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.
To Chav And To Hold
‘HIS love for her is the size of a mighty acorn. Her love for him seems to grow by the day, until it seems unnaturally huge and fit to explode over large parts of both East and West Sussex. And now Peter and Jordan are married.
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| The Brothers Grimm |
The Star – as befitting a paper which acts as a kind of topless sister to its Z-list sibling at OK!, which has paid an estimated £400,000 to cover the do – leads with news of Jordan and Petes big day.
And it begins not with Jordan being inflated by one part helium to two parts love, nor Peter humming the tune to Jordania, but to the sound of sirens as theres 999 panic at Jordans wedding.
Whats occurring? Is Australian Peters right to be in the country being challenged by the police? Did Jordan step on her beloved? Was the pastors eye removed in a freak accident too terrible to recount in these pages?
None of that. The Stars EXSCLUSIVE is that horror erupted after the wedding, as the couple and their showbiz pals partied away at Highclere Castle, near Newbury, Berkshire.
The unnamed victim was taken ill after midnight and rushed to the local hospital by a team of paramedics. It was real drama, says one guest, and not what we had expected.
But who knows what to expect at the wedding of the day? Here comes the bride now. And shes the first in living memory to have a cleavage longer than her train.
Whats more, shes wrapped in a bright pink ball of material and sat on a wagon being pulled by no fewer than six white horses.
Ooops! Silly us. The Star says its not Jordan – its a Cinderellastyle pumpkin shaped pink carriage. Jordan, a more traditionally orange-hued pumpkin, is out of view on the carriages inside.
The report is not full, but the Sun notes that the chav wedding of the year features Jordan in a tight pink dress covered in fake diamonds (she couldnt walk properly, says one insider and it took four bridesmaids to help her sit down), a pair of revolting pink thrones and Kerry Katona crying in the toilet for ages after rowing with her boyfriend.
The Sun also spots the newlyweds smooching to a recoding of them singing A Whole New World from the Disneys film Aladdin, and making sure OK! is taking lots of pictures.
And then the modern-day Grimm fairytale is over. The pink pumpkin turns into an orange one; the orange pumpkin turns into a wife, and Peter turns into an oak tree, or is it a mouse..?’
Brit Of A Scare
‘IN the celebrity world, a baby is always a miracle, their arrival is always proceeded by a bout of full siren-wailing drama. Theirs is the gift of the big entrance.
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| He’s got his father’s nose |
So when we first heard Britney Spears was pregnant, we expected nothing less than the complete celebrity experience. And today we are not surprised to learn on the Suns front page of BRITNEY BABY DASH.
The singer was rushed to a hospital in California four weeks before she was booked in for her caesarean. And in Britney rushed to hospital, we learn of FEARS FOR HER UNBORN BABY.
What these fear are, the Sun does not say. And while we wonder whether they are fears over the little bundle of joys health, his choice of agent or both, the Sun does remind us that this is Britneys third baby scare.
The first saw her experiencing stomach pain. The second featured a premature separation of the placenta from the uterus. And now theres this, whatever this is.
The Sun is not certain what has happened, but it does say US radio stations are reporting that Britneys baby has been delivered.
Which, if right, is great news. And we, like the Sun, would like to wish Britney, husband Kevin and the little love the very best.
And we look forward to hearing about every moment of your wonderful life…’
In A Pickle
‘WHERES WALLY? asks the Sun on its front page, the vital question of the day appearing alongside a graphic of Sven Goran Eriksson dressed in the style of the famously hard-to-spot cartoon character.
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| ‘I favour the rinse and hold tactic’ |
Sven Goran Eriksson vanished last night, says the paper. Sven disappears after Belfast horror.
The papers looked in all the usual places for the England football manager his London home, the Football Associations headquarters, the dishwasher section at Comet. But no Sven?
Might it be that something has happened to the man? The link between the words Belfast, horror and vanished makes our blood run cold. But we quickly remember that Sven is quite safe in the Province, having formed a team still worse than the boys in green, and that the IRA has vowed to lay down its guns.
Thats not to say Svens not in line for a punishment beating from the press, as the Stars announces OFF WITH HIS HEAD.
Hangings too good for Sven, says the Star, which hankers for a swift return to the days when failure to win a football match meant instant death although its good enough for the Sun which produces what we trust is a mock-up shot of Svens head in a noose.
And thats not all. The paper now uses its front page to tell the world that it stopped Sven from traveling to the Oval to watch the cricket.
HOWZAT! screams the Stars front-page headline. But before we can give an answer, the paper takes on the role of umpire and raises a finger to Svens face. Star stops jinxed Sven from going to see the Ashes, says it.
The Star says Sven was due to take his seat at the Oval for yesterdays cricket match between England and Australia when the patriotic paper barred his way.
The Star says it passed the fans message to Sven at his home that he was not wanted at the cricket.
But whatever the Stars claim, and however loud it shrieked through his letterbox, there is still no word from the Swede, not a sign that he ever received the message, never mind reacted to it.
Nor is there evidence that Sven has been handed the oversized P45 the great symbol of the sack from your current employers that the Suns cabbie Lenny has delivered to the FAs headquarters.
Sven might be TREACHEROUS, PROMISCUOUS, GREEDY…AND (WORST OF ALL) A LOSER, as the Mails considered feature on him says, but above all that hes missing.
And until hes found we cannot rest. So lets get looking. And try to work out where a man no longer wanted by England, seen as a villain in some circles, and worse in others, would feel at home, would blend in.
Howzat! To the Oval and the Australian teams dressing room, dear chums. Theres not a moment to lose…’
Teenage Kicks
‘ITS not Svens fault. The bigger boys made him do it. Its sooo unfair.
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| ‘I never asked to be born’ |
If the Mail is right in its psychological profiling of the England manager (TREACHEROUS, PRMOISCUOUS, GREEDY…AND (WORST OF ALL) A LOSER), Sven is a teenager trapped inside a mans body.
And, as the paper says in Its not my fault, during the terrible teens, most children act as if the world is against them. Even if, as in Svens case, large swathes of it are.
And what of Svens customary blank, unemotional, unresponsive stare, what seems to be an inability to look cowed by the taunts and the calls for his head to be placed on an upturned goalpost and paraded round the pitch for our viewing pleasure?
