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.
Love On The Rocks
‘WITH Blair found and the mute Piano Man out of hospital, talking and back home in Germany, the papers have two new mysteries for their readers to work on.
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| Sienna is cut up about Jude |
Who needs an Agatha Christie classic on the beach when you can pick up a copy of the Mirror and try to answer the front-page question: What has Sienna done to her arm?
Readers who look at the back of puzzle books for the answers can immediately turn to page 3 to FIND OUT. But before that, wed like to consider the evidence over in the Mail.
In Troubled Sienna and the five cuts on her forearm, the Mail puts the angry red marks in context, saying how Sienna has been cheated on by her ex-fiancee, Jude Law.
Then the paper dallies long enough at a question-and-answer session that follows Millers performance in As You Like It in Londons West End to hear an audience member ask if she found it hard to act amid the revelations about her love life.
Replied Miller: Theres a lovely expression Dr Theatre. Which suggests to the Mail that the actress sees treading the boards as a kind of therapy. And where theres therapy, theres deep-seated angst. And then there are those red marks.
The tale of Millers arm grows ever more intriguing. And over in the Sun, Miller is once again dubbed troubled as the paper tells its readers that the star is going through fretful times.
There are hints being hinted at. Clues are being posted in the Mail and the Sun. We are being invited to consider the Siennas body of evidence and draw some conclusions.
But we grow impatient. And its back to the Mirror and to its page three. And there we learn: She did it taking a dip in the sea…
Millers spokeswoman tells the paper: She grazed her arm and bruised her hip as she was buffeted against some rocks.
So the wounds werent caused by…? Oh, thats good. But what was she doing in the sea in the first place? Especially a sea choppy enough to cause her to sustain such injuries?
And then why let photographers see your wounds, which could have been easily covered over with a sleeve?
Like Christies Mousetrap, this mystery is sure to run and run…’
Keeping Up With The Joneses
‘WITH readers minds whirring as to the whys, wherefores and whatnots of troubled Sienna Millers wounds, the Sun leads with the biggest mystery in modern Times: how does Sven Goran Eriksson pull?
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| Alas Jones and Jones |
And when you start considering that, you are instantly faced with another question: why did Sven check into a hotel near Watford, Herts, under the name Mr Eric Jones?
This is, as the papers front page says it is: New England boss sensation. And instantly we start to wonder who the real England manager is.
Could it be that Sven, the dull, dry, whispering anodyne man in the unmemorable suit, is actually something far less exotic? Has Eric realised that a Swede called Sven can get away with far more than a British manager. Is Sven a creation?
Surprisingly, the Sun overlooks this possibility, preferring to say that Mr Jones and Mrs Jones, aka Nancy DellOlio, stayed at the hotel as part of a crisis summit.
But it does then go into no small detail about the rest of their day. Like a copper on the beat, the Sun supplies the evidence for you the jury to deliberate over and deliver your verdict on.
We learn that having been escorted to their superior mansion king, they remained in said room for two hours, emerging for lunch at 2pm.
Sven, who had arrived wearing a business suit, left the room sporting a navy and white hooped rugby shirt. Nancy, whod been in a white top and black trousers, was now clad in a green tracksuit.
They then sat in a golf buggy to be driven by staff (unnamed) to the hotels restaurant a quarter-mile away.
There, they sat outside. Nancy ordered two £30 salad lunches. Sven drank a smoothie.
One hour later, they were driven back to the hotels reception area. And there the trail goes cold. (Perhaps the Suns man on the spot went for a leak?)
Which leaves us to guess what occurred next? Did they return to their room? Did Sven leave his Cuban heels for cleaning outside? Is Nancy looking for a transfer?
Or are Mr And Mrs Jones forever tied together, united in subterfuge and plot?’
The Island
‘WE seek him here, we seek him there. His clothes are loud, but never square. Hes over there. Its Tony Blair!
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| ‘A free rum punch if you promise not to invade us, Mr Blair’ |
Finally, the Mail has spotted that bouffant-haired dedicated follower of fashion on his jolly holidays.
BLAIR BLOWS HIS OWN COVER, shouts the papers front-page headline, as after days of guesswork we learn where our fearless leader has been turning his skin a lively shade of pink.
Hard luck on those of you who guessed that Tony had been staying in Texas, trying on all manner of ten gallon hats for size and perfecting his Dubya Swagger. And more fool you for thinking even for a nanosecond that the leader of this country would be holidaying in it.
Tony is holed up at a pals place in Barbados. And the reason we now know this is because undercover Tony decided to turn up to a VJ celebration on the island.
The Mirror says that Blairs director of communications, Dave Hill, was forced to tell us all where Tony is when the PM attended an official function held by the Barbados Legion.
Very good. Right that Tony should mark so important a day in our history. But how did the Legion know Tony was among them? Didnt they realise his visit was a secret?
The Mail smells something fishy and wonders if Tony didnt invite himself to the do. Why go to the bother and expense of keeping the trip top secret if you are to accept an invitation for a public appearances?
Such a question is put to a spokesman for Number 10. The mouthpiece pauses for a moment and then offers the explanation: I dont know how the Barbados Legion knew he was there.
But they did. Which gives some value to the comments of Tory MP Henry Bellingham, who tells the Sun: Its becoming a farce. He goes on: I suspect the reason is not about security. Its to try and avoid media interest in the people he has been staying with.
No, not the Hiltons, the Sheratons or the Marriots, whose hospitality is rewarded with money and open to one and all, but one of Tonys chums.
If Tony is in Barbados – and this report is not part of an elaborate ruse – it could mean hes once again staying at Cliff Richards luxury £3million pad.
Although he might not be there any more. These are dangerous times, and it is possibly that Tony has now moved on. The VJ do was on Sunday, and by now he could be anywhere.
But we should know where he is, not least to avoid the place. Which means its time we took things into our own hands. Unpack the hounds! Dust off the horses!
