Tabloids Category
The news as told by the UK’s tabloid press – The Sun, Daily Express, Daily Mail, Daily Mirror, Daily Star and News of the World.
Crewel Luck
“THE role of the modern Member of Parliament has changed a great deal in recent years,” says Greg Barker, MP for Bexhill and Battle, on his website.
He goes on to say that “I am also very active locally” and invites locals to “get in touch”.
The sticky fingers of adolescence are never far from UK politics, and, as the Mail reports on its front page, Mr Barker has left his wife of 14 years for a decorator.
Inside the paper, the decorator has been elevated to the status of “interior designer”. Perhaps losing her man to a decorator is too hard for Celeste Barker, Barker’s wife and mother to their three children? An interior designer is much more the ticket. Better still if Celeste could lose Barker to a leading light in the British aubusson movement.
But whatever the profession of the mistress, Celeste, described by one source as “your typical, loyal Conservative wife”, will surely find it hard to accept that she has been left for a man.
“She is completely devastated,” says the source. “It came completely out of the blue. Nobody had any idea that Barker was gay.”
Nobody? We can think of at least two people who had a pretty fair idea that the honourable member had gone the gay way.
And the Mail catches up with one of them, namely Barker. He says that he remains on “good terms” with his wife. “It’s a private matter. We separated in July, we are on very good terms.”
So that’s that. Barker is right, it is a private matter. What should we care that an MP is gay? There are many gay MPs, doubtless more than we can name here.
But not everyone is as enlightened. And over in the Mirror (“TOP TORY DUMPS WIFE FOR MAN”), the paper has a few words with Barker’s mother-in-law.
Beneath a picture of Greg at his London flat, where he is now staying, Georgina Harrison tells us what she thinks of the Shadow Environment Minister.
“Of course,” says she, “it’s not a shock. It’s sad – but these days it’s not really unusual any more. It’s modern life, isn’t it? Men seem to think they can get away with it now.”
And..? And that’s it. No mention of a “moment of madness”, no apology for “errors of judgement in personal behaviour”, no dutiful wife standing by her man at the gate to the family home.
The mother-in-law is right, things have changed. We are no longer treated to flesh-crawling shots of the husband and wife making up for the cameras.
It’s a private matter between husband, wife and interior designer. It’s very old fashioned…
Top Bloke
IT’S a Richard Hammond exclusive.
Today Richard is on the front page of the Mirror. He’s got a big smile on his face and a sparkle in his eyes. His hands are clenchd into fists. He’s still fighting.
And he has this to say: “I hope to be behind the wheel again in weeks. But it won’t be a jet car.”
“Daredevil” Richard is “desperate” to start driving again. “The only lesson that’s come out of this is to be careful,” says Richard. “And we were. I am, anyway.”
Indeed, what could be more careful for a married father of two than to strap himself into a jet-propelled car for a TV show? “If we didn’t take safety seriously I would not longer be here,” he adds.
So Richard lives to drive again. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.,” he says. “We’ve got to – it’s a matter of falling off a horse and getting back on.”
Well, not really. But we should not judge Richard. This is “RICHARD HAMMOND: BACK FROM THE DEAD”, as the Mirror’s headline screams every day. If he thinks a horse is a car, then so be it.
If he talks about himself in the first person plural, then we can let it slide.
We wish him well. As Richard says, over pages four and five of his daily chat: “I was so out of it I’d no idea of the amazing public reaction to my crash. They identify with me because I’m a normal bloke..like a mate that’s been hurt rather than some big celebrity.”
Yes Richard. Of course Richard. You rest up Richard. We’ll talk some more tomorrow…
Go Holmes
“TOM AND KATIE’S SECRET WEDDING,” announces the front page of the Express.
Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes will marry, in secret, on November 18. They will marry in Italy. Although they may marry in Switzerland, the Express noting that the mention of Italy may be a “decoy”.
We could not possibly say. No, we could not. Invitations to the Cruise-Holmes do were dispatched at the weekend, and having sworn by all the powers in the galaxy (so help us L. Ron) we are unable to divulge any details. It is no exaggeration to say that breaking our oath will place humanity in great peril.
But Giorgio Armani is not known as the most fearless designer of his generation for nothing. And he tells the Express: “When I am asked by a friend to make a wedding wardrobe, it goes straight to my heart.” (Like a spaceman’s death-ray.) “It really is an honour to play small role in that milestone moment.”
And joining Giorgio will be Victoria Beckham. The Mirror tells us that Posh has flown to Los Angeles for a “secret meeting” with Katie.
Not that you will hear about it. And you will know nothing of the wedding. As Tom’s spokesman tells the Sun: “Proper security measures are being taken.”
Indeed. They will be watching you…from space…
Another Shambles
WHILE Kate Moss is talking about Heather Mills to Stella McCartney, her lover, Pete Doherty, is making front-page news.
“IT’S BEAT DOHERTY,” says the Star’s cover page. And there’s a picture of the pop f***wit looking suitably glassy eyed. His left temple is bloodied, rivulets of blood streak down his neck and chest.
Inside the paper, there’s a series of Pete’s pics. And some words. “We had a bloody good gig and then a good scrap when we got back to the hotel,” says Pete from Rome. “All in all, a good night.”
But why the fight? “This extremely rude guy just cracked me over the head with his camera – I couldn’t believe it and it bloody hurt,” says Pete.