Others would look fearful or downcast, but not Sven, who maintains an even keel in the face of so much vitriol.
The Mail says this is typical of teenagers who find it hard to understand the vocal tones and facial expressions of people around them.
We know this because Professor David Skuse, at the Institute of Child Health in London, has examined how well teenagers respond to faces.
Teens were shown pictures of sad, disgusted, angry, scared and surprised faces (the full gamut of the football fans emotional range), and invited to pick out which was which. And the result showed that the teens had trouble picking out the angry and sad expressions.
Snarling at Sven and glowing red with vein-popping rage may make you feel better about life, but will get you nowhere. The suggestion is that he doesnt understand. Such is the way of the teenage brain, he might even think you are smiling at him.
And if you dont believe us, asks his friend, the polite, smiley, happy-go-lucky, well-mannered, charming teenager Wayne Rooney…’
Otherwise Engaged
‘HAVING been disappointed by Jordans hen night, (see KOd! Hens Teeth) and unable to get a refund on our Pump Me Paula inflatable doll, we are hoping that the wedding makes up for it.
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| In silicone and in bronzing powder, I say ‘I do’ |
In readiness, weve applied the first seven layers of our home tan, soaked our head in a vat of peroxide each night for a full hour and shaved our heaving chests and bosoms. We will look the part. We will be among our people.
But the Sun says plans for Jordans wedding to Peter Andre are not going to plan. In Im a celebrity..get me out of Jordan wedding, the paper says that lots of our brightest stars are snubbing the tacky do.
The invitations, printed on naff scrolls, have been dispatched to some of the lands finest mock-Tudor mansions. And many have been turned down.
So far Charlotte Church, Davina McCall, Denise van Outen, Shane Richie and Simon Cowell have all said they are otherwise engaged on the wedding day, whenever that day might be.
Looking at that lot, youd forgive Jordan for breathing a sigh of relief. Who needs that bunch at your do when you can have real stars?
So though that gang of variable talents has declined the offer to rub up with Jordan and Pete, a few showbiz pals will be in attendance.
Expect non-drinking Kerry Katona. And Girls Aloud star Sarah Harding. And, er, the paper says that former EastEnders actor Dean Gaffney is rumoured to be turning up.
And X Factor loser Rowetta will be the star performer, singing as the couple take to the dance floor for the Birdie Dance and other riotous fun.
It promises to be a terrific occasion. Something youll remember for years especially if you leave your head in that peroxide for too long…’
Sven The Fat Lady Sings
‘THEY may have resisted the urge to stick a pair of rimless spectacles and a couple of Cuban heels (both left feet) on a swede, but Sven Goran Eriksson still has lots of rotten veg thrown at him on the front pages.
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| ‘Always load the plates in a 4-5-1 formation’ |
Now Sven cant even defeat Northern Ireland, says the Mail as it sees Englands gilded footballing machine beaten by a single goal from the humdrum Northern Irish.
Eriksson is pictured looking typically pensive and unanimated – perhaps wondering if he remembered to put the dishwasher on and tell his Nancy where he was going – as his overpaid England footballers are humiliated.
Of course, what the lads salaries have to do with the result is a moot point. Perhaps if Beckham and Co. were paid less or, better yet, paid just enough to afford a single can of spam or a raw swede between them, they would enter the fray very lean, very mean and very hungry for victory.
But wages are not behind this England defeat. This latest shambles is the managers fault. And the Sun uses its front page to hail a TAXI FOR ERIKSSON, Englands hapless coach.
The one good thing about all this is that Sven, who has the word ZERO scrawled across his head in red ink on the Mirrors cover page, is not in charge of the England cricket team.
Sport is the big news story of the day, as Englands first XI, a few substitutes, the chap who brings out the drinks and you the fans take on the Australians in the Ashes decider.
Telling us what we can expect is Andrew Freddie Flintoff, who appears on the Suns front page, his powerful torso draped in the English flag, a bat resting on his shoulder like a yeomans pike.
I promise all Sun readers that every drop of sweat we have in our bodies will be left at the Oval, says Flintoff. We will give everything we have and more to win the Ashes back.
Hurrah!
So much for the players. But what can you at home, sat slumped in your armchairs and nursing a sore toenail that scored you a day off work do to help?
Wonder no more. Firstly, the Mail and Mirror produce pictures of Mrs Andrew Flintoff, the fragrant, lightly perspiring Rachel. In both shots shes wearing a mini skit and lacy vest-like top. And if thats not enough to get you ready for action, shes got her fingers crossed.
Secondly, there is a call to lift your voices to the very heavens and sing England home. Football fans can keep their In-ger-land chants as cricket lovers give full throat to Jerusalem, William Blakes motivating, if surreal, call to arms.
At 10.25 this morning, says the Mail with rheumy eyes and beating heart, Englands cricketers expect to hear the most rousing version of Jerusalem ever delivered in this green and pleasant land.
(And in case youre confused, this is the same land the Mail routinely tells is covered in a film of regurgitated alcopops, overrun by unpleasant hoodies and snarling spit-roasting footballers.)
And the paper wants you to join in. Run your Cross of St George boxer shorts up a broom handle, hoist it high over your head and sing along.
And did those feet in ancient time, happen to stand on Shane Warnes fingers…’
New Orleans Or Bust
‘THAT is Prince Harry aboard the Kubu Queen, a two-storey wooden houseboat with two double bedrooms, balconies and an intact roof. And theres his true love, Chelsy, on a speedboat.
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| ‘It’s OK. My gun only fires custard pies and Bud’s shoots fresh water’ |
Bravo! Well done indeed to Harry. Its a PR coup. Who would have thought that of all the Royals, it would be the grill head party boy whod do his bit for the relief effort in New Orleans?
Only, its not Louisiana, its Botswana. And that fag and can of beer in Harrys hands are not sustenance for one of the dispossessed but for his own gratification. The houseboat is his holiday home. The speed boat is taking Harry and Chelsy on a fishing trip.
Oh, well. It was an easy mistake to make. Weve become so used to our papers leading with shots of the devastation in America that when we saw the boats, we believed todays Mail was following the trend.
But things have changed at the Mail. Harry is on page three, and its not until pages 12 and 13 that we learn of the disaster in the United States.