Lets see if we can pick up his scent, which is a heady mixture of sun cream, fish and humbug…’
Gently Rock
‘THE Rolling Stones are medical marvels. Seemingly pickled from within, they continue to shock just by functioning.
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| ‘I can’t give no…sa-tis-fac-tion…’ |
At a combined age of 245 years, we expect them to rock, but more backwards and forwards than over a huge stadium stage.
Looking at the Mails picture of Mick Jagger pulling his famous lips into a wide-mouthed grimace as he struts unaided around a stage, we are reminded of how a chicken runs around after its neck has been broken.
But the Mail was impressed with the performance as The Stones started yet another tour, kicking off their 18-month Bigger Bang Tour in Boston.
Oh dear, excuse our tittering. Weve just read in the Sun what Keith Richards has to say.
In its undiluted form, Richardss comment on Mick Jagger runs: His c**k is on the end of his nose. And a very small one at that. Huge balls. Small c**k. Ask Marianne Faithfull.
The Sun fails to do as bidden, and sparing Faithfulls blushes instead wonders in its lead editorial if Mick hasnt just worn it out.
Or has finally started do what no legendary rocker should and fade away…’
Ravy Davy
‘MMMMM mmmm aaahhh beeee aaaaaammmmm oooooooaaaaa. Aaaaaameeeeen.
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| ‘Chelsy was in the counting house, counting out her money..’ |
An extract there from a hymn as mumbled by many number of Royal churchgoers on Sundays past.
Many is the time weve heard the great organ fire up and looked on as the Royal Family have made barely a sound as they mouthed the words to a song of praise.
But things are set to change. The Star tells us that the Royal Family has a pop star in its midst. Step under the spotlight and tell us what you want, what you really, really want, Chelsy Davy.
Prince Harrys girlfriend has just signed a three-album deal with a South African record label to be a royal Britney Spears.
As a source tells the paper: Chelsy has all the attributes that you need to be great recoding artist.
Cant argue with that. Though weve yet to hear her sing, Chelsy is blonde, does have a famous boyfriend and, er, did we mention that shes blonde?
If Harry can be persuaded to follow a career in professional football, then the sky will surely be the limit for Chelsy.
But what will she sing? Sources say she wants to be a singer in vein of Norah Jones. She wants to do something that is rock-based or folky.
So look out for Chelsys version of Green Sleeves, a cover version of Puff The Magic Dragon and Prince Philip wielding the flat end of his rifle as Chelsy invites the family to hit her, baby, one more time…’
Phony War
‘IF sex is the breakfast of champions, as motor racing legend James Hunt was wont to put it, has Sven Goran Eriksson been buttering both sides of his morning toast?
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| ‘Now I am putting a yellow cup on the top rack…’ |
The Sun has it that the cheating England football manager has been having secret phone chats with former mistress Faria Alam.
Given the speed of Svens oratory, we imagine him to be a slow and deliberate lover on the phone. Questions like What are you wearing, Sven will be met with a long pause, then the sound of rustling fabric before the telling answer: My top is 70 per cent nylon with some viscose…shorts are a polyester-cotton blend and my glasses are made of tortoise shell and glass.
Oh, Sven! Youre really turning on me on, says Alam. Sven then send Alam into raptures by easing open the dishwasher door and telling her how dirty the plates are
Alam says that their conversations have been occurring two or three times a week and that hes even been trying to speak to her in person.
A friend of hers claims: Sven called her up from his hotel room and a football stadium to fix a meeting, it was him who wanted to meet her and he chose the date and the venue May 29 at a hotel in Manhattan.
But the meeting never happened. The source says that Sven called it off, afraid the Press would get wind of it.
But somehow (any ideas how?) the news reached the papers and then the ears of Svens lover, Nancy DellOlio.
Described as furious and seething in the Sun, the paper looked on as Nancy cut short a holiday in Italy to have it out with her wayward Swede.
She was in a very bad mood, says a passenger on Nancys flights to the sun. At one point a guy asked her for her autograph and she barked back at him saying, Im not in the mood for that today.
Fired up, she returned to the London home she and Sven share and waited for his return. A friend of hers tells the Mail that when he did, Nancy and Sven had a serious row and that Nancy was spitting blood.
But Sven took out his magic sponge, cooled his strike partners ardour and reassured her that the story was untrue. She believed him, and later, as the Sun says, she told reporters huddled outside their home: Were not going out. Were having dinner now.
And then maybe some breakfast…’
Going Down
‘AS anyone whos picked up a tabloid recently will know, Dens set to rise from his concrete grave soon, and although hes been under the ground now for months, hes still the Den we came to know and despise: grey, pallid skin, fishy eyes and leaving everyone feeling sick just looking at him.
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| ‘I’ve a good mind to smack your legs!’ |
In fact, stick him behind the bar of the Vic and no one would even notice that hes dead.
Sharon is determined to have her father at her wedding and even went to Spain to look for him, as Chrissie had told her that hed fled there with a mystery woman. A week later (Spain obviously being the size of Walford), Sharon came back empty-handed but several shades of orange darker.
Sharon then called in Walford police to try and help her find him, but strangely they had better things to do than trying to look for someone who faked his own death for ten years.
Chrissie is determined to clear out of Walford as soon as possible, as soon as shes sold the Vic. Shes forged Dens signature on the deeds of the Vic, giving her sole ownership and as a final knife in the back, she told Sharon that Sam Mitchell was the last person to see Den alive. Poor Sam, a woman so stupid that she gave all the Mitchell businesses away for a handful of beans, is no match for Chrissie, and later this month she finds herself in very hot water indeed.
Which heralds the return of some old Walford faces (and we do mean old) Peggy and Phil Mitchell – well, we all know how much Phil Mitchell likes sniffing round old bangers, allegedly.