This leads to a melee, in which Pete can be seen pushing his hand into the face of snapper Andrea Venturini. Pete then leans back. Venturini leans forward. One still on and Pete seems to be on top of Venturini.
In the Mail, Venturini, lying on his back, is still taking pictures of the fight he is involved in.
It’s “Pete shambles” in the Express. And a “bloody shambles” in the Sun.
It is shocking stuff. Who would have thought Pete could throw a punch? Who would have dared think his blood would run so freely from a previously untapped vein?
It’s a sensation…
Heather’s Sprung
WHEN it comes to the divorce of Paul McCartney and Heather Mills, everyone has something to say.
Here’s Victor Spinetti, billed in the Mail as a veteran actor, who appeared in The Beatles’ films Help! and A Hard Day’s Night.
“Spinetti joins the McCartney row,” says the headline. And here is the Welsh actor (available for pantomime and voiceovers), the man McCartney says “makes the clouds disappear”, telling all.
“I’ve written to him to say I’m sorry about the break-up and if wants a song or a dance or a cloud to disappear, I’ll come along,” says Spinetti, doubtless adding a soft-shoe shuffle and tipped hat to stage front.
Spinetti – that’s S.P.I.N.E.T.T.I – knows that a friend in need is a friend to support via the pages of the national press.
It is clear that Sir Paul will not be alone when he faces Heather across the courtroom. With the weather-changing Spinetti at his side, things should turn out just fine.
And that is not all. While the Mirror asks “WHO’S THE PHANTOM FAXER”, wondering about the “mystery brunette” who sent “Macca slurs” from a fax machine a few minute’s walk from Heather’s lawyers’ officers, the Sun gets the scoop.
“Kate blasts Mucca,” says the front-page headline. Yes, it’s Kate Moss. Kate has scoffed at one-legged Heather’s reported claim that Paul refused her access to an antique bedpan thus forcing her to crawl to the toilet at night.
As a source tells the paper: “Kate has seen her jumping like a gazelle and will swear to it.”
Might it be that Heather’s leg is fashioned in the shape of the springy haunches of a Thompson’s gazelle, or else is a skinned poweriser velocity stilt, a device that enables Heather to jump in a way not seen since the heady days of punk rock?
Whatever the fabric of the leg, Kate says Heather’s a liar, or a “BLOODY LIAR”, as the Sun’s headline puts it. The source tells us that Kate says Heather is “extremely athletic” and is “not the sort of person to crawl anywhere.”
And that’s all well and good, because Heather has vowed to sue the Sun and others for what her legal advisors call “false, damaging, and immensely upsetting statements”.
So the Sun lists the apparent bedpan lie and six other untruths.
And it invites Heather to tick the correct boxes in a grid that asks: “COME ON HEATHER, WHAT EXACTLY DID WE GET WRONG? IS IT THAT YOU’RE A…HOOKER, LIAR, PORN STAR, FANTASIST, TROUBLE MAKER, SHOPLIFTER.”
Answers in tomorrow’s paper…
Richard Hammond’s Pole Dance
WE were going to tell you about Richard Hammond. Today is “THE WIFE’S STORY”, and it takes up a large chunk of the Mirror’s news, front page and all.
And then we thought of reporting on the pole-dancing kit” for sale on the Tesco’s website. “Unleash the sex kitten inside,” says the blurb, “simply extend the Peekaboo pole inside the tube, slip on the sexy tunes and away you go.”
Dance moves, as featured in a company recipe book, include the “Going down”, “The thighs the limit” and “The booty shake”.
But while the Mail is right to shine a light on this filth, and tell its readers about the associated playing cards, the suspender belt and the “outrageously naughty fun”, the Mirror makes a plea to the public.
Do you know this man? The paper has three shot of the man it dubs “a poo pest”.
The man is accused of causing £60,000 worth of damage to trains. There are pictures of him both in and out of a hat.
The paper explains: “His modus operandi is to wait until he is alone before defecating in the carriage and smearing seats and walls.”
He has performed this act no less than 30 times on trains in the South East.
Who is he? The new enfant terrible of the British art scene, taking over from where Chris Ofili’s elephant poo pictures and Tracey Emin’s dirty sheets left off?
A disgruntled commuter out to show the greater world what the inside of the toilets aboard a train look like? A cleaner looking for work?
We do not know. But it is serous. As a police spokesman says: “This is a serious health issue as well as being exceptionally antisocial.”
If you see this man, do not approach him. Instead bury your head in your newspaper, and so learn more of Richard Hammond’s fight for life. Or, if you have no paper, twirl around the train’s pole in an eroticised and self-absorbed manner…
Bad To The Marylebone
WHEN Pete Doherty and Kate Moss marry and set up home together, one of their showbiz chums should get them a home therapy centre, accessed by 12 big steps.
In this space, Kate and Pete’s showbiz friends could gather to recover from the excesses of the night before. And, as is the way with therapy, they can keep coming back.
Therapy is no one-hit wonder, and we read in the Star of middle-aged rocker Courtney Love, “who has been in and out of rehab countless times”.
Love would be a regular visitor to Kate and Pete’s starter home. And she would surely be welcome – as the Star says, it was Love who persuaded Pete to go to rehab.
As she says: “I phoned Pete Doherty’s mother and persuaded both her and Kate Moss to help Pete and go to a 12-step meeting with him.”
What comfort this must have brought to the elder Doherty can only be imagined. And while Mrs Doherty wonders how Love got her number, and we herald the arrival of Love’s global support group, the Sun bring great news: “Kate IS marrying Doherty.”