And then the stand-out picture is not of boats and the rescue effort, nor of Prince Charles and Princess Michael offering jars of jam to the hungry, but of a line of armed police descending an escalator in the New Orleans Convention Centre.
Looking at the tooled-up crew peering down the sights of their huge weapons, a survivor would be forgiven for thinking it best to keep hiding out.
Who knows what will happen when the police spot you moving among the bodies and detritus of human life that litter the place.
Do you have a receipt for the sweatshirt you are wearing, sir? barks the gung-ho cop. Er, no, says the survivor in reply. It was a present from my mom. Cop: You looters make me sick! Bang!
And thats when the police dont toy with you first. On the Stars front page (FLASH YOUR BOOBS OR YOU DROWN), the paper marvels at news that British girls stranded on a hotel roof in New Orleans were invited by cops passing by on a rescue boat to lift up their tops if they wanted to be saved.
Scurrying through the paper to find out what happened next, moving past shots of Rachel Hunter in her knickers and bra, and sexy maiden Natalie in just her knickers, we learn that the British girls refused to comply.
British tourist Gerald Scott tells all. At one point there were a load of girls on the roof of the hotel saying, Can you help us? The policemen said, Show us what youve got and made signs for them to lift their T-shirts. When the girls refused, they said, Fine – and roared off in their boat.
This a pretty despicable act, made yet worse when we hear that the cops had cameras and were taking photos of the group.
Of course, if this had been Faliraki, the girls may well have dived into the waters and held in an impromptu wet-T-shirt contest. But its America, where things are far more conservative and civilised.
Or at least thats how things used to appear…’
Mullah Time
‘EVIL BAKRI BACK, announces the Sun. And we tremble at the prospect.
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| ‘Taxi for Joe Cole’ |
We thought wed seen the back of the Suns resident mad mullah, but now the paper brings news that the Tottenham Taliban has returned to spread hatred from his Ford Galaxy Bakri-mobile.
But hold the phone to the immigration department. Hes not back at all, not really. Hes still in Lebanon. Bakris not appearing on a north London soapbox, but on a sick website.
Readers are not given the sites web address, it being deemed only suitable for the Suns tutored eyes. But the papers experts have selected a few random passages to shock us with.
Bakri says a terrorist attack will most probably happen again. He hails the London bombers as the fantastic four. He says we have nobody to blame but ourselves.
And… Well, and nothing. He has nothing new to say. We dont hear his opinion on the first Muslim Miss England. We know not what he makes of Sven Goran Erikssons decision to drop Joe Cole from the England team to face Northern Ireland tonight. And incredibly he has nothing whatsoever to say on Kerry Katonas decision to give up the booze.
Yet Bakri still manages to excite the Suns leader column. He may no longer be among us in person, but the fact he is still able to preach his hatred from afar could be as dangerous as his presence on British soil.
Too right. His website must be closed down. Better yet, shut down your computer and dont dare switch it back on until Bakri has been removed.
But dont worry, if you still want to read what this rambling loon has to say, the Sun will continue tracking his every word…’
Beneath The Veil
‘SO much for Osama bin Laden, Omar Bakri a gang of racist, murderous lunatics from Yorkshire and any other members of the Muslim world that have fascinated the Sun for so long.
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| ‘Now I just need to find a Muslim footballer to date’ |
Its long overdue that we heard from the Muslim women, who have been as notable in their absence from the mainstream news as they have from the streets of Iraq.
But at last, after months of waiting, the Sun spots stunning Hammasa Kohistani, and it likes what it sees.
Hammasa has yet to be fully integrated into British society and do as Neval, 23, from London, does and pose topless to deliver her NEWS IN BRIEFS. But that doesnt mean to say shes not aware of her winning feminine looks, and does not how to use them to the full.
In case you did not know, the Sun reminds us that Hammasa has just been crowned the first Muslim Miss England. And, no, before you ask, this is no alternative to the main event, a Muslim-only contest where girls wow the judges in the burka section and speak of their dreams for an Islamic superstate and a preference for men with beards you can really get hold of.
This is the main event. And Hammasa won because she was the best in show. She was also determined, battling through what her mum, who brought to Britain from Afghanistan when she was aged 9, calls a backlash from Muslim fundamentalists.
To the Sun, the extremists become a Muslim hate mob, even if the group was, perhaps, comprised of a solitary God botherer with a crayon – Hammasa was sent a drawing of the evil eye.
But Hammasa is as unbowed as she is unveiled. Shes proud of her achievement. My mother came from a background that oppressed women, says she. It made me realise girls who have a chance to make themselves heard should make the most of it.
Of course, not everyone is as photogenic and light-eyed as Hammasa, who sits in the Express as the MUSLIM BEAUTY QUEEN.
Its the fist interview with the new Miss England since her historic win, and the paper tells its readers that she will speak of her familys flight from war-torn Afghanistan, how she defied religious criticism and how taking two bottles into the shower is so very wrong.
Shes an impressive girl. All the more so now weve learnt of her 11 GCSEs at grade A* to C, spotted the thigh-high slit in her dress and heard of her desire to travel and learn more about other cultures.
Today Liverpools Olympia Theatre and England, tomorrow the Miss world title in China.
And then… Well, who knows? The life of Miss World is storied and spectacular. Whether it be marriage to Bruce Forsythe, a pop career or the chance to open the new Saver Centre in Hounslow, we wish you well…’
By Appointment
‘IN need of modernisation and constructed on rocky foundations, Princess Michael of Kent is in need of some cosmetic improvement.
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| ‘And if you buy the house by Friday, I’ll throw in the sauerkraut’ |
Having been duped by the News of the Worlds fake sheikh (see Sheikh, Prattle & Troll), the Mail says Princess pushy has now gone too far.
The paper has heard that Prince Charles is furious with the Princess. Not because the princess referred to his late wife, Diana, as a womb. Nor for her forecast that Camilla will one day be Queen. Charles is peeved because she has dared to cast aspersions on his jam.
Mail readers already clucking their marmalade-covered tongues in disapproval at the papers Going for broke? feature on Pushy, now learn that she has made a dig at Charless Duchy original food range.
In the course of her efforts to woo the would-be buyer of her country pile, the Princess produced a jar of her own homemade preserve.
