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.
The Daily Lohan
IN today’s “The Daily LOHAN”, the renamed Daily Mirror has a picture of Lindsay Lohan holding a mobile phone to one ear, her right one.
Why? We can only guess. But since Lindsay’s doing it you can bet it won’t be long before we’re all at it and everyone from wannabe stars to plumbers and even estate agents is holding a phone to their ear in public.
And this is not all. The Daily Lohan says that the “actress” (and those are the Mirror’s inverted commas not ours), is now in her native New York.
Just days after appearing at London clubs, she’s at the city’s Bungalow 8 venue.
And the Mirror is impressed. It wonders how 19-year-old Lindsay manages to do it. Perhaps it is because she is young? Perhaps it is because she sleeps on the plane and has staff to cater to her ever whim? Perhaps it is because there is not one Lindsay but several, each functioning for a single night before burning out?
We do not know. But the Lindsay in today’s Mirror “has been spotted taking ice from her – numerous – drinks and putting it on her eyes to keep the puffiness down the next day”.
This is telling stuff. And right it is that the Mirror says “ice on, Linz” to this ice cool starlet.
Expect more news tomorrow – when Lindsay puts her hair in bun, her feet in some shoes and The Daily Lohan gives away a free Lindsay ice cube with every copy…
Jade Goody’s PA System
IT must be hard work being as thick as Jade Goody. Or “dippy” as the Sun says.
Jade operates as some council estate Bertie Wooster, a mentally negligible sort who, though nice enough, finds herself in all manner of scrapes. For Bertie’s “What ho-ing!” it’s Jade’s “You What-ing?”
Now, as the Sun reports, Jade is in trouble with the law. You what! She’s racked up £8,000 of car fines.
But what with Jade being thicker than Gussie Fink-Nottle’s custard, she needs a professional to sort her tickets out. Jade needs a Jeeves.
“My PA will get a bloody good salary,” says Jade. “I had to find someone to help. They’ll probably take my car off me if I didn’t pay.”
So she needs someone to sort out her tickets. And her life. On Monday, Jade turned up to a radio interview in her pyjamas.
A source tells the paper: “She was a bit red-faced but is so busy she doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.”
What a silly. But with some help, Jade can yet prosper. And with any luck she can employ someone really brainy.
The only trouble is that this new PA might make Jade look even more professionally dim. And how awful would that be?
Jay Kay’s ‘Ell
WHILE Lindsay Lohan sunk vodka inside London’s Kabaret Prophecy club, and photographers vied to look up her skirt, outside on the pavement singer Jay Kay was defending her honour.
The Sun has a picture of the 36-year-old Jamiroquai front man aiming a pretty lame looking punch at the head of 50-year-old snapper Alan Chapman.
Chapman reels away, perhaps in delight. After all, his fellow photographer Alessandro Copetti is well positioned to get a decent look at the aggressive and drunk singer.
As he tells the paper: “He was steaming drunk. Photographers were waiting for the actress Lindsay Lohan – but Jay Kay thought we were there for him.”
Thought. Or hoped? Can there be anything more depressing for a once top star than the realisation that you are old news? “Move out the way, son,” say the snappers to the singer of yesterday’s sound. “You’re blocking our view of the real star.”
Perhaps this is so. Or, as we say, perhaps Jay Kay is looking out for Lohan, creating a diversion so she and her knickerless backside can snake away unnoticed?
We are not sure. But Jay is putting up a decent show. The “Bop Star” (Star) is hurling abuse
The Mirror hears him shout “monkey” at the snappers. But before they could reply “bananas”, “nuts” or some other associated word, Jay Kay had moved on.
Approaching one photographer, he asked: “Are you Italian?” He then hit him. “Well, you aren’t fast enough.”
Yes, we thought so too. Playing word games with Jay Kay is no fun at all. And after that – is the inference that Italians run away? – Jay then punched the aforesaid Chapman in the head, knocking off his glasses.
Police were called. Jay Kay was arrested. And, as a passer-by tells the Mirror, the signer told the officers: “I pay your wages!” The police are said to have reminded him that everyone pays their wages. To which Jay is said to have replied: “You all live in poverty, you miserable f***ers!” He then called the photographers “gay boys from the south” and promised that he could take them all on.
And meanwhile Lindsay Lohan made good her escape…
Lindsay Lohan Grins And Bares It
WHAT began in jest is now fact as we turn to the Mirror and read “The Daily LOHAN”.
Just yesterday we at Anorak noted that the Mirror’s 3am Girls now function as diary keepers for Hollywood starlet Lindsay Lohan, aged 19 (20 in the Star).
No move the ginger one makes is left undocumented. And today in the Daily Lohan we learn that Lindsay owns a black dress that ties around the middle and has been drinking vodka inside London’s Kabaret Prophecy nightclub.
And once again Lindsay did not seem all that infatuated with boyfriend Harry Morton. As one insider says: “Lindsay and Harry barely talked all night, she was just dancing with other blokes and gave her number out all night.”
Lindsay just gives until she has nothing left to give. And then she gives us a shot of her vagina.
For reasons of decency, the Sun covers up the bared area in its shot of Lindsay exiting a car in a manner unbefitting a young lady.