And it will be the “ultimate rock ‘n’ roll wedding.” No, there won’t be pink elephants, midgets walking around with tray of cocaine on their heads and an orgy. According to the Sun, the ultimate rockstar wedding will be held at Marylebone Resister Office.
The dowdy venue on a six-lane road in central London has, as the Sun tells us, a “rich musical history”. This is where Paul McCartney married Linda in 1969. And in 1997, Oasis frontman Liam Gallagher tied the knot with Patsy Kensit in this very municipal hall.
And in 2003, it’s where Bongo Freddy, of Bongo Freddy and The Bongos (Kilburn’s leasing Bongo Jake tribute act!”) married Jane Smith.
The pressure is on. Kate and Pete have much to live up to. And it’s a stroke of good fortune that Pete has just met Paul McCartney for the first time.
Says Pete to a pal: “I told McCartney I had nicked a lot of riffs from The Beatles’ White Album. He jokes: ‘That has not gone unnoticed.’”
All we can say is that Pete should take care not to recreate every aspect of Paul’s life – even if Kate’s vegetable lasagne-themed wedding cake is to die for…
Davie Banda – The Oprah
RIGHTLY proud to have got her figure back after having a new child, Madonna is to go on the Oprah Winfrey show to tell all.
Oprah’s sofa has been the stage for much celebrity grandstanding, such as Tom Cruise’s sofa-jump moment, and now Madonna is ready to sit on it and tell the talkshow host about her amazing life with Davie Banda.
With three children by three different fathers living on three different continents, Madonna is every inch the global modern mum. She is of great interest to one and all.
As the show’s spokesman tells the Mirror: “You’ve read the headlines, heard the rumours and seen the photos. Now, for the first time, Madonna speaks out with her side of the story on the adoption controversy.”
And controversy builds by the day. The Sun tells us that Madonna is to ask her “gay actor pal” Rupert Everett to be Davie’s “fairy godfather”.
The paper says Madonna picked Rupert “because of his experience of working in Africa with Aids victims, and not because of his 2.4 children and stable family life.
And the Star tells us: “DAD COULD DIE BEFORE HE GETS TO SEE MADGE TOT AGAIN.” The paper says that life-expectancy in Malawi is 36 years, and at 32, Yohane Banda, Davie’s dad, might not have long to go.
This, says the Star, “throws into question the singer’s pledge to let farmer Yohane see his 13-month-old son grow up.”
To many, this might suggest that the boy is better of with Madonna, who is expected to live somewhat longer than 36, and already has.
But to others it is a sign that Madonna has meddled and done wrong.
All will be revealed soon up on Oprah’s cushions – when Madge jumps up and down and Davie throws up…
Wayne’s Parade
WAYNE Rooney’s 21st birthday party promises to be quite some thing.
In readiness for the do, the Sun notes that Wayne’s whale-voiced lover Coleen McLoughlin has been out shopping.
“LOOK WHAT I GOT ROO,” says the headline. It’s “Coleen’s megabucks birthday gift spree”. And sure enough there’s a picture of Coleen pulling out all the credit cards to make Wayne’s coming of age a special day.
And the Sun knows what he’s getting. Look away now Wayne as we spot a wall-clock-sized, diamond–encrusted £30,000 Jacobs & Co Watch, a £15,000 golf simulator and a £5,000 Louis Vuitton man-bag with “lots of gold” on it.
And there will be more. After showing us what the gifts look like and telling us all about them, the Sun says, “but nobody knows for sure what her final choices were.”
But the Sun is wrong. And the Star is proud to announce on its front page that is knows exactly what Wayne will receive.
It’s “ROON’S 21 BUM SALUTE – Robbie flashes B-day boy,” announces the paper As the Star says, Coleen has a “star-studded bash” lined up to celebrate Wayne’s birthday, and chief among the guests in Robbie Williams.
And for a “sneak preview of her raunchy surprise” we turn inside the paper and see… a computer-generated image of what an iced cake with 21 candles on it might look like.
There is no picture of Robbie Williams’ proffered and naked backside. Wayne will just have to wait until the party for his big treat, when clutching his man-bag tight to his chest he will be presented with the singer’s arse.
But in the finest traditions of celebrity award dos, we are sorry to say that the star cannot make it, pressures of hair washing and so forth. Instead of Robbie’s actually arse, Wayne will be given a signed photo of it. This he can take home and enjoy at his leisure.
And the photo will form part of Wayne’s “Hall of Fame” birthday surprise. The star-studded do features less stars and studs than some stuff they’ve handed over.
And to go with picture of Robbie Williams’ backside, Wayne will get things from Mike Tyson (severed ear), Bono (god complex) and P. Diddy (a full stop to place between W. and Rooney).
It’s “A night of Stars” for La Roon. And in the spirit of spoiling the footballer’s surprises, we say that the Star’s cake is all wrong. The actual treat is massive and has at its centre an elderly woman iced in stockings, suspenders and cowboy hat.
Signed arse and photos on application…
Rupert The Hoodie
AS if being called Rupert was not bad enough, carriers of the name contend with having their moniker associated with a mumsy bear who wears yellow checked trousers, a matching scarf and a red jersey. He lives in the town of Nutwood.
But after years of suffering, Ruperts, Roos, Rupeys and Wuperts move a step loser to salvation. Give it up for Rupert the Hoodie.