Thats made with my own raspberries, said she. Its better than the stuff Charles churns out. He doesnt make it himself hes got factories doing it. Its just his name on it.
Oh, too cruel is the woman who shatters our image of Charles in hair net and frilly apron spooning jam into jars. No wonder Charles is said by a source to be pretty irritated.
He cannot believe that someone like her has the gall to belittle him to a member of the public in this way just in order to sell a house, says the unnamed insider.
Indeed. But what of the jam? Does she have a point? Is hers better than Charless? Anyone who wants to find out should strap on a sheet and take a helicopter to the Princesss drum in Nether Lypiatt, Gloucestershire.
There the Princess may well present you with a jar of her finest. But take care while eating it its almost impossible to get out of the linen. Almost as hard as it for the Princess to get out of her house…’
The I Of The Storm
‘AFTER the broadsheets have done their reporting, the tabloids wade into the New Orleans waters and look for the human interest angle.
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| ‘Dear Readers, today I went to the game’ |
And the human the Sun is interested in is Emily Smith, the papers girl on the scene with a pad and maybe even a pencil.
Theres even a lead shot of Emily (well stick with first names throughout) on the Suns front page. In it shes seen placing her hand atop that of 81-year-old diabetic Rosella McCoy, a picture newsworthy enough to be repeated in a larger format inside the paper.
Black Rosella looks deeply pained. Blonde Emily looks compassionate. This tragic widow begged me to save her from disaster, writers Emily, and half an hour later she lay on the verge of death.
Its just terrible. But spare your tears. Its OK. Emilys still with us. And shes professional enough to keep up the good work. Our Emily vowed to help, but when she returned (from where we are not told) Rosella had collapsed and was driven away sprawled across the bonnet of an army truck.
It must have been a trying ordeal? But Emily is just fine. Shaken? Yes. But deeply stirred. PRAY FOR HER, says the Suns front-page headline. And we will. Good luck, Emily. Godspeed.
But what of the other Britons out there on the frontline? News is that the Expresss Cyril Dixon is hard at it.
Unlike the Suns Emily, Cyrils stayed at home, where the real relief effort is being orchestrated from.
He tells us that 150 Britons are still missing in New Orleans, one of whom is of Catherine Nicholls, who lived in Biloxi, Mississippi. He speaks to her sister who says, The longer it goes on the worse it gets. She continues: How long do you wait before we say, Theyre not coming back, they cant be alive?
Cyril doesnt seem able or willing to give an answer. And moves onto Guy Rounce, brother to Penny, who has not been heard from since just before the storm. We are on tenterhooks, waiting for her to get in touch, says Guy.
And so it goes on. The names keep coming, and Cyril keeps writing them down. But the Mails Robin Yapp knows the real story when he sees it coming his way. Its aged 20. Its white. Its got curly blondish hair. Its dressed in jeans, a lacey vest top. And comes from south Wales. Its Jane Wheeldon.
Janes just arrived back from New Orleans, and the Mail was at Gatwick to probe her for vital information.
We were prime targets, says Jane. No, not for the winds. For the looters and nefarious crims who turned the Superdome where Jane had been sheltering into hell.
Guys would come up and stroke your back and tummy and your bum to find any money you had on you, says Jane. Everyone was staring and it as so intimidating.
Terrible winds. Thousands feared dead. Many lives ruined. And now the news that one of our own has had her back touched up. Its just too awful, and we wonder who much worse it can get.
And just as soon as Emily, Cyril and Robin have found someone suffering, well let you know…’
Sheikh, Prattle & Troll
‘ITS very hard to like Princess Michael of Kent. So hard that most of us gave up trying years ago. Its far easier to dislike her.
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| ‘Buy my house or I vill eat ze kat’ |
And thats good, because it makes the Suns news of how she spoke her mind to the News of the Worlds fake sheikh all the more enjoyable.
Mazher Mahmood has made a name for himself posing as a wealthy Arab, notably engineering a meeting with Sophie, Countess of Wessex, who was consequentially accused of abusing her royal connections as head of her PR firm R-JH – from which she later resigned as chairman.
Now hes exposed another royal, although since its the charmless Princess Michael the real shock would be less to find out she is pushy and fond of money than it would be to discover how shes extremely warm, generous to a fault and thinking of living out her days on a kibbutz.
But to the story, and its that the sheikh arrived at the Princesss estate in Gloucestershire in the pretence of being an interested buyer.
In the course of the tour, Princess Michael described Princess Diana as bitter, nasty and strange. She said Prince Charles never loved her and had merely married a womb.
She also told the fake sheikh that Camilla will one day be Queen. And on the Suns infamous picture of Prince Harry wearing a Nazi uniform, she says: He will never live it down. But I believe if he had been wearing the hammer and sickle there wouldnt have been so much fuss.
So says the former Baroness Marie-Christine Hedwig Agnes Ida von Reibnitz, whose father, the Express casually reminds us, was an aristocratic German army officer who was revealed to have been a member, albeit in nominal terms, of Hitlers SS.
But how does such a woman sell a house? Thankfully, with the housing market in the doldrums, the Mail gives its readers a few pointers on the way The Del Boy Princess does things.
She offered to throw in tea services and all the bed linen if the sheikh bought the £6million house. She also offered her services for hire.
Shes a great writer – hugely successful in France, dont yer know. And even does a good stand-up routine. Its a one-hour, one-woman show but Im very good, as you can imagine, says she.
I dont usually discuss fees. But its £25,000 to speak. Is that not enough? Shall I do more? And expenses?
And if thats not enough (Im robbing meself I tells yer), what about a white tiger. Very good runner. Used to belong to Siegfried and Roy, who use the beasts in their Las Vegas magic shows. They sell them, you know, says the Princess. I can introduce you to them easily.
But can she do any tricks. Like placing her head in one of the tigers mouth? Or disappearing in puff of yellow smoke? And what about the ping-pong balls..?’
If This Is War
‘THE papers love a good war. And its a good job they do because almost every day theres a new one to shout about.
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| ‘And coming up next on Al Jazeera, EastEnders’ |
Take the Mails news of war of the downloads. The paper reports on how the first shots in a price war over music downloads were fired yesterday.
Was anyone hurt? The Mail doesnt say? Reports from the frontline are sketchy. But do not doubt it is war. As the papers front page states in black ink: WE ARE AT WAR.
