggling with her luggage, looking “pale and gaunt”, and “weak and thin with bags under her eyes”.

How a snapper came to see the wife of mega-wealthy Paul McCartney in so parlous a state beggars belief, and we felt for Heather.

So bad was her pain that on Tuesday we read that she was unable to attend the Vegetarian and Vegan Foundation’s campaign called White Lies – against milk.

Heather feared there was a great danger that the conference would be about her and her private life, a spokesman said. Heather would be “obscuring the important message that the White Lies campaign needs to communicate”.

Foundation director Juliet Gellatley said Heather was “very upset” at having to withdraw from the event.

“She is too ill,” she said. “We heard from her today. She just doesn’t feel very well.”

The exact nature of the illness was not specified, but we heard that a bottle of gold top was the most likely culprit.

While we waved adieu to Heather, we said a big shouty “HELLO!” to Geri Halliwell’s daughter.

And first things first, we wanted to know what the baby’s name was.

As Hello! reported, the child was named called Bluebell Madonna. Geri explained.

“As I walked around the park in the last few weeks of pregnancy, I seemed to see bluebells everywhere,” said Geri. “What clinched it was my mother telling me the bluebell is increasingly rare. So it’s a precious flower which seems right for my daughter.” Precious, indeed.

Geri really has star quality. To paraphrase Oscar Whilde, we are all in the park, but some of us are looking at the bluebells – the rest are avoiding the dog mess, sleeping drunks and used condoms.

But while Geri held up Bluebell, the world remained on hold for the arrival of Angelina Jolie’s gift to us all.

How to mark this great occasion was the stuff of Thursday’s papers. We read that Wave, a radio station in Namibia, was championing the idea of a national holiday for the Jolie-Pitt child.

These are exciting times for the people of Namibia. And we too can get in the spirit of the thing. On Friday we read that despite the almost continues rain, Britain is in line for a drought.

Namibia will very soon look just like Surrey – albeit without Angelina Jolie’s baby and so much partying…

Posted: 28th, May 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment

Curry In A Hurry

‘COME on, Jade! You can do it. Get those kebabs up. Only 26 miles to the next chicken madras and chips stop.

But Jade wasn’t listing. Our words of encouragement at the London Marathon were being drowned out by the sound of blood pumping in her ears, and GMTV’s Andrew Castle vomiting by the kerb.

“Jade looked like she was turning blue,” said an eyewitness. “She was clearly overheating and you could see lots of steam coming off her.” Another voice told us: “I’ve been coming to watch the marathon for years and I’ve never seen anyone in such a state.”

And that must be a result. Watching marathons is surely not too unlike watching a Formula 1 Grand Prix – the only interesting bits, breaks in the procession, are when someone hits the wall. Unless, of course, you have a fetish for vests.

That was Monday. On Tuesday, David Bedford, director of the London Marathon, said that Jade Goody’s attempt to win the race was “almost at times suicidal”.

“For her to think ‘I’m just going to walk around’ and not even be able to do that shows she’s done nothing and isn’t in good shape,” said Bedford.

But Jade had gone 21 miles, and that is not too shabby. “Bearing in mind I’m eating takeaways, I did all right,” said Jade.

But then she had not been checked for performance-enhancing drugs. On Thursday we heard that Jade was “hooked” on slimming pills.

She took one just before her London Marathon debut and once mixed them with absinthe at a children’s party.

Slimming pills have been known to contain amphetamine. That’s speed. Had Jade won the Marathon, we shudder to think of the ramifications. For Ben Johnson at the Seoul Olympics, read Jade Goody in London.

Of course, Jade should not worry too much about her weight. John Prescott is not exactly svelte and he can pull.

On Thursday, we heard the chilling news that Deputy Prime Minister Prescott had cheated on his wife with his secretary, Tracey Temple.

Hypocritical? Let’s consider the evidence. The Times tells us that when aged 13, honest John reported his father to the police. “My dad’s a magistrate,” said John. “I’ve seen him kissing another woman.” Young Prescott was shocked at such impropriety.

And there are other quotes, these taken from Prescott’s professional life. “I’m told Tories think ethics is a county in Middlesex.” Well, it’s not in Prescott’s native Hull, so Middlesex seems as good a guess as any. “For many Tories, morality is not getting caught,” said Prescott.

But hold on! Prezza might look like a bellicose bruiser, the kind of bloke who throws the first punch, makes the first snide comment and flicks the first hand gesture, but the truth is so very different.

On Friday we began to realise that this affair was nothing to do with him. Tracey was a “maneater”. She’d had nine lovers. She’d kept diaries of her affairs. She’d been known to go about in red leather trousers.

Prezza was the good man seduced by a wanton hussy. Poor John. He had not erred; his only crime was to have been misunderstood.

That’s just what moral crusader Tony Blair was telling us on Friday.

“People forget about John and the Kyoto Treaty,” said Tony in an interview in the Mirror. “And the reason we have the Channel Tunnel rail link is because he brokered the deal out of a complete mess,” said Tony.

John played a pivotal role in solving the fire dispute, said Tony. John is of “great value”. John is “vital” to the Labour Party.

“People don’t know the true value of what he does because it is so often behind the scenes,” said Tony.

Indeed. What John gets up to behind the scenes is nothing short of incredible. Well, what other word could you use to describe the sleaze-buster who got caught with his trousers round his ankles?’

Posted: 30th, April 2006 | In: Broadsheets | Comment