Rupert the Bear has been given a makeover. As the Sun reports, Rupert’s owners were concerned that the lad’s scarf made him look like a chav.
So he’s been restyled. The new look Rupert has a red hoodie, a chain hanging from blue shorts and an iPod stuck in his ears.
If you go down to the woods today, you’d be in for a big surprise, for there is Rupert inhaling the fumes from the Citroen Saxo he’s stolen and set light to.
It’s all a modern take on an old classic. And while we look at Rupert, we consider Dennis the Menace’s new electronic tag, Loopy Loo’s manic depression and Sweep’s right to wear the veil…
When Jade Goody Attacks
“FIERY” Jade Goody left cheating boyfriend Jack Tweedy scarred and bleeding after catching him with a glamour model.”
It’s the Star’s front–page shocker. “JADE SCARES LOVE CHEAT JACK,” screams the paper.
And we are engrossed in this story that seems to have it all. There’s the reality TV star (Jade), the wannabe football agent (Jack) and the mo-del (Anna Houghton).
Anna is the “BLONDE WHO MADE JADE BLOODY MAD,” says a further headline about the incident, these words to a shot of Anna by way of a yellow arrow.
And we join the action in London’s Embassy nightclub. The Star says that sees Jack chatting to Anna – “with whom he had a sleazy romp in an alleyway in August”.
“What the f** were you doing with that girl?” asks Jade? And lest Jack begin to answer, know that the question is rhetorical. As Jade says: “That the last straw.”
The pair then leave the club. They arrive at a car park. An onlooker tells us: “Jade started laying into him. She was really belting him – in the mouth, across the face and back.”
All the while she was screaming. “I’ve had enough of it,” she wails. “I’ve had enough of life.” The Sun’s onlooker says Jade punched Jack square in the face. “His lip burst open. There was blood on his shirt.”
Jade then makes it into a car, where, perhaps tired of punching Jack or keeping her rhythm until she gets him home, she begins to punch the seats.
But Jade is not some man-beating nutcase. No. It is all a terrific misunderstanding. The Mirror has a shot of Jack’s wounded face, the round injury suggestive of a pushed glass.
And it tells us that Jack became jealous of Jade’s dancing with a group of “hunky men”. He confronted the men. There was a scuffle. Jack was hit.
As Jade tells the Sun: “People think it was me that hit him over a girl. It’s ridiculous.”
And here’s Jack to tell us: “I had a row with a couple of boys. They punched me and I punched them back”.
So there it is. The creature laying into Jack and punching his head in was not Jade, it was a couple of boys.
Easy mistake to make, we suppose…
Madonna Latest Twist
“I NEVER said she could adopt my baby boy,” says Davie Banda’s dad Yohane.
Labelled “THE DAD” by the Mirror, the paper tunes into Malawi TV and hear Yohane tell the country: “What we agreed with Madonna was that she looks after my child until he finishes school and becomes independent. Then he comes back to me.”
It’s a decent enough plan. And you can just see the adult David stepping of his private jet, clad in conical bra, hot pants and flat cap to tell his dad that with his education over he is now ready to till the fields and spray the crops.
“Gawd luv yer, pop,” says Davie Twist all growed up. “You’ve got to pick a picket or two. Vogue!”
Yohane goes on: “If I’d been told she wanted to adopt my son and make him her own I wouldn’t have agreed to it. I’m only now realising the meaning of adoption.”
Davie was no boy for sale. Fare thee well, but be back soon, young Davie. Your dad Yohane is reviewing the situation.
As the Mail says, it’s the father’s “about-turn”. The Sun says Madonna “faces new controversy over her adoption” of little Davie.
And it hears Yohane say that he is illiterate. “I cannot read or write,” says he, “so I relied on what [government] officials told me.”
The situation in getting complicated. It might be that Madonna has taken risks in adopting the lad, for whom she’d do anything.
And we wait to see if Davie will return to Malawi. And if Madonna follows him, or waves him off with a flutter of her new silk hanky…
Richard Hammond’s Horror
WHEN Richard Hammond attempted to drive from Elvington airfield, near York, to Australia the hard way, the papers looked on with furrowed brows.
Would Richard make it? Would Top Gear, the TV show he presents, be cancelled? Would he add his name to the list of celebrities to have died on camera – Tommy Copper, Steve Irwin, Anthea Turner and so on?
Well, now the questions get answered. And while the Sun talks of Hammond’s new £2million contract with the BBC, his short-term memory loss and how he says the show must go on, the Mirror leads its news coverage with “The day I died”.
Hammond peers out from the paper’s front page, his left eye a little bloodshot. This is “THE FIRST INTERVIEW”, announces the paper. It is “THE FULL STORY”.
And after six pages of “Richard Hammond: Back from the dead” we realise that the Mirror is right: this is the full version of events.
Hammond, who writes for the Mirror, is now the paper’s star turn. The hack has gone native and has started making news.
“Only the bloodshot white of his left eye gives any sign of how close Richard Hammond came to death after crashing a jet car at 288mph,” begins the story of one day in the life of a petrol head.
And instantly we spot two things:
1. Hammond did not die and then return to life as the Mirror’s headline promises. He nearly died.
2. At 288mph he failed to break the British land speed record – even if the Mirror goes on to say that Richard will now “describe what it is like to travel at 300mph in a jet car”.
Perhaps, like Hammond, the paper is experiencing problems remembering what it told its readers only a short while ago?
So we’ll move on to hear from the presenter who put his life on the line for good telly.