So it seems. But before Cliff Richard gets one between the eyes, the paper says that its front-page war was declared not by music pirates but by suicide bomber Mohammad Sidique Khan, who, though dead, made his voice heard on a video broadcast by Al Jazeera.
The Arabic broadcaster has carved out a niche as the ultimate reality show channel, routinely broadcasting the thoughts of Muslims who want to blow themselves up, and kill and maim lots of other people in the process.
But the Mail recognises that few of its readers in the shires have access to the channel and transcribes the words of the Yorkshireman who blew up himself and six others on a train near Londons Edgware Road station on July 7.
The crux of the murderers argument is that since we all live in a democracy, and he doesnt care for the elected administration and its foreign policy, we are all viable targets. We are at war and I am a soldier, says he.
But the Express has heard enough. Should Al Jazeera be banned in Britain, it asks. The paper cant decide and wants its readers to help it answer its own question with a yes or a no – calls cost 25p from a BT landline.
The paper provides no arguments for or against, nor does it offer free subscription to Al Jazeera with every order of Express owner Richard Desmonds Television X satellite channel.
Its terribly hard working out which way to vote. Readers rarely like being made to think – which is why the Sun exists. So its to the Sun we go, and therein learn that Khan used his broadcast to boast that more attacks are on the way.
When they will be, Khan does not say. What form they will take, he is unable or unwilling to tell us. He simply maintains that there will be more.
And when there are, we can read all about them in the papers and see the pictures on Al Jazeera. Unless the Express readers vote no and we go the way of a media blackout…’
Im An Illegal Alien…Let Me In!
‘JOIN us on Im An Illegal Alien…Let Me In!, the new reality TV show brought to you by the Sun, and in conjunction with Anorak Trucks.
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| Africa or bust for Anthea |
In this weeks show, the Sun asks you the viewer to say whether you think Big Brothers Makosi should be sent packing.
The votes are in. And it doesnt look good for the strumpet from Zimbabwe, as a whopping 91 per cent of Sun readers say they want to see the back of her, and if shes wearing a thong, so much the better.
This means just 9 per cent of Sun readers have insisted she should stay.
But before we lower Makosi into a tea crate marked ANYWHERE BUT HERE, the gameshow affords her one last chance to win our hearts and minds.
Take it away, Makozeeee. Im worried and scared, says she. Back in Zimbabwe Ive been judged for things Ive done that African people do not like.
Indeed, what self-respecting African would strip off at night to plunge into an outdoor pool and rub up long and hard against a randy Geordie? Imagine if a hippo had been in the waters. We dread to think what could have happened.
But having set a bad example to African womanhood, and tourists on safari, Makosi tries a new tact. Shes wants us to realise that shes a hero.
I would love to stay in Britain, says the former cardiac nurse. I have been saving British lives – and I could save more.
Hmmm. Were not so sure. Shes a nice enough girl, but its not like were exactly short of those (see Zoe on the Suns Page 3). Shes going to have to try harder if she wants to stay.
Or at least take part in the other new reality show Celebrity Life Swap?, in which viewers are offered the chance to keep an immigrant in exchange one of our beloved celebrities making a trip the other way.
So does she stay or go? Is it time to wave goodbye to Makosi, or a fond farewell to Anthea Turner. You decide.’
Hi Noon
‘IF some of the residents of what was New Orleans want to seek refuge in Britain, should we let them come in?
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| ‘It’s my chapathi and I’ll say what I want to’ |
Weve not yet been faced with this dilemma, and boatloads of Americans clad in voluminous plaid shorts have yet to arrive at Dover and claim refuge and even asylum.
In any case, would we have room for them if they did? According to the Mail, 1.2m migrants have been let in my Labour.
Eighty per cent of the countrys population growth since 1997 to last year has been a direct result of immigration. And, says the paper, this surge does not include those who sneak in illegally every year, nor Big Brothers Makosi.
And then there are those who, like Makosi, overstay their visas. And if you doubt it was easy to do, you can read the Mails UK visa rules are the softest piece. The Mail has it that Britains visa regime is the most relaxed in the Western world. And, in case youre confused, the Mail doesnt see this as something that should be celebrated.
It duly hears from Sir Andrew Green, chairman of Migrationwatch, a pressure group which has produced the Mails headline figure. He says the problem is not only the numbers of new arrivals but what they do after theyve arrived.
The failure to integrate our immigrant communities has brought us to a crisis in community relations, says he. With immigration on the present scale it is impossible to achieve effective immigration.
But hold the passports. The initial comment was on the number of migrants, those who work and study here before returning home. They are the itinerant workers who travel from one area to another in search of work.
The immigration issue is something besides, dealing with people who leave their home country to settle permanently in this one.
But while the Mail blurs the two things to create a shocking headline, the point about integration is pertinent.
And its one that Britains curry king Sir Gulam Noon wants to comment on. The multi-millionaire, Indian-born Muslim tells the Sun that immigrants should make an effort to adapt to the British way of life.
We are relative newcomers in the UK to a community with a long tradition of liberal democracy, says he. If immigrants do not like that, the answer is, Go back to wherever you regard as your own country, leave us in peace.
To many, such words are every bit as tasty as one of Noons dishes. But to Inayat Bungawala, of the Muslim Council of Britain, they are only partly right.
He says Noon forgets that most Muslims are already British. They are not immigrants, they were born here.
Which gives them as much right as the next discontented Mail reader to stay here and moan about the place…’
We Never Had It So Bad
‘PHEW! It sure was hot yesterday. The Star says it was a scorching 32 degrees even hotter than the Mediterranean.
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| Mosley reaches for the top-shelf magazines at his local newsagents |
While we take off our knotted hankies to the Sun, and immigrants from sunny climes thank Tony Blairs weather machine for making them feel so at home, the Sun says things are not all that wonderful.
A survey by psychologists at Cardiff University has found that Britons were happiest during the dark days of the 1930s.
As Dr Cliff Arnall says: As we get richer financially our expectations get higher…But people become obsessed with getting more money and feel more of a need to keep up with our neighbours…people forget the true things that make them happy. Like making loadsa money.
