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.
LOST Kat
‘EASTENDERS actress Jessie Wallace fears for her baby and not just because it may inherit its mother’s looks.
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| SAGGY old Kat seeks her Bagpuss for magical times |
No, Jessie is terrified that the pain and upset shes feeling following her split with fiance Dave Morgan will be transmitted to her unborn child.
In fact, shes so upset that she spoke exclusively to both the Mirror and its bitter rival, the Sun, about the break-up.
And both agree that the cause of the split was a story in a Sunday paper, in which Daves friend Winston Rollock accused Jessie of drinking in the morning, slagging off her co-stars, smoking dope and asking him for sex.
The actress, who plays Kat Moon in the BBC soap, vehemently denies the accusations and is said to be considering suing the paper in question for libel.
My mum and my family had to read his lies, that I was offering my body to him, she tells the Sun (and the Mirror). Its vile.
He claimed I was drinking at nine in the morning. He was never there that early.
If he had been, he would have known that Jessie doesnt touch a drop before 10 past.
As Jessie comforts herself in time-honoured fashion by forcing industrial quantities of chocolate down her throat we have better news for her.
She is not alone. Well, she is but shes not alone in her aloneness.
In fact, she is now one of what the Mail calls the LOST generation living in London, on their Own, Single and Twentysomething.
According to a survey, women in their twenties outnumber men of the same age in many cities, with the ratio in some boroughs of the capital five women to every four men.
It means, says the paper, that many young women are staying unattached reflected in the number of young female celebrities, including Caprice and singer Rachel Stevens, enjoying a single life.
A list that now, of course, includes Jessie Wallace. What? Shes 32, you say. Part of the SAGGY (fleShy Actresses with no hope of GettinG another boYfriend) generation…’
Spider Woman
‘RACHEL Stevens, standard bearer for the LOST generation, was out in London last night for the premiere of Spider-Man 2.
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| No flies on Mumba |
But she barely got a look-in, according to the Star, as Samantha Mumba stole the show in a diamond-encrusted web outfit said to be worth £5m.
The dress, by Scott Henshall, is made up of 3,476 diamonds, weighs a staggering 432.68 carats and is said to be the worlds most expensive frock.
But the only reason the Irish singer was wearing it was because Charlotte Church turned it down supposedly so as not to upstage the films star Kirsten Dunst.
Among the crowd of C-list celebs who turn out for the opening of a pack of holiday snaps from Prontaprint were some proper A-list stars.
People like Claudia Schiffer, Lenny Kravitz and Jenson Button but there was no-one we were happier to see than David Hasselhoff (or Hassel The Hoff, as he likes to be known).
Rumours in the National Enquirer that the man whose singing brought down the Berlin Wall was on the run from a rehab clinic couldnt be further from the truth.
But shouldnt The Hoff have been on stage last night appearing as Billy Flynn in the hit musical Chicago at the Adelphi?
Surely the audience would have noticed if hed left a plank of wood as an understudy…’
Last Go In Paris
‘TALKING about wood, were glad to say that Anoraks favourite hotel heiress Paris Hilton is going from strength to strength.
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| Once more with feeling |
Time was when Paris was seen as just a ditzy blonde whose abilities didnt stretch as far as Calista Flockharts knicker elastic.
But that was before the 23-year-old showed the world the full extent of her abilities in front of the camera, co-starring with Rick Salomon in the hit film One Night In Paris.
And now the Sun reports Pariss stock is so high in the movie world that not only can she command a sizable fee for her on-screen appearances but she can demand a percentage of gross as well.
The paper says the woman who gives short planks a bad name is set to reap a fortune after her debut film was released on video.
She will receive a lump sum of £215,000 PLUS a share of profits from the 45-minute, er, arthouse film.
Makes the whole thing easier to swallow, doesnt it?’