“I was upside down inhaling a field,” says he. “My nose and eyes were full of earth. I’d gone ploughing on my head. My last thought was ‘Oh bugger, that’s gone wrong. Well, we’re checking out now. You’ve had it.”
Even in his weakened condition, Hammond speaks in a series on blokish one-liners. “I was aware of my brain saying ‘We’ll wave the flag’ – and that was the point I passed out,” he adds.
This is the accident diluted. Even the doctors are at it. Rather than panic, chest pads and drips, Hammond tells us that doctors have a “points system”: “Fifteen is normal, three is a flatline. I was a three.”
But Hammond is still here. And he will soon be back on the telly. But before he does, he needs to recover. And that means taking a rest.
“Tomorrow,” promises the Mirror, “Mindy, the moment I thought I’d lost him.” It’s Richard’s wife. She’s going to take up the tale for where her husband left off.
Now, where were we..?
Daily Mail Kills
EVERY day of every week the Mail thinks up imaginative ways to remind you that life is cruel and you are going to experience pain and die. And if it can’t think any up, it looks at scientific research.
Here is a selection of things that will kill you and yours from last week’s paper of doom…
MONDAY
“Brittle bone fear for boys with junk food diet” – Stringy cheese all round
“A year on, this is binge Britain” – Café culture causes twenty-something women to fall prone on the ground, with generous cleavage and thong on view (see pictures)
“How obesity puts a strain on the brain” – Fat and stupid
TUESDAY
“With his neck contorted by spasms, Casualty’s Charlie feared for his health, until Botox transformed his life” – Actor Derek Thompson tells us all about his dystonia
“Middle-class, nice home and swamped with debt”
WEDNESDAY
“Taxed till the pips squeak. The middle classes squeezed as never before. British businesses less able to compete. A £100bn raid on pensions. Why won’t ANY party speak up for lower taxes?” – Vote Anorak for, er, lower taxes!
“Do ‘everyday’ chemicals give your breast cancer?” – Maybe!
THURSDAY
“Britain’s country people are the REAL persecuted minority” – Tally ho! Let’s get at the Barbour-clad filth!…
“How I yearn for a proper autumn…not this eternal Indian summer” – Ray Connolly likes it wet and chilly
“Women who’d be better of NOT being screened for breast caner” – The Nordic Cochrane Centre says screening might do more harm than good
“The Doctor WON’T see you know. In this excoriating, highly personal view, one writer says that modern GPS are overpaid, underworked and an insult to the doctors we could all once rely on” – Carol Sandler ups stethoscope
“How stress of broken home could lead to early puberty”
“BRAZEN BRATZ. Move over Barbie! These brash, tarty dolls are now the biggest sellers in Britain. Is there no stopping the ruthless commercial forces that sexualise girls as young as seven” – Buy Anorak’s new Comfi-Baby Bra & Thong!
“Tofu, bulgar wheat and nettle tea – no wonder health food shops make me ill”
FRIDAY
“The 350,000 school-leavers who can’t even do the basics” – What – like sign on?
“At last, the truth: Binge drinkers are blighting our lives” – Mail sees Home Office study Perceptions and Experience of Anti-Social Behaviour
“Half-term headache. Road chaos warning as autumn getaway starts” – Traffic in holiday time… How?
“I hate to sound mean but why does my son have to pay to go to a British university when foreigners go free” – Tom Utley asks the questions that matter
“TWO–NATION BRITAIN. THE FRONTLINE. Thee Asian youths hardly ever speak to white people, who, in turn, despise them. This damning dispatch from the race-hate capital of Britain shows how multi-culturalism is failing ALL of us” – Preston’s Asians are hoodies too
“Eating lots of white bread ‘can raise the risk of cancer” – So say researcher at the Institute of Pharmacological Research in Milan
SATURDAY
“BURSTING POINT. This week its population hit 300million, but there were no celebrations in America. The truth is the Land of the Free is becoming deeply resentful about unfettered immigration. What lessons can our tiny island learn” – Max Hastings considers America’s Mexican, Korean, Jewish, Irish, African and Italian communities
“Bing-drinking ‘is at the root of most violence’” – S0o, not low self-esteem, then?
Beckhams Cross That Bridge
“BECKHAMS’ minder killed in Iraq blast,” announces the Sun’s front page.
And there is a picture of Merrick McDonald, 42, sat in the front of a car with Posh ‘n’ Becks in the rear.
And instantly we ask: what are Posh ‘n’ Beck doing in Iraq? We understand their desire to construct a truly world brand but Iraq is not yet ready for 00-sized designer jeans and hair gel.
The answer is soon forthcoming. It turns out that at the time of his murder, former Royal Marine Merrick was working as a security escort in Baghdad.
And we learn that he leaves behind two children and a wife.
But this is not just the tale of another callous murder – Merrick was killed by a car bomb. A tragic story of a family wrenched apart. This is a story of Posh ‘n’ Becks.
Listen up as the Sun tells us that while Becks trained with Real Madrid, “Merrick would keep an unblinking eye on Brooklyn as he weaved in and out of the players’ Ferraris in the car park on his BMX bike.”
And now the Sun turns to its Madrid-based reporter, one Eric Beauchamp. Says he: “Now David and Victoria have the unenviable task of finding the right way to explain to Brooklyn why his pal isn’t around anymore.”