The Star has the same picture, choosing to conceal the Lohan “full details” behind the word “COMMANDO!”
Surely an unadulterated image will appear on the internet, not that Lindsay should mind. As an “onlooker” says: “One of the photographers zoomed up close and personal and Lindsay simply giggled.”
Well, lenses can tickle…
Out Of Fashion
FOR someone so very thin, Victoria Beckham takes up an awful lot of space.
There’s a shot of Her Poshness on the front of the Express. “POSH TAKES THE PLUNGE,” announces the caption beneath a picture of Victoria in a white top slashed to an area just south of her toffee-apple-shaped breasts.
The headline is a little misleading. It’s not Posh who has plunged – diving into the waters and vying to become the new Steve Irwin – but her top.
And Sun readers can get to see the headline-making top in full colour. In New York for Fashion Week, Posh has met the Americans in this white top, high-waisted tartan pencil skirt and long black gloves.
Readers are understandably impressed. And wowed when they read that this is only one of THREE outfits Posh wore in a single day.
And while the Star looks at “the saucy minx” and zooms in on Vicky’s plunging neckline and the contour of one breast, the Mirror gives the bigger picture.
As the headline writ across two pages announces: “72 hours, 8 outfits, 1 Posh.”
By a combination of luck and careful eating Posh’s thinness enables the Mirror to produce full-length colour pictures of each outfit.
Indeed, Posh may like to note that if the Mirror is prepared to do away with a narrow column about four men appearing in court on “terror charges”, she can cram in another one or two looks.
But while Mirror readers learn “How to look Posh…for a lot less dosh”, the Mail clacks its tongue and sneers.
“POSH THE FASHION LIABILITY,” says the headline. “Five days. Ten outfits. And one would-be style icon who just can’t get it right.”
Are we to believe that Posh’s changes are a desperate bid to find a look that works for her? Once again, thanks to Posh’s skeletal dimensions, the Mail manages to picture all ten outfits and still find room for its fashion expert to cast an eye over each.
And Liz Jones, for it is she, says Vicky no longer gets as many freebies as she once did. Why? “Because the moment VB is spotted out and about in a certain look…she kills it stone dead. Victoria Beckham is now a fashion liability.”
This is tough stuff. Surely Jones means to say Vicky is a fashion ambassador, a thin beacon of hope in a sea of replica football kits, shell suits and chapped thighs.
It is true that few other women dress like Posh, but we believe this is a simple matter of geometry – very few fit and fed adult women can fit into such tiny clothes.
It’s not Posh who is unfashionable – it is we who are too fat…
Lindsay Lohan’s Diary
“HEY guys, i’m soooo sooo sorry i haven’t written in a while!!” writes Lindsay Lohan in the journal on her official website.
And she has been busy. So busy that her last journal entry is dated October 15, 2003.
It has been left up to the press to produce a diary of Lindsay’s life. When she sits back down and makes ready to update her website, Lindsay will thank the British press for documenting her every move.
Just get load of today’s entry in the Mirror. “LOHAN’S LOVER LOSES IT,” says the headline. “EXCLUSIVE – Harry hits the roof after Lindsay spends night flirting with DJ.”
Readers learn that Lindsay has been at Cliveden House, a refurbished stately home now. And Lindsay and her boyfriend Harry Morton, son of billionaire Harry, arrived for a party.
But while Harry mingled, the Mirror says Lindsay cosied up to Sam Young. The Mirror has a picture of Lindsay and DJ Sam in the tent erected by London club Boujis.
And Harry was, apparently, less than pleased. He accused his lover of “not paying him enough attention”. She told him to stop being “insecure”.
A “stunned partygoer” explains: “When they arrived at the bash, they were chatting to everyone. But once in the Boujis tent, Lindsay made a beeline for Sam… Then she began stroking his back and being playful. At one stage they even swapped numbers!”
Should Lindsay hang onto this number, she can scan it into her journal, alongside the Mirror’s report.
It will help Lindsay to remember the glory days, when she talked to DJs in tents, and the world took notice…
Pony Tale
UNLESS you are a wealthy Royal or a four-foot-tall Irishman, chances are that you will never know the thrill of competitive equestrianism.
The only way you can gain entry to this coterie of the racing elite is to be very rich or very talented at the sport. Preferably both. You need to be a winner. And if that means winning at all costs, then so be it.
Mindful of this we turn to the Mail which brings pressing news from the Pony Club.
As the paper says, the “competitive spirit runs deep” in this bastion of middle class mores.
And things might have gone a little further than before. Kim Baudains, marshalling Josh Baudains, her 11-yer-old son, is to be questioned by the police following allegations that drugs have entered the field of play.
Let it not be said that Kim has been doping her son’s rivals, spiking their isotonic sports drinks with laxatives or Coca Cola. Perish the thought. Neither has Josh been pumped full of steroids and THT. This is pony riding, not athletics. The allegation is that she has been tampering with the horses.
It is alleged that Mrs Baudains fed fast-acting sedatives to ponies.
It was a qualifying round of the British Showjumping Association’s junior championships at St Lawrence, Jersey, and 30 riders were ready to do battle.