Hugh And Cry
”IMRAN’S EX AND ACTOR PLAY A GAME OF CAT AND MOUSE’ reveals the Express again, just above a picture of Jemima Khan and Hugh Grant on the back seat of a car.
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| ‘That’s blown it!’ |
Hugh is leaning back, legs apart; Jemima is covering her face with her hands.
A large headline demands to know: ‘Just why is Jemima Khan so embarrassed to be seen in a cab with Hugh Grant?’
The paper spares its elderly audience the shocking yet inevitable conclusion, but we have no such qualms. Two words: Divine Brown.
Readers and lawyers of a sensitive disposition should ignore that last sentence.’
The Wicca Man
‘MYRA Hindley was a devoted Christian for most of her prison life, but that didn’t stop her from being treated as a wicked witch or even the devil incarnate by a sizeable proportion of the population, egged on by the newspapers.
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| Learning how to weave spells |
Indeed when she died, some people refused to have anything to do with the burial arrangements out of some kind of fear that evil spirits might interfere with them in some dastardly way.
Given this general attitude, it is perhaps not surprising to learn that Soham killer Ian Huntley – aka public enemy number one – has decided to cut out the middle man and assume the supernatural mantle himself.
‘HUNTLEY THE WITCH,’ declares the Mirror’s front page. ‘Soham killer ‘to join pagan sect’.’
Yes that’s right, Huntley has applied to join a boring old pagan sect where he can, the brochure promises, ‘learn how to weave spells, work magic, create Wiccan festivals’ and – best of all – ‘bring yourself into alignment with the deepest forces at work in this Universe and on this planet’.
Okay, so it’s not quite devil worship, but it’s the next best thing – political correctness gone mad.
These days, you see, prisons have chaplaincy teams that include all sorts of rum coves.
‘The Prison Service respects the rights of all prisoners to follow individual religions,’ says a spokesman, and that includes the Wiccan faith.
But tolerance is easier to preach than to practise. Some people in the prison community are not prepared to live and let live when it comes to Ian Huntley.
Indeed, the paper says that ‘two gangs have warned Huntley that they intend to kill him or disfigure him’.
Would it be far-fetched to suggest that one of these anti-pagan gangs carry knuckle-dusters fashioned from rosary beads and wield cross-shaped coshes?
Or that the other gang favour insidious psychological torture involving modern prayer books and tambourines?
Anorak’s deep respect for all religious opinion prevents us from saying any more.’
The Royal Bumps
”RIDDLE OF ROYAL BUMPS’ says the Express. What riddle is that, you ask. And the paper answers a question with another question: ‘How did our princes get so bruised?’
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| ‘Okay, let’s all get whitey’ |
Underneath are two pictures of ‘our’ princes, and sure enough they do both sport bruises on their royal brows.
But don’t worry, royal aides have reassured the loyal paper that neither injury is serious. William’s is a hockey injury, while Harry’s was sustained during training with an army unit.
Harry also hurt his knee, and had to ‘wimp out’ of the Clarence House team for Sport Relief’s one-mile run in London.
He professed himself ‘bitterly disappointed’ by this, and took solace at the Rattlebone Inn.
He emerged ten hours later and was seen in animated conversation with a large oak, a habit he picked up from in father.
An argument ensued, after which a second large bruise was spotted on Harry’s forehead. Orders were later sent for the tree to be cut down.’
Di Is Cast
‘FIRST the commemorative gutter and now this. News that the Princess Diana shrine at Althrop is to shut hits us like a battered white Fiat Uno between the eyes.
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| ‘So, I’ll get a fiver for the daisies…’ |
Quite rightly it’s front-page news in the Sun, where Diana’s brother Earl Spencer is said to be planning to stop making an exhibition of his sister and shut up shop.
How can this be? We at Anorak pay our £10.50-a-head every year, and clutching our tickets make the pilgrimage on our hands and knees to see Diana’s final resting place and the museum dedicated to her memory.