But it wasnt like this in the 1930s. Ah, the good old days. The global depression. Politics dominated by Fascism, Nazism, Stalinism and Totalitarianism. To say noting of other isms, like Militarism, state sponsored anti-Semitism and the realism of war.
The good old 30s, says the Mail, which has also seen the research, which says that those living in the 1930s were around 10 per cent happier than those living in 2005.
There was a sense of team spirit back then, says the paper. It goes on: The fact that everyone was suffering from the poor economy and social conditions made them work together, whereas today people feel isolated.
In short, we were poor but happy. We had unemployed, but happy. We were suffering from curable diseases, but we were happy. We were about to be bombed by the Germans, but we were happy.
And, above all things, we were happy because it cost just 1p to read the Daily Mail, and therein enjoy articles like patron Lord Rothermeres delightful Hurrah for the Blackshirts, in which he praised Oswald Mosley, the British Union of Fascists, for his sound, commonsense, Conservative doctrine.
The Mail of the 1930s represented good value for money all the more so when you consider that so many people had to survive by eating the thing…’
Blowing It
‘I BLEW £1m LOTTO IN YEAR, says the Suns front-page headline in story on waster Wendy Graham.
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| A Laura unto herself |
That headline pretty much gives readers the entire story. But the best bit is not that mum-of-one Wendy spent £15,000 on male hookers and much of the rest on champagne, drugs and gambling, but that shes now living on benefits.
Pictured flipping the finger to the Suns readership, 26-year-old Wendy says: The money has been a curse. Someone said to me Id never spend it all well you should never dare a fool.
But before we condemn Wendy for living for the moment and using the money to enjoy herself, we should consider how hard it is to spend so much cash.
In truth, its easy. Over in the Mail, theres a story of a garage in Notting Hill, London, thats just been sold for £240,000.
And back in the Sun theres the news that Wayne Rooney and the chav-tastic Coleen McLoughlin have hired an interior designer to do up their new mansion in Cheshire.
And its not just any designer its flamboyant Laura McCree, who has appeared on BBC TVs Changing Rooms makeover show. (The BBC website quotes McCree: I love being creative in the way that I look and how I live my life…Being normal doesnt come into the equation.)
The paper says that so wacky and cray-zee is McCree that the couple could be in for a shock if they give her free rein on their £3.5million home.
And its not hard to see how the bill could run up and up and up, perhaps all the way to a £1million. What with the houses Burberry cap-style roof and all…’
Ins & Outs
‘WHY EVERYTHING IS NOW MADE IN CHINA, says the Express, which itself is now printed in Shanghai on edible rice paper and in squid ink.
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| ‘Zai jian’ |
The so-called bra wars between the European Union and China that have led to a trade row are to the Express symptomatic of a wider malaise.
Forgot those lofty notions about free trade, and know that we are ever more dependent on imports from the Far East. And: It may mean cheaper goods and more choice but could reliance on Chinas strength prove to be our fateful weakness?
As usual the Expresss question is more loaded that a British teenager in a Faliraki strip club, but its not the papers leading poser of the day.
For that, readers need to eat their way back towards the front of the paper and use their Beijing Telecoms phone to respond to the question: Should the EU be allowed to stop us kicking out clerics of hate?
The us is not the paper, but we the British. And the vote stems from the Expresss front-page story: Now Europe tells Britain: YOU CANT KICK OUT CLERICS OF HATE.
It seems that Brussels bureaucrats are ready to put a block on our Governments attempts to deport Islamic hate preachers.
The precise details of that EUs plans to do us down are not revealed but the paper says that they involve the rejection of our tough measures and a reaffirmation of the EUs strict ban on governments sending people back to countries where they could face torture, persecution and abuse.
That such a thing should have to be re-iterated is unfortunate, even if the move is said by the paper to be a blow for the Government.
But while the EU upsets the Express by telling us what we can and cant get in and out of the country, the Sun says that the men and women in lederhosen and berets arent having it all their own way.
The Sun reports that Big Brothers Zimbabwean nurse Makosi Musambasi has been given ten days to leave the UK or else launch an appeal.
It seems that the strumpet lost her legal right to stay when she left her job as a trainee cardiac nurse to go on the TV show.
The Sun caught up with the nascent star and asked her what she planned to do. I dont know what crime Ive committed, says she, not fully understanding the charge sheet in front of her.
Id love to keep living in England but dont know whats happening. Ive been used for entertainment and now am being betrayed.
This sounds very much like the woman deemed to be less popular than a pint-sized Geordie dancer/hairdresser and a Eugene is plotting a vigorous defence.
And she might yet win. Just wait until she tells the Beak how she was forced to live in a house with glass walls and cameras following her every move.
It might not be too long before Makosi takes her case, and her Chinese bra, to the European Court of Human Rights?’
One Wedding & A Funeral
‘SHARON and Dennis were married this week and the whole of Walford turned up to the party well its not every day you get to see someone marry their brother. I just know Dens gonna turn up to spoil it, growled Dennis prophetically to his best man Jim as they got ready to go to the registry office.
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| ‘Oranges!’ |
Dennis had bizarrely chosen grandfather and former racist Jim as his best man but, then, what sort of judgement can you expect from a man whos marrying a tangerine version of Miss Piggy? No wonder hes leaving The Square in the autumn how much suffering can one man take?
As Sharon was getting ready, Chrissie presented her with a pair of diamond earrings Den had given her on their honeymoon. Now you can feel that hes close by, Chrissie told her not adding that if she really wanted to feel close to her dad, all Sharon had to do was nip down to the cellar.
Chrissie had decided to flee Walford for Argentina (randomly) and had her bags packed and ticket booked, hoping to slip away quietly during the wedding reception. Unfortunately for Chrissie, she hadnt counted on Sam Mitchell, who had finally snapped after living with the knowledge that she was a murderer for six months and more importantly had got nothing out of it.
While the whole Square was at the wedding, Sam slipped into The Vic with a pickaxe and started hacking at Dens concrete grave, vomiting when she finally uncovered his stinking, hideous face a common reaction to Den even while he was alive.
Barmaid Tracy finally got a speaking part in EastEnders instead of just polishing the glasses behind the bar when she called 999 and uttered the word: police. And while Sharon and Dennis held their traditional East End wedding street party (traditional in the minds of middle class scriptwriters) the forensics squad rushed into The Vic and Sam was carted off to Walford nick.