Competition was fierce. And the allegation is that to make it less fierce, sedate even, Mrs Baudains fed “mints” to a number of ponies. It is further alleged that an owner of two ponies saw a “mint” fall from one animal’s mouth. And on closer inspection it was found to be a not-all-that-minty acetylpromazine sedative tablet.
Blood samples were taken. Mrs Baurdains was reduced to floods of tears. A spokesman for the suspect explains: “This is in our solicitor’s hands. It’s very upsetting, particularly for Josh.”
Yes poor Josh. According to a source, Josh has a few ponies, not just one. He also has “an over-ambitious mother”.
But let us not forget the real victims here. And our thoughts are with poor Flying Sunbeam, who was so worse for wear he needed assistance to be loaded into a trailer to take him back home, French Mustard, Dromard Gizmo and Chloe Coote.
Tally ho, trusty steeds. Tally ho!
Harry & Willy
THAT Prince Harry’s his father’s son all right.
Just get a load of him sticking his hand down his trousers in public and rearranging his tampon, or whatever it is he keeps down there.
Harry is at a polo meet and the Sun has captured the moment of adjustment in glorious technicolour.
Of course, we have seen this kind of thing before. The old hand down the polo pants caper is a move we have seen Prince Charles make in the national press.
And while Harry gropes with his heritage (a nice change from groping someone else’s breasts), the Sun is distracted.
Who is that ravishing creature, that vision of loveliness in the pale blue bikini. The long legs. The yellowy hair. The reserved nature. Why if we didn’t know better we’d wager it was Princess Diana herself.
But looking again we see that it is not. It is Prince William. And this get up is in honour of a 007-themed do at Sandhurst College.
Wills thought it a good idea to dress up as a Bond Girl. Girlfriend Kate Middleton was resplendent in wet suit and toy gun.
While this is an improvement on his brother’s favoured garb of a Nazi uniform, it is nonetheless a shocker. “It’s not often you get to spend the evening with the future King wearing a bikini,” says a Sandhurst source.”
Indeed not. Such a treat is usually reserved for the Royal Family’s inner circle of trusted friends and relations.
The rest of us have to make do with them dressed up as jockeys with their hand down their pants…
Something Fishy
“IRWIN was the real Crocodile Dundee, a great Australian, an ambassador for wildlife, a global phenomenon, a superhuman generator of merchandise, books, interactive video-games and action figures.”
Germaine Greer wrote that as part of her look at the life and times of her countryman Steve Irwin, the man “the animal world has finally taken its revenge on”.
And now Irwin has spawned a new product. We are still waiting for the Irwin memorabilia business to get into full swing. The Steve cuddly croc, the lifelike porcelain figurine and the commemorative plates have yet to arrive in the shops.
And books about the larrikin – works like: The Final Hours; Steve: Portrait Of An Outback Prince; and Steve: In Pursuit of Crocs – The Princess Diana I Knew – are awaiting final edits.
No the new product is a film of Irwin being harpooned by a stingray. As the Star’s front-page headline says: “CROC HUNTER DEATH FILM ON WEB.”
Branded an “EXCLUSIVE”, the paper says that thousands of sickos and weirdos – and some intrepid hacks in the pursuit of a chilling story – have scoured the web for footage of Steve’s last moments.
This is grim. “Steve is a national hero, he deserves better,” says Wayne Pointing, of Sydney. “These people are sick. The guy’s only been dead a few days. Show some respect,” chimes Joe, also from Sydney.
Indeed. There is a protocol with such things. The Dianafication of Steve means that while jokes will be made they must be whispered in dark corners. Sensationalism must be passed off as investigative journalism. We must hear his name and emote.
But then we read that this is not the real footage. The Star’s shock-horror story is based on spoof videos of Steve swimming with a stingray.
There’s a film of puppets re-enacting Steve’s last moments. The sick and twisted movie is backed by the theme tune to the 1960s TV show Stingray.
Another video turns out to be a game in which Steve’s widow Terri gets the opportunity to shoot murderous stingrays.
This is no joke. Really it is not. As Josh Tuttle, creator of the Steve Irwin shoot-em-up game, explains: “This is intended to be a memorial and NOT a funny parody.”
Indeed. And it will have to do until the statue can be built, a minute’s silence observed and the rest of the memorabilia business catches up…
Posted: 12th, September 2006 | In: Tabloids | Comments (3)
Catching Peaches
“WE’RE still playing everywhere all the time, we just can’t post out gigs on this site. So if you want to know where our next gig is, contact our booking agent or us.” So says Peaches Geldof on her website.
The Star says dad Bob Geldof has imposed a strict 9pm curfew on his daughter. He is said to be upset at her DJ-ing and prefers it that she knuckles down to her studies.
But we want to know where the next Peaches gig is. Peaches is in a band called Rubbish Doggs, Crab Bitches, Trash Puppies or something. It’s a post modern act in which instead of sitting in her room playing records, 17-year-old Peaches goes out and plays records in someone else’s room, club, pub or tent.
And to discover the venue for Peaches’s next gig, we plan to call at the Geldof home. And having gained entry by way of our cunning disguise (Bono, Nelson Mandela or Phil Collins are the preferred choices), we intend to ask Peaches about her performances.