We’ve shed a tear over Diana’s red school uniform, her tuck box and her school reports and we’ve stood transfixed for hours in front of a wall in which a cine-film of a young Diana plays on a continuous loop.
But what we failed to notice was that, had we turned around, no-one else would have been there.
Visitor numbers have fallen sharply from their 1997 peak when 150,000 pilgrims made the journey to the Spencers’ Northamptonshire estate, and last year only 80,000 believers made the trip.
And this year things have slumped to such an extent that you don’t even need to pre-book; just rock up on the day and entry is guaranteed.
But still, why should it close? Surely a high thinker like the Earl could come up with ways to liven it up.
Or, indeed, deaden it up. Why not introduce the Ghost of Diana Changing Room in which a spooky Di – shrouded in a cerise pink pashmina with matching hat and gloves – floats eerily out of the ether in a mocked-up Harvey Nichols stall?
Or the Diana Rollercoaster, where fans of the Princess can relive the ups and downs of Diana’s life, plunging downwards as she falls down the stairs, before soaring up to the skies as her spirit if sent to shop among the angels?
Of course, this may be considered to be in bad taste, particularly by the good Earl.
Much classier to just let punters pay over a tenner to gaze at Diana’s home movies at Althorp – a place where, as the Mail reminds us, Earl Spencer declined to let his sister live when she was alive.’
A Very British Mess
‘IF it weren’t for the fact that most Frenchmen have ten fingers, the metric system of measurement might never have held sway.
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| Steve Thoburn – 1.829 metres under |
Indeed, there is a chance that the European Court of Human Rights would uphold a campaign by Britishers opposed to metric who are blessed with eight, nine or, even 11 fingers.
Is metric not bigoted, they’d say. Is metric not the Nazism of the measurement game?
It’s a defence that might well succeed. After all, as the Mirror says, it’s almost 40 years since the government of the day created the Metrification Board with the aim of converting us all from pounds and ounces to kilos and grams.
But we never went the final yard, or 0.9144 of a metre, as we should have.
And yesterday, the UK Metric Association published a report entitled A Very British Mess, in which it calls for a swift completion of the move from imperial to metric.
Championing the cause for the meltdown of the old iron ulna is none other than the most famous dead sheep alive in Britain today, former Tory chancellor and UKMA supporter Lord Howe of Top Meadow.
‘Plainly we can’t stay where we are with two competing systems,’ says he.
‘And it would be madness to go backwards. The only solution is to complete the changeover to metric – and as swiftly and as cleanly as possible.’
But Neil Herron, campaign director of the Metric Martyr* Defence Fund says this is ‘absurd’.
(*Steve Thoburn was the original Metric Martyr, having been prosecuted under an EU directive for using an illegal weighing machine. He is now six feet and not an inch more under the top soil – but his cause lives on.)
Having told us that we feel warmer if the temperature is given in Fahrenheit as opposed to the colder metric centigrade, Herron says: ‘We British are quirky. The pint, the yard and the mile are part of who we are.’
‘Can you imagine any political party stating in its manifesto that it will force the country to go metric?’ ask Herron.
Well, since he asks, yes we can. But with Herron and his ilk around, such a pledge will meet with stiff resistance.
‘Save the pound’, as Herron and his supporters like to say – and as do some politicians in their manifestos…’
Nine Lives
‘ARE you a ‘Pop Princess’?
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| ‘Leg up, if you’re a clubber’ |
If you are, you’re not. You can’t be. Why? Because the Express says that only girls can be Pop Princesses, so there.
Only a girl can wear pink, silver and baby blue, listen to Gareth Gates and Will Young, love Prince William and hate spots.
This is patently discriminatory, and we for one expected better of the Foreign Office-funded British Council which has compiled a list of the nine tribes all teens belong to.
The Star says that the cutting-edge information will ‘help explain British teenagers to baffled foreign students’ – and give the paper a neat way of filling a page with pictures of surly teens.