Elsewhere in Walford, Demi Millers back after her unsuccessful attempt at turning herself into the next Pete Docherty. She and Leo were staying in a squat with six pounds to their name. So while her 14-year-old boyfriend was out selling drugs, Demi thought shed amuse herself by shooting up. When Leo returned from a hard days dealing to find his girlfriend unconscious, he was convinced shed died of a drugs overdose – so he decided to overdose himself.
Cue a very poor dream sequence in which Leo had a vision of Demi and his daughter Aleesha surrounded by bright lights and smoke. Which is probably a premonition for when they go out to Stringfellows on the pull together in about 12 years time.
Aleesha has been returned to the Millers while Demi recovers from her overdose in hospital. The social services came round to visit Keith to make sure that Aleesha was being properly cared for, and amazingly they decided that the best place for her was in the care of her 14-year-old mother whod nearly died of a drugs overdose and her illiterate, jobless parents. Who do the Millers think they are? Celebrity supermodels or something?
Theres more children trouble in Albert Square this week as Jane has decided that, bizarrely, she wants to have a baby with Ian Beale. Ian is thankfully less than keen to bring yet another Beale into the world, but when Jane threatened to leave him he couldnt face the prospect of having a fifth woman walk out on him and his children, so he told her hes get his vasectomy reversed.
Jane accompanied a nervous Ian to the fertility treatment where a nurse handed him a test tube. Well need you to provide us with a sample to test your sperm count, she told him. Well, we always knew that Ian was a bit of a tosser.’
A Greek Tragedy
‘THE shooting dead of Jean Charles de Mendez by the British police is turning into a Greek tragedy.
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| Sensible shoes (model’s own) |
Today the Mail tells us that the killing of the Brazilian electrician was part of Operation Kratos, the forces shoot-to-kill policy.
That the aggressive ancient Greek spirit of strength, might, power and sovereign rule should be chosen to lend his name to the war on terror may have something to do with one Commander Cressida Dick, the woman who sanctioned the operation.
The Mail profiles this classically-minded copper, with a name rooted in ancient Greek history, informing its readers that she was brought up and educated at Oxford, and is regarded at Scotland Yard as one of the new breed of intellectuals on the way to the top.
Her hobbies include the countryside, gardening, and country sports. When not in uniform her favoured outfit is a smart, dark trouser suit.
This is deeply fascinating stuff, and surely the Mail is right now pulling together a follow-up feature in which its readers will be told how they can dress like an off-duty copper.
But perhaps the most important thing is not that the woman, known among her colleagues as Cress, oversaw the killing of an innocent man, but that she earns £90,000 a year.
At least the paper think this is important, as if in some way earning a high wage reflects her ability to do the job. Perhaps if she earned £30,000 or even £45,000 a year, wed more easily understand and forgive her mistakes.
And not just her errors, but those of her well-paid boss, Metropolitan Police Commissioner Sir Ian Blair. Accused of heading a cover up Why was Mendez allowed to board the Tube train? Was he really wearing a bulky jacket? Did he vault the ticket barrier or not? Blair rejects any notion of his resigning.
The allegations strike to the heart of the integrity of the police and integrity of the Met and I fundamentally reject them, says he. There is no cover up.
Surely much of the controversy can be cleared up by releasing CCTV images of the victim entering Stockwell Tube station in the wake of the failed attacks of July 21.
But until then, we have to make do with opinion, and the likes of the Suns cabbie with a crayon, Richard Littlejohn.
Referring to the police as the poor bloody infantry, albeit an infantry with helicopters, boats and horses, Littlejohn says that though the death of an innocent man is worthy of our deepest sympathies, we must in no way blame the police.
It is said that he [Mendez] was not properly identified because the surveillance officer was taking a leak when Mr Mendez left the block of flats, says Littlejohn, reminding us that this was the same block of flat where suspect Hussain Osman was believed to be hiding out.
To those of my own profession who cite this call of nature as gross dereliction of duty, I would ask: have they never sloped off for a quiet gipsys while on a doorstep?
That this argument is part of a piece designed as an address to a jury trying the police over the matter makes Littlejohns comments all the more pathetic.
If he were hired to put the case for the defence, the police would all be sent down as soon as the jury worked out that hacks rarely if ever go armed to a doorstep interview, and rarely if ever kill their target.
And then theres the matter of how were led to believe the police are on top of the terror threat unless one of their number needs the loo, in which case we should start screaming and run away as fast as we can.
This is perhaps why in the same paper readers are told that before any conclusions can be formed, the facts must be established. If serious mistakes have been made, then a senior officer in the Met MUST carry the can, says the Sun.
Quite so. But we wont know what mistakes were made unless were told. And what were told isnt up to us, the papers or any Greek gods…’
Feeling Shady
‘THEY dont make pop stars like they used to.
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| Sleeping pills and no more thrills |
While the Mail writes that The Rolling Stones are preparing to tour again and not on a Saga tour coach, but on a real rock n roll bus the Sun brings news of Eminem.
Old rocker Keith Richards cannot, as the adage goes, be killed by conventional weapons, but Marshall Mathers is already feeling the effects of over-indulgence.
Having already heard the star announce that he was bowing out of the limelight because of exhaustion, we know learn that hes addicted to sleeping pills.
The remedy for someone exhausted with a reliance on sleeping pills would perhaps be to take more sleeping pills and so get more rest, but the star has had enough.
So hes taking a break and is being treated at a clinic in Brighton, Michigan.
And while the 32-year-old rapper takes a breather, 62-year-old Mick Jagger puffs out his cheeks and says that playing rock music is not just for the young.
You wouldnt want any old people to do it. It would be awful, says he, overlooking the fact that the four remaining band members have a combined age of 245.
He explains: But if you have creative energy, age doesnt matter.
And if you doubt that, you can ask his children…’
Pointer Of No Return
‘IT might be the Silly Season, that time of year when editors take a break from mad mullahs and cautionary tales on how foreigners can give you cancer to take to their Tuscan villas, and for the Daily Star to relocates to Faliraki, but there is still serious news to be told.