But at least Posh ‘n’ Becks can take comfort from knowing that the Sun is right there with them. And that Brooklyn never did go to Iraq…
McCartney Will Not Shrink
THE curly hair. The white skin. The aura of untamed sexual energy.
Can it be that the man seen in the Mail riding a bicycle along the Hove seafront with little Beatrice McCartney being pulled along behind in a kind of wheeled tent is the German star of Die Freuden der Liebe, Heather Mill’s seminal work?
Reading the story proper, the Mail tells us this cyclist goes by the name of Ben Amigoni and is 24. This rules him out – the book was published in 1988, when Ben would have been about six years old.
But Ben’s look is familiar and it might just be that a sequel to Heather’s epic tome is being planned.
That for later. For now, Ben, Heather’s personal trainer, is with Bea.
And Bea’s daddy, Paul McCartney, is with his psychiatrist, a meeting of minds the Sun heralds with the front-page headline: “MACCA SEES SHRINK.”
“Agonised” and “tormented” Sir Paul is seeing the psychiatrist as the “DIVORCE BATTLE OF CENTURY” rages. As a source says: “He is suffering deeply and her lies will only add to his anguish.”
A headline within the paper tells us: “Macca’s children are only reason he hasn’t cracked.” He has been drawing “enormous strength” from his children, Stella, Mary and James.
They have been a “towers of strength to him”. They have instilled in him the necessary vim to fight. Paul has vowed to take on Heather “vigorously”.
But Paul is not as young as he once was. A pal tells the paper that the divorce is “taking a toll on his appearance”. Paul looks “tired” and “strained”. Perhaps he’s looking as tired and strained as Heather.
It might just be that the winner in this battle is the one who can look the frailest and most pathetic when the judge makes their ruling…
Drug Rap
“GEORGE MICHAEL ON DRUGS,” promises the Mirror’s front page.
And in honour of this “EXCLUSIVE”, the paper bills itself as “A BETTER WEED”, a pun on narcotics, such as those being lit and inhaled by the singer.
Chances are that the Mirror is printed on smoking paper, which can be rolled up and placed between the lips in the manner of a huge Cromwell Carrot. Igniting the rag will unleash a miasma of intoxicating ink and make you forget about wars and so-called serious news.
But for now we read the thing, and thereby learn that George has been on the telly.
And in this interview, to be screened on ITV1, George openly smokes a joint before the cameras. In between drags on the noxious weed, George says: “This stuff keeps me sane and happy.”
And so it might. But for many, drug taking is a menace, and we call to mind those among us who have spent passages of their lives sat behind Michael as he sits slumped at the wheel of his Range Rover entranced by the magic of traffic light.
But George seems happy enough. And alongside a picture of him smiling and holding a lit refer, George tells Melvyn Bragg: “I’d say it’s a great drug – but obviously it’s not very healthy. You can’t afford to smoke it if you’ve got anything to do. Anything at all would be foolish.”
And that would be anything like driving a car, singing a song on stage or being interviewed on TV?
Not that George smokes while driving. A message that appears at the start of the broadcast states in bald terms: “George Michael wishes to inform viewers he has never tested positive for drink or drugs when driving.”
How he has achieved this is no small thing. And if George can tell all, Briton’s teenagers and mini-cab drivers would be very appreciative.
As the Mirror notes, this is George, the driver found asleep at the wheel in central London back in February; George who drove into three parked cars in April; George who earlier this month became captivated by traffic lights.
But no fear. As the singer says, he’s not worried. “The public think I’m a man on the brink of a breakdown because I fell asleep in my car, I hit a parked car and because I cruise as a gay man,” says he.”
But he’s not. “I feel good,” says George. “I live in the house of my dreams with the man of my dreams. I’m happy with the music I’m making – and I’m still loaded.”
And watching George get loaded, our thoughts wander. And we think of food, amazing traffic lights and how we are going to, er, you know, finish this…
Madonna’s Maternal Girl
MORE news of little David Banda now.
With the boy in London Town, the Sun publishes a picture of the first time he and Madonna met.
Beneath a tree in deepest Malawi, crouched above the parched ground, Madonna cradles Davie Twist in her arms.
Liz Rosenberg, Madge’s spokeswoman, explains. “It was love at first sight,” says she.
And a witness to the scene tells People magazine: “The look of pure joy on her face was beyond words – not unlike when her own kids Lourdes and Rocco were born.”
And unlike the arrival of her other children, Davie has had little or no impact on Madonna’s figure.
Motherhood is a wonderful thing. And who better than Vinnie Jones, football enforcer-turned actor, to tell us all about it.
“If you knew them,” says Vinnie, “they probably wanted to adopt every one of those children at the orphanage.
“They don’t just wake in the morning and think, ‘Let’s do this today’. They will have completely thought it over.”
But it’s not for everyone. It’s not for Vinnie. “I’d love to do it but the way I’m working, I wouldn’t be fair,” says he.
For sure. Children often thrive in a stable environment. Whether it be in London, Los Angels, London, Malawi…
What’s My Line?
PITY the wannabe celebrity as she looks though her coin purse and dreams of the day she too can spend a £1,000 a week on cocaine.
For now the young twirly with dreams of presenting, reality TV and breast augmentation can make ready for her moment of destiny by using her Tesco club card to “chop” piles of salt, sugar and dandruff into “lines”.
And she can read the Mirror’s story on Tom Chaplin. “CHARLIE CHAPLIN,” says the headline. “EXCLUSIVE. Keane frontman Tom spent £1,000 a week on cocaine.”