Of course, we need to time things properly. Peaches might not be home. She could be at her £15,000-a-year school, where she’s studying for A–Levels in classics, English and politics.
Calling while Peaches is out could mean spending time in the company of Bob, and being forced to talk about world issues and, very possibly, hear him sing or play one of his own records…
Church Banns Pete Doherty
IT’S September 11 2006. And the Star leads with news that Pete Doherty loves Kate Moss.
So much does Pete love Kate that he is prepared to marry her. This is all well and good.
But don’t we want more from the man with the hit rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle (if not the hit rock ‘n’ roll songs) than conventional marriage. Come on, Pete, shock us.
Pete seems to have heard our plea. And the Star says he will break with tradition and write his own wedding banns. Nice try Pete, but where have you been? Everyone writes their own banns these days. You need to go further. Come on, Pete. Come on. Try.
But we need not fear. This is Pete Doherty and he is edgy, different and, er, edgy. He has heard our clamour for something daring. And we read that he wants to write his wedding banns…in blood. And the chosen liquid is not the vicar’s blood but his own.
Nice work, Pete. But you’re ahead of your time. A friend of the 27-year-old singer says when Pete turned up at Fulham Town Hall to fill in the forms, bureaucratic spoil sports scuppered his “romantic gesture”.
As a source says: “It was explained to him that there are health issues and council rules.” Yes, Pete Doherty, wild man of pop has been stymied by health and safety guidelines.
Realising that blood was off, and other personal fluids would be unlikely to receive a more favourable response, Pete declined the chance to select from an array or approved Biros and left.
But no mere Biro can stand between Pete and his destiny. And we excitedly await the next instalment of Pete and Kate.
And Pete walking up the aisle backwards or doing something else equally whacky, outrageous and rock ‘n’ roll…
Who Wants To Be Mrs Tarrant?
IT’S September 11, 2006, and there can be only one story: “TARRANT & THE BIMBOS,” announces the Mirror on its front page.
In the style of the Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? show fronted by Chris Tarrant, for it is he, the paper could have built things up.
The Mirror should have asked its readers: Which story is the big news event of the day: a) the anniversary of the start of the War on Terror; b) Chris Tarrant; c) Pete Doherty (Star); or d) Princess Diana (Mail and Express)?
A split decision between c, and d (stories that can lead the news on any given day) could have resulted in the paper asking the audience, all “drunken bimbos” of the type that “hurl themselves” at Chris.
Like the bimbo Chris, 59, and married, is said to have got off with in a Surrey bar. After the alleged kiss, Chris is said to have yelled: “This is the woman I want to be the next Mrs Tarrant!”
Chris is in the R Bar is Esher, Surrey, known locally as “Divorce Central”. And Chris’s wife Ingrid knows 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 has nothing to fear. Ingrid and Chris’s relationship is as solid as the bull-bars on an Esher woman’s pristine 4×4. And if anyone doubts it, Ingrid says they can check out the CCTV footage of the bar and know that Chris got up to nothing more than sitting “in the corner watching TV”.
“I didn’t even ask him about kissing anyone because I suspect he didn’t,” says Ingrid. “It would be something that someone did to him and before he knew it, it was all over.”
And even if there was a kiss, Chris wouldn’t be able to remember. “Chris certainly wasn’t aware of kissing anyone,” says Ingrid. “I think he was so drunk he wouldn’t have known what he did. If anyone did know what happened, he’d be the last to know.”
And any gaps in Chris’s memory can be plugged by a night in with his lovely wife watching CCTV footage of the non-event.
And with that cleared up, we turn to the Mail and read: “‘Drunken twit’ Tarrant thrown out by wife for canoodling.” The paper says Chris has been “banished” from the family home.
Or maybe he’s just forgotten where he lives. Anyone got any CCTV footage of his last movements?
Posted: 11th, September 2006 | In: Tabloids | Comment (1)
To Hell In A Dustcart
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
“We are STILL closing our eyes to terror – and our enemies know it” – Melanie Phillips’ eyes are open wide shut
“MONSOON BRITAIN. Scientists warn the future is cloudburst and floods. So will the gentle drizzle we love to hate give way to tropical downpours?” – So much for drought
“Cosmetics ‘expose women to 175 chemicals in a day’” – So says campaign group Chemical Safe Skincare, which was set up by, er, producers of natural products
TUESDAY
“Yes, we’re all going to hell in a dustcart” – Richard Littlejohn trades in his tried-and-tested handcart
“is your bubble bath safe? bath foam that triggers headaches. Shampoo full of cancer-causing chemicals. And shower gel that attacks your skin. As experts warn of the chemicals in our toiletries, we reveal the health hazards in your bathroom cabinet” – Don’t wash!
“27 – The percentage by which you are more likely to have a heart attack on your birthday” – Many happy returns
“I thought I had toothache – but it was jaw cancer. Now my face has been rebuilt with my hipbone” – More tales from the operating theatre
“Binges make your baby an alcoholic” – HEADLINE OF THE WEEK
“WONDER LOAVES! THEY CLAIM TO CUT HEART DISEASE. BOOST GUT BACTERIA AND EVEN EASE THE MENOPAUSE. But are the new super-loaves really the best thing since sliced bread?” – Are they?