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| Ahmed, Yuri and Svetlana knew it was their only chance of making it to the UK |
Though deprived of having their name in print, one Daily Mail Reporter has worked tirelessly to bring to the world the story of Mears, the abandoned puppy.
It seems not every British tourist spends their holidays getting high on hooch, flashing the locals their spotty white bits and puking, and the story of how Nicola Cooksley (cruelly described in the caption beneath her photo as touched) is more refreshing than a bucket of iced Mai Tai thrown over your T-shirt on a hot day in Zante.
While on holiday in the Azores, Nicola and husband Jonathan were enjoying a ten-mile trek on the island of Sao Miguel. And thats when they saw a scrawny five-month-old Portuguese pointer.
He followed us as we walked round the mountain, says Nicola. We just couldnt get rid of him.
And after trying to shake him off by battling through undergrowth and even wading waist-deep through a lakes inlets, the couple stopped. They gave the dog some of their snacks and decided to take him home to Dorchester with them.
So they forked out £4,000 for vets fees, immigration forms, a flight and a kennel, where he will live until hes legally released in February and to where Nicola makes a 30-mile journey each day.
Its the kind of story that any Mail reader just loves to hear, as a desperate creature is rescued from a life of scavenging and despair by caring Brits.
Or politically correct, woolly liberal do-gooders as theyre known for the rest of the year, and so much more besides if the rescued creature is an asylum-seeking human…’
The Fallen Madonna
‘MADONNA HORSE FALL HORROR, yells the front page of the Mirror. And at once we fear the worse.
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| Time for Madonna to move on? |
Ever since the singer took up with Englishman Guy Ritchie, he of the Mockney movies, and took to English life like a slice of lemon to a gin and tonic, weve been waiting for disaster to strike.
Madonnas greatest skill has always being knowing when the time is right to adopt a new look – she was a virgin, she was a vamp, she was a wholesome God-fearing girl.
None of her looks rang true, but she has been wonderfully able to change each before her public really noticed that punks never really wear legwarmers and Vogue dancing is OK if youre chair-bound or drunk but is really just a variant on the old sit-down jive.
So when Madonna became the demure English gel, we waited. We began to look for signs when she would stop finishing her words properly.
We wondered when shed start wearing brown in town. And we grabbed her childrens books and checked for hints of sexual awakenings, when The English Roses, the stars of her book set in London, would get some interesting piercings and unsuitable boyfriends.
But we never believed Madonnas fall would be so spectacular. So, though we are not surprised, we are shocked to read that she is the victim of a horse horror.
But the singer is alright or righty-oh, as she would say and is not a deaths door, but resting up with three cracked ribs, a fractured collar bone and a broken hand after her horse threw her.
For anyone not au fait with body parts, or for whom the singers physique begins and ends with her conical bras, the Mirror produces a helpful graphic.
Over a picture of a tweed-clad Madonna sitting on a horse and leaning over to hug Guys shoulders, the paper produces arrows to show where Madonnas injuries are.
For the record, the Madonna collar bone is near her tweed collar, the ribs are in her torso and her HAND BROKEN is not between her eyes but at the end of a sleeve.
The accident, which the Mail tells us occurred at the entertainers 1,200-acre country home in Wiltshire, has clearly left her battered and bruised – something the Mail wants to emphasise as it employs Leela Biant, an orthopaedic surgeon, to say that though its unlikely the singer will need surgery, she will not be able to dance for a while.
More vital information in Madonnas hour of need arrives on the Suns front cover (MADONNA WITH ZE BIG BRUISES), in which the horrific fall is said to have left the star visibly shaken.
And shes not the only one. We are all concerned for her well being, and wish her a speedy recovery. We also offer the advice that the best thing to do when you fall off a horse is to get back in the saddle.
And if she decides to strap said saddle to her mans back and publish photos of her endeavours in a new book, wed expect nothing less…’
Three Lions In The Sand
‘ITS been tough but after the hour-long break, the football season is on once again.
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| ‘The Siegfried Lion, The Maginot Lion and the, er, …’ |
And what better way to celebrate the return of the glory game than with a look at the Mails shot of Nancy DellOlio wearing an English footy kit with pride.
While on holiday in Sardinia, England coach Sven Gorans Erikssons periodically substituted lover is spotted doing a passable impression of Wayne Rooney a boy whose taste for older women might see the shot of 43-year-old Nancy stuck in pride of place on his bedroom wall.
And while the Italian lawyer does her best to look like Sporty Spice while dressed like a suburban chav, the Sun says that Germans are also interested in getting the look of the English footballer.
ACHTUNG! commands the Sun in that familiar way that heralds any story on Germans and football. Ze are plotting a dastardly bid to steal England footie anthem Three Lions.
With the World Cup to be staged in Germany next summer, the Sun says a bunch of Bayern Munich fans are gathering support to make their countrys Football Association record a version of the English terrace hit.
Out will go Bobby Moores tackle and Nobby Stiless dancing and in come Franz Beckenbauers technick and Rudi Vollers mullett.
It wasnt meant for frankfurter-eating, lederhosen-wearing Bavarians, observes the Sun.
And here we must interject. Surely music is for one and all, an international language that unites. And lets be honest, Germany isnt exactly blessed with pop talent, even if you do include David Hasselhoff.
So we say let them have our song. One World up, Two World Wars, Three Lions, what matters more?
With any luck, just like when Englands supporters sang the tune at Euro 96, the Germans will belt it out as their team impersonates England and loses on penalties in the semi-finals…’
Doubting Tom
‘ANY idea what todays big news story is? We only ask in the hope that if you have any idea any idea at all you will tell the papers.
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| Life is like a box of wafers |
Surely, says you, there must be news of Omar Bakri, the Suns mad mullah, who on slow news days can be relied upon to say something priggish? But no. And neither is their any news of any of his shadowy band.