We at Anorak have little idea what the going rate for cocaine is, but having learnt just last week that Justin Hawkin’s, frontman of The Darkness, spent £1,000 a week on the drug, we realise that £1,000 a week is the going rate for the stuff.
What a grand gets you, we are never told. It might be a single line, half a line or a just a dot of the powder. All we know for sure is that whatever the quantity, it costs popstars who confess to taking a £1,000 a week. No discounts.
(Note to wannabes: while saving £1,000 for a week’s worth of cocaine is commendable, the associated publicised period of recovery in rehab costs far more and should be budgeted for.)
And here is Tom to tell us that now he’s no longer on cocaine. “It’s something I’ve been dealing with,” says he. “…it’s been a tough time for me and anyone around me.”
Especially Tom’s former cocaine dealer who now deprived of Tom’s £1,000 a week may fall into deep fugue that can only be eradicated by therapy and an autobiography…
The Smoking (Class) Rooms
“DEAR Sir,
Can Armani please be excused school today because lessons eat into his smoking time? His dad and me both agree that smoking is a key stage of his growing up and needs to encouraged. Thanks.”
And sir says “yes”. As the Star reports, a policy of smoking time has been introduced at Tinshill Learning Centre in Leeds.
To date, ten parents have sent in notes asking that their little darlings be allowed to smoke on the school premises.
As the paper says, the aim is “to stop rows between teachers, who aren’t allowed to light up, and puffing pupils”. If mum and dad say Armani and Brad can smoke at school, then that is fine.
The school deals with badly behaved pupils who have been expelled form some other seat of learning. Their smoking might just about be the only part of their schooling they excel at.
But not everyone is impressed by Angelina’s smoke rings. Laurie Herbert, advisor on health and safety matters to the National Union of Teachers, says: “We’re rather astounded…it’s a health concern for the pupils and it’s a passive smoking concern for staff who have to supervise them.”
It is hard not to pity the poor teacher as, fiddling with his multiple nicotine patches and chomping on nicotine gum, he looks on as his charges spark up a fag.
But no-one said teaching was easy. Sir will just have to get over it. Or puff away behind the bike sheds with the other teachers…
Madonna Considered
MADONNA is back in London Town with her new child. And all is well in the land of Dickens. Hear ye! Hear ye!
And if little Davie Twist is reading Anorak – as surely he must be – we say consider yourself at home, young rapscallion, consider yourself one of the family, we’ve taken to you so strong, it’s clear we’re going to get along…”
And while we sing in the streets, taking care to avoid the rats and open sewers that plague London town, Madonna bestows gifts upon her newest.
It’s not just silk hankies picked from a pocket or two for little Davie. As the Mail reports, it’s a child-sized electric BMW, to help Davie connect with his inner middle manager. There’s the £5,000 rocking horse. The cuddly toys. The designer clothes.
And lest young Davie Twist feel isolated and confused in his new urban home there is a jungle mural on one wall of his huge bedroom. A source tells of “lions, tigers, those kind of animals”.
The thinking is surely that young Davie will look at the bucolic African landscape and remain in touch with his roots.
Trouble is that home looks nothing so verdant. And while David sees rich greens, the Mail shows his father Yohane stood in a brown field.
Yohane is spraying pesticides on a field of what he hopes will be potatoes. The Star has a similar picture. Yohane spritzes his crops and carries a watering can. It’s his “fight to survive”.
But Yohane has a dream. As he tells the Sun: “I am not seeking anything from Madonna, but when David grows up and is brought here and sees out poverty, he will certainly ask his mum to help.”
It is a neat idea. And we only hope it comes off and in, say, ten years or so, Davie sees his dad’s grinding poverty and presents his old man with a wooden rocking horse, some jungle-print wallpaper and an electric car.
Now, if Yohane can just find somewhere to plug it in..?
The McCartney Witch Hunt
“MACCA: NOW IT’S GETTING REALLY DIRTY,” announces the Mail’s front page.
And we applaud the Mail’s brave decision to publish more shots from Die Freuden der Liebe (The Lover’s Guide), Lady Heather Mills McCartney’s seminal work with body oil and a curly-haired German male.
But the lead picture of Heather sat in a chair, an inch or so of cleavage on display, is all we get. It’s a shot taken from Heather’s appearance on BBC TV’s City Hospital, a daytime show in which people circling the plughole of life can see nurses dressing bed sores.
And yesterday the viewers saw Heather, who, as the Mail tells us, was “discussing, among other things, pain management”.
And Heather knows pain. As the Mail reported yesterday, and the Sun reiterates today (in a front-page “EXCLUSIVE”), Heather claims Paul stabbed her, took drugs and told her that her breasts were his.
The paper produces a picture of Heather and circles a “wound” on her arm, the injury thought to have been caused by the alleged stabbing with a broken wine glass.
But Paul is having none of it. The Sun’s front page sums up Paul’s position: “She’s out to destroy me…it’s BLACKMAIL.”
But Paul should not worry. The simple sword of truth and trusty shield of justice will see him through. And as long as his lawyer, Fiona ‘Steel Magnolia’ Shackleton, can fend of the barbs of Heather’s brief, Anthony ‘Genius’ Julius, and stick one on him, all will be right.
The battle between the lawyers is the sub-plot to this sorry tale. And the Mail lavishes two pages on the lawyers who represented Prince Charles (Shackleton) and Princess Diana (Julius) in that divorce.