“COULD HRT LEAD TO DEAFNESS?” – Depends how near you sit to the Henmaniacs. Henman! Henman! Henman!
WEDNESDAY
“An invasion of A&E. Hospitals hit by GP out-of-hours ban” – GPS are opting out of weekend and evening work
THURSDAY
“Babies who miss jabs ‘at higher risk of asthma’” – So says team of British and Swiss researchers
“Blood pressure drug could cause 8,000 diabetes cases a year” – Beta-blockers could be dangerous
“Why women are the real losers in divorce. Divorce may not only break a woman’s heart it might also give her heart disease” – Zhenmei Zhan of Bowling State University, Ohio, investigates
“A&E patients ‘put at risk by untested treatments’” – Professor Ian Roberts says car crash victims “run the gauntlet of untested treatments”
“Danger at the nail bar. Health scare over fashion boom driven by Victoria and Coleen” – Infection from dirty equipment, dangerous chemicals
“Once single women were on the shelf at 25. Then it was 35. Now, with divorce and demanding careers, there’s a new Last chance saloon for LOVE” – Help!
FRIDAY
“Fears for elderly as npower lift prices” – Are OAPs fossil fuels?
“NHS ‘rife with ageism’” – Professor John Young, (age on application) says the over 80s gets less care
Back On Track
“PEOPLE keep asking when I’m having the next one,” says Victoria Beckham, “but it’s tricky having three young boys.”
Indeed it must be. And we wish Vicky well, and hope that she finds time to have a really big meal sometime soon.
Of course, Vicky is not talking about food but having another child. “I’m thinking next year would be a good time to try. I would like another one. (Really, she is not talking about a meal.)
And what better place to try for a baby than in the breeding ground the Mirror calls the “city of love”? Vicky and Day-vid are in Venice. And while we await the arrival of Rialto Beckham, the Star spots the couple taking a constitutional stroll around town.
But who is that scruffy type with Her Poshness? Why, it is Dayve. Who else would Vicky be holding hands with and allowing to fondle her backside – and in full view of the cameras?
It’s just that while Posh wears a trademark dress, Dayve is clad in a pair of dirty-looking jeans, a revolting grey shirt, a waistcoat and an oversize cap. As the Mail says, Dave looks not enough unlike Alan Hale, star of 1950s American TV series Casey Jones.
All aboard the Cannonball Express! David Beckham climbs in the cabin/ David Beckham orders in his hand. David Beckham leanin’ out the window taking a trip to the Promised Land.
And if Johnny Cash is not Dayve’s thing, nor the Grateful Dead’s paean to the engine driver (“Driving that train, high on cocaine, Casey Jones is ready, watch your speed”), he can always sing along with Posh as he builds up ahead of steam. And she has a new tune.
As the Star reveals: “POSH’S SECRET ALBUM – We reveal record that’s so bad SHE never wanted you to hear it.”
The songs are said to be especially terrible. And here comes Dave riding his railroad train, ready to run over the tracks. And towards his lover…
Are You Paris Hilton?
IS this the Paris Hilton sex tape sequel so many have been waiting for?
Ever since Paris was filmed in a steamy canoodle with a certain Rick Solomon, film buffs have been excitedly awaiting another straight-to-internet performance.
And now we read “PARIS IN CUFFS” on the Mirror’s front page. We dim the lights, strategically position our popcorn and take our seats for the main event. We are not prudes – a little light bondage never hurt anyone, not really.
But this is no Paris Hilton sex tape. It’s just Paris being led away in real handcuffs by a member of the Los Angeles Police Department.
Doubtless we will get to read more about Paris’s arrest on LAPD official blogs, but for now the news is the Mirror’s for the moulding.
And reading on we learn that Paris was spotted by police driving erratically in her £300,000 Mercedes. The paper says at least five policemen blocked off her car. Paris was “hauled” out and breathalysed. She was found to be possession of an alcohol level of 0.8 per cent – just over the limit.
The Mirror says was then charged, fingerprinted and had her mugshot taken for posterity (think Nick Nolte in higher heels).
“YOU GONNA COME QUIETLY, Ms HILTON?” asks the Sun’s headline, snickering into its hankie, showing that even in times of high drama it is not above extending the sticky hand of male adolescence.
Paris, of course, did go quietly. She’s did not see Jews, like Mel Gibson, allegedly, or flip her car over, like Haley Joel Osment.
And having been met at the Hollywood police station by her sister Nicky Hilton, her boyfriend Kevin Connolly and her publicist Elliot Mintz, Paris was soon allowed to go. (Contrary to the Mirror’s report, Reuters says Paris was not charged.)
And now breathing the sweet, smoggy air of LA freedom, Paris speaks.
“My SLR is pretty fast,” says Paris in the Sun, referring to her car in that LA way of speaking in labels, “so maybe I was speeding a little bit and got pulled over.”
Paris then employs the Margarita Defence. “I had one margarita [and] was starving because I had not eaten all day. Maybe I was speeding a little bit and I got pulled over. I was just really hungry and I wanted to have an In-N-Out Burger."