What about the Mails story on how radial Islam gives you cancer? Sadly not. There are stories about addictive headache pills, that drink-related deaths are up to 20 per cent in bingeing Britain and how women are addicted to tanning, a condition called tanorexia, but cancer is on holiday.
There must be some hope that the Express can pull out the stops and in the best traditions of fearless reporting tell us how the lack of rainfall is affecting house prices in Aylesbury.
But though we look to the Express for guidance in such matters, theres no mention of it. Instead theres a phone vote, which asks: Should Japan compensate British victims for atrocities.
Which leaves us to think that the war on terror must be over (hurrah!), that cancer has been cured (hurrah!) and that the value of a maisonette in Bournemouth is no longer considered big news (yippee!).
But we still need a story to inform our day. Anything will do. So heres the Sun telling us that movie star Tom Hanks looks rough.
Spotted turning up at Lincoln Cathedral for the making of the film of the hit book The Da Vinci Code, Hanks was putting the old into Old Testament.
While he doesnt look his full three score years and ten, its undeniable that Hanks lank hair and pale skin give him a less than fresh-faced look.
Although its not easy looking cool, calm and tanorexic when being confronted by a rookery of nuns.
Not everyones happy that the movie of a book which alludes to secrets of the Christian Church Jesus married Mary Magdalene and fathered her child; Christianity is a sexist conspiracy to exclude women from positions of power; and that neither Tony Blair nor Cliff Richard is the Messiah is being filmed in an actual place of worship.
Some, like Sister Mary Michael, take exception to author Dan Browns work of fiction being passed off as some kind of fact. She tells the Express that it is against the very essence of what we believe.
For reasons best known to herself, Sister Mary confronted Hanks not only with her words and righteous indignation but with a large metal crucifix in her hand and a picture of Jesus, of the type produced by the Turin Shroud.
Although given the length of Hanks hair, his palour and aged countenance, the portrait might in fact not be a likeness of Jesus but a photo of the star which Sister Mary hopes he will sign…’
Logan’s Run
‘A MERE three weeks ago, TV soccer presenter Gabby Logan was roughly the shape of a football, says the Mail informatively.
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| ‘The nanny’s taking the kids for a walk and I feel great’ |
But now with her twin babies born, Gabbys figure has popped back into shape, or, to keep with the football theme, had a puncture.
And that is nothing short of the best news weve heard for an age. Good old Gabby.
But how did she regain her figure? Was it a diet of carrots, strawberries and seven grains of raw rice for lunch? Or can we attribute the look to the miracle of good underwear and, let it not be unsaid, the photographers magic airbrush?
None of it. Gabbys slim figure is all down to her genes and exercise. I am one of those lucky people who loves working out, says Gabby.
But her good fortune doesnt end with the ability to spend an hour or more in a sweaty, stinking gym running on the spot while an instructor high on endomorphines urges her to keep time with the Crazy Frog megamix being blasted into her ears.
As luck has it, Gabby has a nanny to push the gigantic double pram while she walks alongside holing a dog on a leash. Nanny acts as a kind of pacemaker, striding on out, giving Gabby a moving, rolling target to keep up with.
Women who want to get like Gabby are not told how much nanny costs, but the Mail does reveals that the pram, the Emmaljunga twin Crossway in Sport Safari, costs £800.
But not to worry if you cant afford one of those similar results can be had by keeping step with a small family hatchback, or a pre-birth Gabby…’
Skirting The Issue
‘EDITORIAL guidance at the Mail seemingly stipulates that any story on binge drinking must be illustrated with a shot of one or more fanciable young woman in a short skirt carousing in the street.
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| ‘And… Action!’ |
The drinking culture, which will get worse, says the paper, is causing British society to fray at the edges. One pull on a loose thread on any of these girls scandalous outfits and the whole thing will unravel before our wide eyes.
But how much of a fantasy is this? No, not that binge drinking is on the rise. A report by the Parliamentary Office of Science and Technology says that drinking large amounts of booze in a short space of time is a distinctive characteristic of the British drinking culture.
Extending licensing hours, as will happen in November, will lead to more binge drinking.
No, the fantasy is that given enough booze, the young will become yet more debauched.
Evidence suggests that things will get worse, with Britain eventually turning into a modern version of the ancient Greek colony at Sybaris.
And do not doubt that the Greek way holds much appeal for todays Britons. The Sun reports that British tourists at the Baywatch beach bar in the Greek resort of Laganas are getting into the swing of things.
Its shocking to read that for £16, Baywatchs esteemed patrons were invited to drink all the vodka they could. This then led to all manner of depravity, including lesbian kisses and full sex.
There was also a sex Olympics, in which sporty types were invited to raise the bar through oral sex and stimulating a well-known brand of confectionary with what papers routinely call a sex act.
And you dont just have to take the Suns word for it. Here comes Ben Evans, 18, from Erith, Kent, who tells us how it was the most shocking thing I have ever seen. Oh? Most people were so rat-arsed they would have done anything.
And a 20-year-old labourer talks about the wet T-shirt contest. Jamie Mangan, 19, speaks of drink coming pretty much out of a bucket.
Sadly, for curious Mail readers interested in checking the place out for themselves as they motor from one Greek ruin to the next, the bar has been closed down by the local police. Whats more, the organisers face two years in jail for creating a scandal through acts of debauchery.
All well and good. Such atrocious behaviour degrades the participants and shames our nation.
This sobering tale illustrates how an excess of booze can only lead to more violence, more drunkenness and more shots of girls larging it in town centres…’
Home & Away
‘SINCE everything is about the war on terror, at least in the papers minds, lets consider todays news as a whole. Tony Blair goes away and the following things occur:
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| ‘Dear guys, wish you could all be here, but the villa’s not big enough, and we need you to carry on as normal’ |
1. Robin Cook, that smug, gnome-like former foreign secretary, the standard bearer of Labours ethical foreign policy, dies while up a large hill in a remote part of Scotland.