Gotcha! mouthed Sam to Chrissie from the back of a police car seemingly oblivious to the fact that although Chrissie was the one to actually kill Den, helping to bury a body is still a pretty serious offence. But Sams never been the brightest penny in the box: in just over a year shes managed to give away three businesses and now works in a chip shop.
Sam called Kat up from the police station to assure her that Zoe would be kept out of it – its Chrissie I wanna bring down.
The police questioned the residents of Walford in order to build up a picture of Sam. She was furious with Den for cheatin er out of the Vic, Pat told officers. Shed never let anyone else near the cellar, Keith added for good measure. Chrissie did her bit to convict Sam by going round to her house and hiding Dens mobile phone and papers for The Vic so by the end of the week, Sam had been formally charged with Dens murder.
Chrissies not in the clear yet though – Peggy Mitchell is about to wade back into Walford to save her idiot daughter from a life sentence like some sort of ageing Terminator in a bad wig. And son Phil is also set to return providing he can find car parking facilities nearby.’
Come On The ‘Pool
‘THE kind of people who call Andrew Flintoff Freddie and wear golf slacks and polo neck shirts as a matter of course will probably know all about the England cricketer.
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| ‘I love it when you go all wrinkly in the water’ |
But the average Sun reader will find the papers MEET THE FLINTOFFS a vital insight into the mind of the England hero.
For starters, hes married to Rachel, who is now speaking for the first time since Englands heart-stopping Fourth Test victory over the Aussies.
The game did reach an exciting climax, and we understand that Rachel could have been struck dumb by the efforts of team England to shape defeat from what looked like an easy victory.
But now Rachels regained her senses, she tells us how shes not allowed to mention cricket at home. Nor is she allowed to call her husband Freddie. But hes no dictator, and chilled out Andy loves being with their young daughter Holly, even changing her nappies and pushing her pram.
And, well, thats it. We dont hear where Rachel likes to shop, how her dreams are for a brighter world and bigger breasts or a word on her new pop single.
Its clear that if cricket is ever to be as big as football, Rachel will have to go the extra mile and host all future interviews dressed in a bikini, sitting by a swimming pool, telling the world about her fairy tale wedding and the miracle birth of her daughter.
If Rachel does follow the route of so many footballers wives, she might first like to check the pool for signs of Wayne Rooney and his chav-tastic lover, Coleen McLoughlin.
The Star (COLEEN AGONY OVER STOLEN NUDE PICS) says that pictures of Wayne and Coleen skinny-dipping in a pool have gone missing.
The haul is made up of over 300 hot snaps, including 180 that feature Coleen in her own private modelling poses. Shes terrified they will end up on the internet or in newspapers, says the paper.
Also among the snaps, which went missing when secretive Coleen took her camera film to a high-street developer for processing, are pictures taken at footballer Michel Owens wedding.
These are said to include shots of two England footballers leaping naked into a pool and photographs of stars looking the worse for wear.
If you know where the photos are, the Star would like you to get in touch with its newsdesk. And you can call in confidence.
And you can also call in if youve a story on any one of Englands cricket team. You know the kind of thing the papers are interested in – which players like to wear their wives knickers, if theyve ever cheated on their partners, whats the record for starting fights on a night out.
Anything that can help cricket become every bit as popular as football…’
Oh Goody
‘FROM East Angular [sic] to Portugal in Spain, Big Brother loser Jade Goody has become a household name.
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| The cheddar gorge |
Now, as the Star reports, the woman who got her kebabs out on the telly and asked a Brummie ‘Have they not got seasides in Birmingham?’ is to address the Oxford Union.
Goody, a millionaire from her reality TV experiences, will be questioned by brainy bods on what its like being a celebrity and eking out an existence without the perquisite fifteen GCSEs and seven A levels.
So much for the questions, but what of Jades telling answers?
As a taster of what the scholars can expect, the Sun calls Jades phone number and is greeted by her answer-phone message.
Says Jade: For all you cheddars out there whove been ringing me non-stop then hanging up let me tell you this: I will punch any w***ers.
Good stuff. And the free use of the w-word will excite the keen minds at Oxford. But why the rant?
The answer, it seems, is that Jade has called on her fans to apply for parts in a new reality TV show on her life. The wannabes call an advertised number and leave the details of how Jade can best contact them at the secure unit they call home. Only, it seems some who call are daunted by the challenge of speaking on a phone and hang up.
But one applicant who wanted to be on the show is upset. Who the hell is Jade? she asks. A no-mark girl who went on a show and stripped off.
Indeed. But shes that and more. Jade is a pair of kebabs. Shes a big cheese. Shes a girl who knows what side her pitta is buttered on…’
Boy In The Hood
‘AT 4pm in an ordinary town centre, a yob points a GUN at passers-by, says the Mirrors front page in a piece that screams HOODIE LAW.
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| Once again the Met’s shoot-to-kill policy is put ot the test |
Its all too terrible. And we wonder if its not just a display of youthful high jinx or a young lad celebrating his impressive GCSE results by letting off a few rounds as he waits at a bus stop in Knutsford, Cheshire?
But before the Mirror can investigate, it wants us to know of the universal fury that this gun-toting maniac escaped with a ticking off.
Can you believe it? The Mirror cant, and asks its readership: Do you know the hoodie gunman? If you do call our newsdesk on 0161 WEVERUNOUTOFNEWS.
And while youre phoning in, can you ask the Mirror to clean up the matter of when a hoodie is not a hoodie? Can the hood be down and the face in full view, as this the case in the Mirrors shots of this shocking moment, or to be a hoodie must the hood be pulled up and tight over the head?
And just another smallish point: this was not a real gun. Police decided the weapon was not dangerous, and since it could only fire ball bearings, and there is no evidence that his unhooded hoodie even did that, he was taken home and warned about his conduct in front of his parents.
But not in front of the Mail, which sees the picture of the still unnamed 16-year-old, taken by a passer-by who then called the police, and calls him the teenage gun yob who terrorised a town.
The image would strike fear into anyones heart – particularly with the country on terrorist bomb alert following the London bombings, says the paper.
Too right. Only, its not a bomb. Its a gun. Its a gun that can be owned legally by anyone aged 17 and over. Its a gun that fires ball bearings. And, although we know profiling is riddled with faults, the youth in the frame is white, his friends are white, one of whom is a female, and theyre not in London but in a market town in Cheshire.