And once again we are back with the Paris of old…
Jamie ‘F***ing’ Oliver
JAMIE Oliver is on the campaign trail.
Jamie is “f***ing bored with being polite”. The world is in a terrible state. The time for action is now. Come one, Jamie. F***ing come on!
“Now is the time to says ‘if you’re giving your young children fizzy drinks, you’re an a*******, you’re a tosser’.”
Say it, Jamie. Say it. “If you aren’t cooking them a hot meal, sort it out.” Say it Jamie. F***ING say it.
And he’s saying it in the Mail. “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. F*** that! Say it, Jamie. F***ing say it.
“You laugh and then you want to cry.” You do. You f***ing do. It’s tantamount to child abuse. It f***ing is.
“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.”
F***ing right, Jamie. Give them a line of coke. Or an entire f***ing can of the stuff…
Wayne Rooney – Dancer
“ROO DECKS PREM STAR IN CLUB.” So says the front page of the Sun.
It could never be long in the coming. As soon as Wayne Rooney, for it is he, rested his bruised metatarsal in the yielding groin of a prone Portuguese we watched for a repeat performance.
And what better place to do The Rooney than in Manchester’s “fashionable” Panacea bar.
While other clubbers “put the left foot in, left foot out, do La Rooney, and scream and shout”, the Sun tells its readers about Rooneys latest escapades.
It seems that while in the club, the dance master was approached by Blackburn Rovers full-back Michael Gray.
A witness says that Wayne, in the company of the lovely Coleen McLoughlin and three other couples, was soon roused.
Says the source: “He’d been drinking and said Wayne should share the girls around and suggested they take two each.” The Sun says Gray asked Wayne if he and Coleen were up for “threesome”.
“He became increasingly obnoxious,” continues the source. “Wayne was very cool to begin with but Gray wouldn’t back off.”
So Wayne hit him. He put his fist in (to Gray’s face), his fist back out, he waved it in the air, he began to scream and shout.”
It was a great night. And while the Sun shows a picture of a forlorn Gray hiding his bruise behind sunglasses, we salute Rooney – footballer, lover and dancer par excellence…
God Speed
CAN you be baptised with Cherryade? What about Lilt? Pernod?
We only ask because we are about to board the school bus to Townsend Church of England School, St Albans, and are concerned that we are unfit for travel.
We have read the Express’s report that Sydnie Jai, 11, has been banned from travelling on the school bus on account of her not having been baptised.
As a non believer, a heathen if you will, Sydnie must travel by public transport. Her slow ride to hell features two buses divided by a lengthy wait in bus stop limbo.
“My daughter’s first day at school has been ruined by this ridiculous rule”, says Sydnie’s mum Frances Wood.
Nick Seaton, from the Campaign for Real Education, agrees that it is “ridiculous”. Says he: “To discriminate against young children is absolutely disgraceful”. It’s “probably illegal”.
But what is the law of land against the will of God? And the Express hears from a spokesman for Hertfordshire County Council, which operates the Highway to Heaven.
“We think it is quite reasonable when offering transport to faith schools that parents show that the child is of that faith.”
Indeed. And while inviting Jewish schoolboys in the area to show their allegiances might prove controversial, we are tolerant of the council’s doctrine.
And ask again: can you be baptised by Lilt? And would anyone mind if we shook up the can and did everyone as a job lot..?
Jamie’s Dream
OH look, it’s Jamie Oliver opening his mouth really wide and inviting us look inside.
It’s a pretty horrible picture of the celebrity chef enjoying himself at the GQ party. And one Mirror readers may find it hard to forgive.
And there’s Jamie in the Sun, holding a bottle of beer in each hand and leaning forward with his mouth agape.
Perhaps we should not be so quick to judge. Perhaps Jamie is doing some charity work, inviting punters to see if they can “Feed The Chef”, paying £1 a pop to lob bits of polenta into his gaping maw?
We don’t know. And Jamie fails to enlighten us in his piece in the Sun. “OUR FAVOURITE CHEF SHARES HIS VISION OF THE FUTURE,” says the Sun’s headline. “All kids must leave school able to cook,” says Jamie.
And that’s not graduates from cooking school but any school. Jamie has a “ten–year plan” to improve school dinners and education. Yes, a ten -year plan. Jamie is getting political. Might he be the new John Prescott, a man not averse to ten-year plans of his own?
Or what about Jamie as Martin Luther King. As we say, Jamie has a dream. “My dream is for our children to be able to cook THEIR children a lovely roast,” says Jamie, “not out of a box, but out of a butcher’s with fresh veggies and spuds.”
It’s a noble aim. But we wonder how it fits 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).
Perhaps it’s reading that list of ingredients that’s caused Jamie’s mouth to hang open…
The Making Of A (Russell) Brand
IT’S the making of a Brand… Russell Brand.
From being a gauche presenter on yoof telly, Brand has become a gauche presenter on yoof telly who makes a quotidian appearance in the papers.
Today Russell is in the Sun, which tells of how he got 20 of the audience to strip on his new telly show, Russell Brand’s Got Issues.
Brand is a comedian, a kind of shock comic, whose essential joke is his appearance (gauche) and love of doing wild and whacky things (it says here), like getting his penis out in public. He’s a one man Hale & Pace, albeit without the subtlety.