Tony is shocked, saddened and choked up that such a powerful force in politics has died. But even so, as the Mail reports, Tony will not be breaking off his summer hols in the Caribbean to attend a memorial service for Cook at Edinburghs St Giles Cathedral.
2. Perhaps Tony could not come back even if he wanted to. The front page of the Mirror screams: NO FLY ZONE.
The story is that with Tony and Cherie aboard a boat (see the Suns snap of Cherie clambering aboard a speedboat with all the grace youd expected from a woman in her position: arse up, hands grasping, head down), Heathrow airport is crippled.
A catering row at British Airways has led to the suspension of all the firms flights to and from the UK. The Mirror says that the chaos is set to continue and could spread to other airports.
(Airport staff are supporting the 800 workers sacked by catering firm Gate Gourmet, who mounted picket lines at Heathrow with the backing of the T&G union. Baggage handlers, aircraft loaders and airport bus drivers noticed the good weather, saw their brothers in need and thought it a favourable day to strike.)
3. At the time of the airport strike, Omar Bakri, the Suns favourite mad mullah, was being arrested in Lebanon. The Sun says that last night Bakri was sleeping in a 4ft by 6ft cell, no bigger than his own Ford Galaxy.
4. In the front-page story NAILED horribly fitting given the contents of the failed bombers rucksacks the Sun says that as well as Bakri, nine other fanatics have been rounded up by the police.
The circumstances of our national security has changed, says home Secretary Charles Clarke. It is vital we act against those who threaten it.
And act we will? We will look tough and say tough things. The script demands it. But how will we back it up?
The Mail asks: Will they really be thrown out? The paper says the nine extremists held in the UK can expect to stay for some years, while they appeal against any moves to have them deported.
And then theres Bakri, who tells the Mail that incarcerated or not, he only ever intended to return to the UK as a visitor or a tourist.
But these are dangerous times. The British authorities are taking no chances – Bakri failed to tell the Department of Work and Pensions that he was leaving the country so his £43.30 per week disability allowance has been cancelled for the duration of this trip.
You want tough, Bakri. The British Government will give you tough.
And instantly you see that these incidents are no random events, rather parts of the larger war on terror.
You might think Tonys having a laugh in the sun, that we dont know how to deal with the extremists, that horrible, plasticated airplane food is not worth fighting over and that Dr David Kelly could never happen again, but the news suggests otherwise.
Theres a war going on and the forces detailed to protect us are acting in mysterious ways…’
Estate Of The Nation
‘OF course, the real question that lies at the heart of any debate on terror is what impact it has on house prices.
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| ‘It’s a minute’s walk from the dole office’ |
Amazingly, the Mail today fails to make the link between a bomb falling in Iraq and a compact and bijou bungalow in Melton Mowbray.
However, it does bring some news that will surely gladden its readers and create a feeling of general well being and joy in anyone who reads it.
If this story was a song it would be Vera Lynne singing about houses on the south coast that offer to-die-for views of the white cliffs of Dover.
And we care enough about you to pass by the Mirrors story of what Kiera Knightly looks for in a man a man with good shoes and how Peter Doherty celebrated getting back with Kate Moss by buying her a diamante-encrusted lace thong, to tell you that the countrys biggest chain of estate agents is losing money.
Oh, be still our beating hearts. Dry those eyes. Laughter really is the best medicine. And its hard not to feel better about the world when we read that Countryside has run up loses of £6.4 million. Oh, and thats only for the first six months of the year.
For those of you shaking too much with the hilarity of is all to read the paper for yourself, let us tell you that the firm has blamed the fall on a slump in consumer confidence at the end of 2004.
While we who know, blame the war on terror…’
Heart Attack
‘OUT of sight but not out of mind, the life and times of Omar Bakri continue to fascinate the papers.
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| ‘Barking’ Omar Bakri at his Lebanon training camp preparing for the John ‘Two Jabs’ Prescott fight |
The story so far is that an overweight, bearded Syrian-born religious extremist whos been living in the UK on benefits for the past 19 years has hotfooted it to Lebanon to a) be with his sick mum; b) flee British justice; or c) get rat-arsed every night and watch wet-burka contests.
Yesterdays debate centred on whether or not this charmless prig would ever return to this land, and what would happen if he did.
Today we hear, as we did yesterday, that he does indeed plan to return and that, as the Mail reports, he is coming back for an NHS operation. Ironic as it is, Bakri is coming back for the good of his health.
Bakri is entitled not only to return to his adopted country but is in line to undergo an operation to widen his arteries. And all at a cost to the great British taxpayer of £7,500.
To the Star this produces the front-page headline: FREE HEART OPS FOR EVERY RANTING LOON. And it hears from the man himself, who tells the papers shocked and stunned readers: I have a heart problem. Im waiting for an appointment.
But while medics prepare to deal with Bakris black heart in a 20-minute angioplasty operation – and while theyre at it they can tie his bile ducts up – the Sun wonders what to do.
Earlier this week, the paper was celebrating its key role in Bakris downfall. It had forced him out.
Now, with a face as red as its masthead, the Sun can only manage to mention the PARASITE, the vile cleric on its page 6, and only then in piece which says Bakri could never return.
In a matter of days the papers power has been reduced from that of telling weapon in the war on terror to a simple newssheet that says of the impending operation: In an act of Christian charity we should let the op go ahead so long as it is performed by ham-fisted John Prescott.
Or, for that matter, the Suns editor…’
Big Bother
‘EVEN the most ardent Big Brother avoider cannot have failed to spot ex-contestant Orlaith McAllisters surgically-enhanced chest.
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| ‘Makosi supposi her tosie is rosie’ |
And for those of you with a fetish for breasts the size and texture of two small car fog lights, theres Orlaith prancing about on a beach in Mallorca.
We should also point out that at no time does skinny Orlaith appear to notice that shes topless or being photographed by the Stars mobile phone camera.