Yes, Julius represented Diana. If anyone can make the wife look good and virtuous it is he. Things might go badly for Paul. When the case is shut, Heather may be hailed as the new Diana, while Paul is despised and forced into marriage with a women who looks like his mother.
But this is not allowing for Paul’s mates. Geoff Baker, Paul’s former publicist, tells the Mirror that Heather’s a “f******g fantasist”.
Heather is wounded once more. And now Cilla Black steps forward to deliver the coup de grace. Speaking to the Mail, our Cilla says: “I don’t believe it for a second. That’s not my Pauly, that’s not the Pauly I know.”
Paul will surely win. Money can’t buy Heather love. All you need it love. It’s Mucca versus Pauly. Game over.
But what’s this? Staying with the Mail, we hear from Heather’s spokesman Phil Hall. He reminds us that Heather has been for a revision amputation on her leg. (Remember her leg?). “She has been very unwell and weak, she lost her voice.”
And we can read no more. Poor Heather. Give her the money, Pauly. She doesn’t have a leg. Have a heart, Pauly. All you need is love – she needs urgent medial attention. She’s on City Hospital.
Posted: 19th, October 2006 | In: Tabloids | Comments (2)
Madonna Wants More
WHY it’s little Davie Twist, as we live and breath.
Madonna’s new boy is in olde London Town, learning to pick-a-pocket or two and that large amounts don’t grow on trees.
He’s also learning the alphabet, courtesy of the Sun. “A is for apple,” says the paper, wondering if little Davie Twist will bump into Gwyneth Paltrow’s boy at nursery.
“F is for Fat Auntie Elton [John]… M is for Malawi and Marble Arch… P is for pensioner. What mum will be when I’m a teenager…” And so on.
And here’s Madonna telling the Sun that she will do anything, for Davie, dear, anything, yes she’d do anything (anything?) anything for him.
In an Open Letter from Madonna, the new Kabbalah Jew of London Town, we learn: “It was my wish to open up our home and help one child escape an extreme life of hardship, poverty and, in many cases, death, as well as expand our family.”
And that’s a family that may yet expand some more. As the Mirror’s front page says: “NOW I WANT A GIRL.”
Madonna is reportedly keen to adopt a three-year-old girl from the same village as young David. “I saw this girl with the saddest smile,” says Madge. “I told Guy ‘We must give this child a home too.”
And so it will be. And very soon Madonna’s place will be packed to the rafters with little loves, each with a silk hanky on their pillows and glass of gin and warm water in their hands.
But all is not well. The Star tells us that there is trouble afoot and Madonna’s husband, Guy Ritchie, is reviewing the situation – “pals said the couple’s marriage is in crisis.”
If true, we fear Madge and Guy will separate, leaving Madonna alone in London with her brood.
But never fear, boys, chin up. Tis hot sausage and mustard for dinner, with piled peaches and cream for pudding…
PHWOARSKI!
PHWOARSKI! It’s “sizzling” Daria Zhukova, the Russian with the “red hot curves”.
The Sun has a picture of the 23-year-old Russian who is allegedly involved with oil tycoon and all-round rich man Roman Abramovich.
Roman is fast approaching his 40th birthday, and stories abound that he is getting ready to embrace middle age by romancing the much younger model.
Roman’s wife Irina, is, as the paper notes, said to be “agonising” over their marriage.
And now Irina can agonise some more as she views the Sun’s snap of Daria wearing a bikini and soaking up the sun with her former boyfriend, tennis player Marat Safin.
A shot of the former couple is captioned: “Tan-tastic fun… Marat rubs suncream on Daria.”
Marat is sat on a chair. Daria is perched just in front. Her back faces towards him.
And looking at the expression on Daria’s face, she is either in utter agony as Marat rubs cream onto a raw spot of third-degree sunburn or else is in a state of ecstasy as Marat hits her sweet spot.
Whatever is occurring under the skies of Tuscany, it captivates the Star, which looks long and hard at “ROMAN’S RAUNCHY BABESKI”. Daria “had “onlookers gasping as she writhed on a deckchair” with Marat.
Whether Daria has pulled similar faces in Roman’s company is another matter…
There Be Grapes
THEY’VE got grapes in Westcliffe-on-Sea. Big ones. Juicy.
“I haven’t seen anything like it in my life,” says Sylvia Gibson, 57, who has seen the fruit in the ripe flesh. “It’s amazing.”
Indeed. Not since Sir Walter Raleigh returned from the New World holding a potato and proclaiming it to be the very Viagra of life has there been so much excitement in the land.
As Sylvia continues: “I’ve picked walnuts, blackberries, raspberries and apples, but didn’t think I’d ever be picking grapes.”
Who would dare imagine think such a thing? And what odds one of this island race even recognising a grape, let alone knowing to pick it and much less dare place it between tooth and tongue?
But there are grapes. And this country has a long and proud tradition in welcoming new arrivals, even if they have got here by possibly illegal means.
As the Mail reports, the grapes, which grow on a “vine”, are thought to be the result of a train passenger (possibly foreign) throwing a half-eaten bunch of the fruits from the train window.
So much sunshine, rain and failing to keep the area clean later, and the seeds have taken root and developed into a fruiting vine.
And, for purposes of identification, the Mail asks Sylvia to pull on her grape spotter’s hat and show us what they look like.
Theses grapes really do look delicious. But they are almost black in hue, and, accordingly, should be treated with utmost caution and suspicion…