And having encouraged people to take off their clothes, Russell is spotted by the Express cosying up to Kimberly Stewart.
And just how close Russell and Kimberly got is a matter of debate.
As he stepped up to accept his gong for Most Stylish Man Of The Year at the GQ Man Of The Year Awards, Russell said: “Here’s to Rod Stewart, who had a go at me earlier this year for too much womanising.” He goes on: “But then again, I did have a go on his daughter.”
That’s Kimberly, who, according to Russell, when she’s not modelling functions as a kind of fairground attraction or bike. Go on, give her a "go".
Rod, who was at the do, stood up and applauded. He whooped. He bounded onto the stage to collect his Outstanding Music Award, slapped Russell on the back and said that all women were fair game.
Just our little joke. Rod was collecting a lifetime achievement gong, that much is true. And he does address Russell from the stage.
Rod: You went out with my daughter, did you, Russell? Well, stand up.
Russell stands up.
Russell: (mumbling) I took her out for the evening.
Rod: Did you behave yourself?
Russell: I never touched that girl
Rod: F***ing right, you didn’t. You mustn’t come up here and boast. I speak here as a father.
Russell was cowed. But no publicity is bad publicity, not when you’ve a Brand to build. And, as the Mail sees, Russell approached Rod and the pair agreed to pose for photographers.
Rod standing with the man who badmouthed his daughter in public. And Russell standing next to someone famous…
She Is!
SOME say she is pictured from the front because she has just two-dimensions. Some say if you look into her eyes for too long your brains cook and you start dreaming in Medieval Dutch. Some say her skin can change colour and texture.
Now at least we can see for ourselves as Suri Cruise is revealed to the world at large.
“Hair’s lookin’ at you, kid!” says the Sun’s headline. It has seen the shot of Suri on the cover of Vanity Fair magazine and finds it hard to miss the babe’s mass of jet black hair.
This is the “baby picture that surprised the world” says the Express’s headline. And it too spots Suri’s “astonishing” mop of black hair.
“She has Katie’s lips and eyes. I think she looks like Katie,” says Tom Cruise, the paper’s Earth father. “I think she has Tom’s eyes, I think she looks like Tom,” says Katie Holmes, Suri’s Earth mother.
And once more we are back in those dark days of rumours and suspicion. Perhaps Suri has both Tom and Katie’s eyes, alternating between the two?
Not that we get to see Suri’s eyes alongside those of her parents. The only picture any paper shows is the magazine’s cover shot in which Suri looks out to the world and mum and dad gaze down at her.
Might it be that she does have their eyes, perhaps in the palm of her hands? Not that you see Suri’s hands. Indeed, all we see in the ubiquitous picture is Suri’s head popping out over the top of Tom’s leather jacket.
Tom’s hand is cradled around the child, his fingers holding the jacket together lest Suri spill out and show… And show what? Perhaps there are photographs of the child’s arms, legs and body in the magazine’s 22-page spread? Perhaps not.
And while we imagine a bouncing baby, and others picture flippers and no body at all, just a head with ears that double as hands, the Star screams from its front page: “CRUISE ‘ALIEN’ BABY SHOCK.”
The paper has seen enough. The pictures of Suri have left fans “spluttering with shock”. It quotes an “expert” (behavioural psychologist David Iles), hearing him say that the photo would “do nothing to halt crazy ‘alien’ rumours circulating the US.
And coming into land at a newsagents near you…
The Cod Father
PSSSST! Wanna get some pills?
The Mail is full of them. If you shake the paper upside down – taking care to avoid the falling inserts for Tim Henman memorabilia, DVDs of “how to teach Spaniards to speak Spanish like we do” and rosewood incidental tables – the paper rattles.
There’s the morning after pill. The Mail says it “could” be handed out to pupils under the age of consent in all England’s schools.
The Mail says that Tony Blair is leading a “controversial push” to get “better access to contraceptives” for under-18s. Schools are going to “dish out” contraception and “even arrange abortions for teenagers without their parents knowing”.
Yes, teenagers having sex without their parents knowing! How did it ever come to this?
But all is not lost. Because this is not the only pill in the Mail. Earlier in the paper, readers learn of “clever capsules”.
These brain food pills contain a combination of omega-3 fish oils and omega-6 evening primrose oils. They work in the same way as dog biscuits, keeping the young pups alert, bright and keen to obey.
And the wonder pill is already here. All 5,000 year 11 students in Durham County Council’s schools are to be given the magic tablets.
Called Eye Q, these chewable pills are, as the paper says, part of an attempt to improve GCSE grades. Children will each be given six pills a day.
And very soon, Durham will be peopled by 15 and 16 years olds with massive brains. They will then be encouraged to interbreed. This, combined with sterilised teenagers elsewhere, will lead to new master race of super-bright Geordies.
It’s a brave new world. A world shaped by Tony Blair, MP for Sedgefield, County Durham…
The Look Of Love
“A MUM and son have blown £5,000 on plastic surgery – to make them look like twin sisters.”
That’s the Star’s story. And we are impressed. Keen to discover the roots of this news we read on.