She affects an air of nonchalance, of the type reserved for catalogue models who at the very moment of having their picture taken notice something deeply fascinating just off to the right of the shot.
In another picture, Orlaith varies the theme and looks down to the water, like shes seen a large cod float past, or, given that this is the Spanish Med, a fresh human turd.
But in looking away Orlaith might have caught sight of the Suns front page and the news that Big Brothers Makosi is a BIG CON.
The Sun can sensationally reveal that the housemate is an ACTRESS. Zimbabwe-born Makosi is, as a showbiz website advertises, an actress, presenter, compere and dancer.
The paper say shes on the books of a talent agency called Envenio, said to have invoiced the makers of Big Brother for £609.68 – which works out at around not very much per hour of her time.
This is all a devastating blow to the ordinary people who tried and failed to get on the show. It has been alleged Makosi was handpicked for the programme and fast-tracked through the auditions, a claim that Endemol, the firm that makes the show, denies.
Its hard to know what to believe. And only when Makosi comes out of the house and makes clean breast of it to the world will we know for sure…’
The Come Back Kid
‘YESTERDAY the Sun told us that it had forced Omar Bakri, the ubiquitous face of Muslim extremism in the UK, out of the country.
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| ‘Does Prezza hit men in glasses?’ |
Today, it learns the lesson that no war is over until the fat lady, or, as is the case here, the fat man with the beard and NHS specs has signed an official truce or been shot.
The paper says that it has heard from Bakri, who has, apparently, not fled the country in fear of being arrested under any new anti-terror powers, but jetted off to Lebanon to be with his sick mum.
While we wonder why Old Mrs Barki has not made the reverse trip and so been able to take full advantage of the National Health System, as her son has, her caring boy tells us that he plans to return to the UK in four weeks.
But the Sun is not keen to see him land in Blighty and wants him to stay put. So today the paper calls on its army of readers to demand that stand-in Prime Minister John Prescott keep Bakri OUT of Britain.
To stir a million and more white van drivers, cabbies and topless stunnas into action, the paper has produced a petition for each of us to sign and send to its London offices.
Dear Mr Prescott, it writes. Now that you are in charge of the country, we demand that you take action to keep vile preacher Omar Bakri out of Britain. He is not wanted here.
But Prezza is not having that. Leading with his left, he says that Bakri has a right to come in and out. Says Mr Prezza: I just say, Enjoy your holiday. Make it a long one.
But while Prezza indulges in a passable imitation of Clint Eastwood Go on, make my holiday! the Mail asks: Will preacher of hate return.
Of course, with the Suns petition in its infancy, its too early to say. But being a paper with a proud tradition of investigative reporting, the Mail should at least try to answer its own poser.
But since it chooses not to, things are once more left to the Express, which has set up a telephone hotline to receive calls from people upset, annoyed and downright furious that Bakri might not have gone for good.
Should preacher of hate be allowed back into Britain? it asks. And for those who find it tricky to decide which way to jump, the headline above the question runs: It beggars belief we must let him back.
So whats it to be? You decide. But dont rush your decision youve four weeks to make up your mind. And after around three of them, Tony will be back from his holiday, and Prezza will be back in his box…’
A Galaxy Of Stars
‘WHILE we cannot find Osama bin Laden, Lord Lucan or Anthea Turner on planet Earth, the intrepid Sun announces that it has spotted Victor Meldrew in space.
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| Meldrew in a black hole |
This is the papers front-page story, bigger than Bakri and still more challenging than the news that Coleen McLouglin is planning her own coat of arms, a story relegated to Page 3.
(Says Chav queen Coleen: It will have a Chloe bag and shoes on it. And some Maltesers my favourite sweets.)
And in ONE FOOT IN THE…MILKY WAY, the paper says that four respected astronomers have located a new constellation in the shape of actor Richard Wilsons curmudgeonly TV character.
For Sun readers more used to seeing stars falling out of nightclubs and punching cameramen, news that you can see Meldrew by joining up the dots of Coma Berenices, Canes Venatici, Draco, Bootes and Ursa Minor will be of little significance.
However, in simple terms of one syllable, the news is that you can find lots of odd shapes in the stars. Dr Anton Vamplew, of the Royal Observatory in Greenwich, London, says: People have been discovering new constellations for thousands of years.
And no sooner has he finished speaking than scientists have made another epic discovery. Over in the aptly-named Star, boffins have notice that between November and April, stargazers can see the image of Dawn French in Orion the Hunter.
Wow! So lets get looking for those shapes.
And news just in is that a Star reader has worked out that if you join dot 1 to dot 2, you get a short line, which when squinted at and held close to the face, looks like Big Brothers Eugene…’
Demi Pair
‘DEMI and Leo, Walfords very own Romeo and Juliet for the Chav nation, are about to discover that true love doesnt always triumph, especially when theres a ratings war on.
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| But can they hold the plot up? |
The star-crossed lovers are holed up in a squat with baby Aleesha and just nine pounds to their name. Luckily though, Leo, like all true Chavs, has a wide skills set; it only took him an hour to get set up as a self-employed businessman – dealing heroin.
It transpires that Leos dealing CV is long and illustrious, which is pretty impressive at the tender age of 14. Demis father, Keith, was less than impressed upon being informed by police that his prospective son-in-law was a known dealer, and promptly told the gathered journalists that a junkie had snatched his daughter and grand-daughter.
This headline was of course plastered all over the Walford Gazette the next day, causing a distraught Rosie to predict that her daughter would never come home again. Although if Demi takes after her father, Rosie will have nothing to fear because she wont be able to actually read the papers.
Luckily for all concerned, 14 year old Demi is far wiser than her parents and sends Aleesha back home to Walford, realising that a heroin squat isnt perhaps the best place for a four-month-old child.
As anyone whos picked up a tabloid recently will know though, it wont be long before Demis reunited with her daughter as Leo discovers that sometimes the drugs do work just a bit too well.