But none of this is to say the good people of Knutsford did not have a lucky escape, nor that they werent terrorised.
But it could have been worse. Serving police officer Norman Brennan, of the Victims of Crime Trust, thinks someone might have been shot.
This individual is lucky he was not shot by armed police, says the voice of the Force. Indeed he was.
As inspector Craig Arterton, of the local station, tells the Mirror: The gun is not terribly dangerous although if a ball bearing caught you in the eye it would cause an injury.
But not as bad an injury as one caused by the police overreacting like the Mirror and Mail and firing off a volley or two at the lads eye, ear or leg. Then the boy would be very injured or very dead.
Although he would only have himself to blame…’
B Happy
‘TIME now to take look at the other side of youth Britain and the Suns story of Rachel Grandey, who yesterday scooped 15 A*s and two As in her GCSEs.
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| Tries hard, could do better |
But rather than being crushed at her glaring failure to achieve a perfect score, and then only for 17 subjects, Rachel poses for the papers snapper.
No, not in her knickers and a cheeky grin. This girls no expert in bikiniology. Shes a brainiac, which, according to the third law of tabloid means she must pose for a shot with a violin cuddled under her chin.
Winning a GCSE is, of course, as the papers have told us at no small length, childs play and heres a child to show us how easy it is.
Step forward and show us your gappy teeth, six-year-old whizzkid schoolboy Armaan Genomal, the proud recipient of a GCSE in Information and Communication Technology.
He completed the course at a private college, as well as attending usual lessons at his prep school, in nine months, coos the Mirror. It was quite easy actually, says the lad. I came out of the exam with a smile.
But before we get too carried away, the Mirror also tells us that Armaan secured a B grade. Can we dare venture that this years youngest winner of a GCSE should have spent a month or two longer at his studies? But he is young, and resisting overconfidence and learning to apply himself is something he can learn.
Providing that he stays on the straight and narrow, and never buys a gun that fires ball bearings, bits of potato or, heaven forbid, water…’
Stone Broke
‘SUMMER time and the papers have it easy. In the Mail, two puppies have fallen down a cliff and neighbours have gone to war over a clematis.
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| Ken Livingstone |
But hush little Mail readers, dont you cry, the young English Springer Spaniels, Ben and Toby, have been rescued. And the only casualty in the war of the clematis is Nigel and Penelope Pratts plant, which was hacked at by Jeanne Wilding, who said it had grown over her letter box. And the courts have dealt with her.
This is stock stuff, to while away those lazy summer days in Fleet Street, stories that are as much a part of the British summer as the Red Arrows, hayfever and topless stunnas.
But there is something newsy in the Sun, and its a happening big enough to make it onto the papers celebrated front page.
OFF THEIR ROCKERS, screams the headline, as we read of an insult to the 7/7 victims treated on the wards of University College Hospital, London.
This sounds bad. And we wonder what form this insult takes. Is London mayor Ken Livingstone to tour the hospital? Has a wing been named after George Galloway? Are patients being asked for their views on British foreign policy before being treated?
No, the shocking news is that the hospital has spent £70,000 on a giant pebble to decorate its front entrance.
The six-ton hunk of granite is said by the hospital to enhance the healing environment of the building.
The artist behind the huge polished stone, one John Aiken, says in the Mail: Symbolically, the monument could represent the history and development of the Hospital Trust and its diverse parts fused into a cohesive whole.
That it could. But to the Sun its the ROCKY HORROR SHOW. Its £70,000 that a could have funded three nurses for a year, seven heart bypass operations, 160 courses of breast cancer treatment, 14,000 doses of Viagra or 47 cataract operations.
But while the Express cites critics who say the NHS can ill afford to spend so much cash on what passes for art, and presents a hazard to pedestrians, we wonder how the stone is a slap in the face for victims of the recent terror attack on London?
We search the Suns piece and find that the claim is rooted in the opinions of one doctor. She describes the rock, known in the art world as Monolith and Shadow, as an insult to those 7/7 victims who are still being treated at the hospital.
This medic is later revealed to be one Suzanne Brownlow, a junior doctor who thinks the stone outrageous and makes a mockery of the NHS.
She says the money spent on the stone, which came from donations, should have gone to helping patients. The work is silly. It could be seen as an insult to the hardworking doctors there and those injured in the bombings.
That it could. And the Sun is happy to take that line. But it could just as easily be seen in the way the artist intended, or as a huge doorstop. Or as an easy news story to fill lots of space with.
It all just depends what angle you approach it from…’
Stringing Us Along
‘HAVING located Tony Blair, the Mail cannot now take its eyes from him.
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| Is your G-string too tight or do you always grin like that? |
And we cant help but think this is what Tony wants. Having disappeared for a while, did he perhaps suddenly realise that he was in danger of being forgotten?
Tony was gone and the world was still turning. Birds were in the sky. And John Prescott had cut through the sham and taught us that to be Prime Minister is not all that hard. In fact, we should follow the Italian political method and give everyone a go at being leader.
So Tony came out of hiding. And now hes back among the living, albeit those living in Barbados, or Blairbados (Mail), hes keen to remind us just how terrific he is.
So here he is dressed in a pink shirt (or perhaps hes topless?), sunglasses perched on his head and holding a ukulele.
The Sun says sunkissed Cherie clapped and took photos while the PM…sang from a sheet of handwritten lyrics.
Back in the Mail, we hear from George Hinchliffe, director of the Ukulele Orchestra of Britain, who says the instrument is a fine choice.
Its the ideal instrument to take on holiday, says he, over looking the merits of a grand piano or tambourine. We like to think of the instrument as the instrument of the people…so maybe Tony Blair is playing up to his Everyman image by being seen with one.
Perhaps. But if he is playing up, what tune is he playing? Anther rendition of When Im 64? Or what about a reggae version of Things Can Only Get Better?
No. It must be Summer Holiday, by Sir Cliff Richard, the songster in whose Barbados villa Tony once holidayed.
Take it away, Tony: Were all going on a freebie holiday, no more scheming for a week or two. Fun and grinning on our summer holiday, no more worries for me or you, for a week or two…or at last until Im back…’