As the Star reports: “As a crop-haired 16-year-old Steven Boyes could not have looked more different to brunette Sandra. But then he became one of Britain’s youngest qualified hairdressers.”
We students of hairdressing know what is to come. First it’s the highlights, then the shaggy perm and the mullet, and before you can say “wash and blow”, the macho hairdresser has turned into a stylist called Serge with gamboge streaks in his goatee beard.
But Steven has gone further. Having styled David Bowie and Footballers’ Wife actress Zoe Lucker, Steven began to practise new looks on his mum Sandra.
The Star says that mum and son swapped beauty secrets. The pair, who now work together in Bradford, had their hair dyed a matching platinum blonde.
“Filler” was injected into their faces. Sandra had an eye-lift and her teeth turned a brilliant white. Steve had his facial stubble removed.
Says Steve: “I’m over the moon that I look like my mum as we’re so close.” Says Sandra: “It’s lovely that we look more alike.”
And so it is. And we look forward to the duo’s next experiment in which Sandra strives look like a middle-aged man…
Pete’s Retreat
“DOHERTY SEX DEN,” announces the front page of the Star. “Inside the squalid crack house where junkie Pete romped with BB Nikki.”
And right away we need to clear up two things. Firstly the Pete in the headline is Pete Doherty and not Pete Bennett, winner of the Big Brother TV show.
Bennett has never been a junkie and although it is tempting to see his time in the BB house as an extended period of cold turkey, it would be wrong.
Nikki is, of course, Big Brother’s elbow-skinned face Nikkkki Grahame. As reported, this demented half-person used to work in vice and was once hired to entertain Pete Doherty.
All three are manufactured celebrities – Pete Bennett and Nikki are creations of reality TV, and Doherty has been made and moulded by what can best be called reality journalism.
And the reality of Doherty is that he used to live in a “filthy doss house”. Pete is currently residing at the Priory Clinic and has no need for his old gaff.
And yesterday the Mail looked on as Pete’s “associates” arrived to take things of value (acoustic guitars) and leave the rubbish behind (pretty much everything else).
Doherty owes £10,000 in rent, and the feeling is that he left before the bailiffs arrived to seize his possessions, doubtless wearing thick rubber gloves as they went about their business.
But before they arrive, and owner Andres Panayiotou can give the place a delousing in readiness for its unveiling as the first Museum of Doherty (like the National Trust restored home of John Lennon’s Aunt Mimi but with less chintz), the Star takes a peep through the keyhole.
The entrance hall has no place to hang coats and jackets. But there is a complimentary can of lager handily sat on a window ledge.
There is also a visitor book, which doubles as the flat’s front door. Callers are encouraged to sign their names using pen, paint or some more personal substance.
There are more words on the wall of the bathroom. But it is the reception area that will serve as the museum’s biggest draw.
The door to the sitting room is covered in writing. “YOU WILL HAVE TO WALK AWAY WITHOUT A THOUGHT TO ANEW TIME,” says an area over the mantle piece. “ham,” says another wall. There are bin bags and assorted Pete memorabilia on the floor.
It’s an interesting example of post modern living, for sure. But we do need someone to show us round, and preferably someone who knows the place intimately. Someone to live in the flat and maintain its look and feel.
Wonder what Nikkki is up to..?
David And Victoria Beckham Are Expecting
“EL partido con Atléti was mucho major para todos. Siete puntos es mucho mejor para jugadores.”
Who can forget the first words in Spanish littered by David Beckham? For those of you that have, that was them. Dave’s “The boys done good” marked a watershed moment.
Dave was now truly an international star. And if he learns to say “Buy my stuff” in Japanese and “Yo! Motherf******” in American, brand Beckham can conquer the globe. Dayve could go on to develop his own language, combining English with his foreign tongues, expanding on his Spanglish “was”.
But now we learn that so much promise has amounted to not very much. And the Mail reports that Day-vid has been lost in translation.
As he signed autographs at the Real Madrid training ground, Dave was approached by a journalist who asked him in Spanish: “Beckham, congratulations. Is it true that you’re going to be a father?”
Dave smiled “Si,” he replied. This, as the Mail informs its readers, is the Spanish for “yes”.
The reporter sensed a scoop.
Reporter: How are you?
Dayve: Very well
Reporter: And Victoria?
Dayve: Good thanks
Reporter: Would you prefer a boy or a girl
Dayve: Smiles but gives no answer
Cue a flurry of media activity. The Sun senses a “world exclusive”. The story is all over Spanish television.
But it was wrong. Well, that’s what Dayve says. “Blunderer” Day-vid has made an “el of a mistake” (Star).
What Dayve means to say when asked about his wife’s condition was “No”. But one man’s language is another man’s minefield and Dave said “Si” instead.
Vicky is not with child. As Dave says: “Victoria is not pregnant. It’s a mistake.”
But Gente, a celebrity TV show in Spain, knows better. “We stand by our story,” says a spokesman for the show. “We heard it from David himself that Victoria is pregnant. His representatives can say what they like.”
So there you have it. Victoria is and she isn’t. But we will know the truth soon enough when Vicky starts eating for two. Or, indeed, for one. Si?