Back in Walford true love is running a bit more smoothly for Minty finally. Hes met a female mechanic, Emma, who not only seems to genuinely fancy him but is also a West Ham fan.
Gary, along with seven million viewers, is horrified and is doing his best to split the happy couple up. Although its unclear as to if hes jealous of Minty going out with Emma or the fact that Emmas going out with Minty.
Gary and Minty have been getting very close recently and its not gone unnoticed. Ere you two woofters or what? asked Mo on hearing the news that her former son-in-law was moving in with his best male mate.
Although Garys not gay, having been married to a Slater and lived with her four sisters, no one would blame him for giving it a bash.’
Bakri Packs
‘DO you know why we are winning the war on terror? Gods on our side? Weve bigger jets. Our uniforms dont chaffe the skin? Those and more are all valid reasons. But the true answer is because we have the Sun.
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| ‘Dear all, weather: hot; food: hot; beard: hot. Wish I wasn’t here. Luv Omar’ |
Such is the papers power, we dread to think what would happen if Rupert Murdoch established a similar title in the less leafy parts of Pakistan, whipping the locals into a frenzy as babes bring the region their News in Burkhas.
For now we can only be thankful that such power is exclusively at our deposable. And today we can read on the papers front page that hate sheik Omar Bakri, aka the mad mullah, aka the Tottenham Taliban, has fled the country after being forced out of Britain by the Sun.
In the papers editorial, readers learn that the Sun has been pressing for Bakri to leave these shores for years. Its a great victory for us, it cheers.
And one we and all the papers can share in, although it is more than a little churlish of the Mirror to make no mention of the Suns efforts as it tells its readers that Bakri has exchanged Edmonton for Beirut.
Given the greyness of parts of the north London area, it could be argued that Beirut offers Bakri a kind of home from home – although one in which he will not have to pay a congestion charge as he navigates his Ford Galaxy into the central city areas.
The Mail also fails to give the Sun its dues. And in an abridged look at Bakris life expelled from Saudi Arabia in 1986; entered UK as an asylum seeker; granted indefinite leave to stay; saw first Arsenal match in 1988 reminds us how he was given that £31,000 Ford Galaxy under the Governments Mobility scheme.
But while the care remains in Blighty Bakri baulked at the chance to take the pretty way by road to Lebanon and flew by plane instead the man is gone.
And though Liberal Democrat spokesman Simon Hughes is right when he tells the Mail I guess the blunt public reaction will be thank goodness for that, others may just miss the man a little.
And that includes the Sun, which will have to find a new face of Muslim extremism to entertain and scare its readers with. But remember this, it writes, Bakri was just one of the extremist lunatics in our midst. There are many more.
And with the Sun on their case, they should start packing now…’
Bit On The Side
‘OMAR Bakris not the only one fleeing these gilded shores in search of a new life.
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| Laura’s dream |
The Sun has news of blonde Elaine Walker, 45, who left home with her 15-year-old daughter Laura in situ – to be with 26-year-old Turkish waiter Ali Murat.
Pictured in the sun snuggling her swarthy lover, the woman dubbed MUMMY MONSTER says: My daughter might never speak to me again but I feel it was a price worth paying. I saw a chance of happiness and I grabbed it.
And after taking good hold of it, Elaine hung on for dear life, refusing to let go even as the mind-blowing passion between them gave her the best night of sex Ive experienced.
Some claim there from a thrice married mum with five children by four men. And a charming image for young Laura to dwell on and cherish.
But the Sun is unimpressed. It calls Elaine sickening and brands her callous beyond belief.
But shes not totally abandoned her family, and the Mail notes that her 17-year-old daughter Stacey has followed in mums bedroom slippers and now lives in Turkey with 26-yar-old Huseyin Mokhtar in the resort of Side.
The Mail has a lovely picture of Stacey grabbing her man as the pair stand before a glittering blue sea, she in a vest, he in an England football shirt.
Its really is so very wonderful, and looking on we are ever more inclined to wonder if young Laura should gather up the £25 shed saved up herself, and the £10 her mum had left her with, and head for Turkey in search of her own true love.
And she need not worry about finding somewhere to stay – the locals seem so very accommodating…’
A Shower Of Bullets
‘BRITNEY PARTY SHOOTING TERROR, howls the Stars front page. Bloodshed at baby bash.
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| For more XXX shower pics go to www.scrubmyback.com |
Little need to tell you that Britney is none other than Britney Spears, pop tart, professional blonde and expectant mum. But surely the rest of the papers shocking headline needs much careful elaboration.
And in BRITNEY GUN HORROR, readers hear that the singer has been…in tears.
Phew! La Spears has not been shot, which is some relief to us and, doubtless, to her. But, then, whose leg is that pictured in the paper, the one dripping with enough blood to cause a paper to panic and a five-year-old to cry?
Reading on, we learn that it belongs to one Brad Diaz, a photographer who had arrived at Spearss rented Los Angeles mansion to check on proceedings at a party being held in honour of Britneys yet-tobe-born nipper.
But rather than the baby being showered with gifts, it was Diaz being showered in a, er, single lead air pellet.
Oh dear. A story that began with so much shock and sensation is deflating faster than Jordan in a pit of hedgehogs.
But no matter, because although the Sun sees a simple air pellet and Diaz alive enough to swear, I am definitely planning to press charges, the Star wants to hear from some witnesses keen to help it fill another page with this incredible tale.
One onlooker tells the paper: He [Diaz] was holding his thigh and saying hed been shot.
Other witnesses report hearing a sound like a firework right before Diaz collapsed in agony on a scale of one to 10, says Diaz, the pain from the wound is a seven.
While lawyers work out the fee for a wound that hits a seven on the pay-out scale, local police arrive to investigate.
Says police sergeant Robert Knudson: Apparently, one of the paparazzi at the location on Carbon Canyon had a pellet-shot injury to his leg. We dont know where it came from or any other details at this point.
Much like the Star…’