So what are the other groups, and how can you join?
To give them their dues, they are, in no particular order: Skaters, Soulstrels, Townies, Grungers, Indie Kids, Clubbers, Goths and Nu-Metallers, the latter a group only accessible to boys apparently.
And each group has a poster-girl and boy who epitomises the trend.
For instance, Jack Osbourne is a typical Nu-Metaller, Charlotte Church is a Pop Princess, Wayne Rooney is a Townie and Jennifer Ellison is a Clubber.
And the good news for all teens confused at the choices on offer is that, as Chantelle Horton, editor of teen angst mag Bliss, says: ‘You can buy all these different looks in Top Shop.’
Pah! Who says rebellion is dead?’
Kiss Me, Kate
‘BABY Viv was buried this week, in scenes of – for once – genuine tragedy.
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| ‘Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ |
Lynne has been unable to cope with the knowledge that shes lost her one chance at being a mum and decided to leave Walford to start a new life…in a town where they have 24-hour happy hours no doubt.
Garry is still grieving as you can tell by the fact hes employing the second of his two facial expressions, the bottom lip out guppy sulk.
Later this month, Garry tries to commit suicide and who can blame him, with no mistress, love child, wife or unborn baby, what chance of a storyline is he going to have now? Having said that, the lack of story line hasnt stopped the Ferrieras from being in employment for the past year.
The Ferrieras have now set up a taxi firm (Oz cabs, where are you now?) with the proceeds of the sale of their van. Its hardly a storyline to rival Who shot Phil?, but at least it stops them wittering on and on about mortgage payments and spare kidneys.
Dirty Den, whos never short of storylines (or tabloid column inches), has started an affair with Kate – which is certainly keeping it close to home considering she co-owns a business with his wife.
Kate is finding it difficult to keep their relationship a secret. Its just some sordid little affair, isnt it? she spat at Den. Well you said it, love.
Things are set to get even more complicated when Chrissie asks Kate and Ian round to dinner with Den. Chrissie mistakenly thinks that Kate and Ian are going out together, Itll be nice to get the couples together, she told Ian.
For a spot of wife swapping no doubt if Dens got anything to do with it.
There are more secrets and lies (well, this is Walford) over at Andy and Sams house. Andy, worried that Billy is about to tell Sam about his afternoon with Kat, has proposed marriage to her.
Is that wot I fink it is? squealed Sam as Andy presented her with a red ring box. Indeed, Sam is to get her wish by becoming an East End gangsters wife. Heaven help her if she stands him up at the aisle, though.’
The Ginger Fleece
‘EVEN his most ardent fans could not have guessed in a million years that Charlie Dimmock lookalike Ray Parlour would be the new David Beckham.
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| Ray celebrates ‘a £1.8m victory for women’ |
But there is the footballer, all gingery and pale, occupying Dave’s usual slot on the front page of the Sun.
And there’s Ray’s wife – well, his former wife – the fragrant Karen, who this morning stinks of cash.
(Posh should not worry too much about Day-vid leaving her because, even in separation, front-page coverage is guaranteed, as is a massive chunk of her Dave’s future wages.)
Responding to the news that the Appeal Court has ruled that Karen Parlour is entitled to a 37.7 per cent share of all her ex-husband’s future earnings, the Sun is aghast.
To the Sun, this development creates the front-page headline ‘FLEECED’ and a double-page spread over which headlines like ‘Who dares weds’, ‘Lawyer: Parlour KO Will Terrify All Men’, and ‘Arsenal Star Taken To Cleaners Over Divorce’ are splashed.
It’s clear the Sun is not overly impressed with the judiciary that presided over this landmark ruling and wants the footballers who read its words to know it backs them.
For a more considered opinion, readers could turn to the Star, where the facts – the Arsenal player must hand Karen £444,000 of his £1.2m annual pay packet for the next four years – are briefly mulled over.
So, having seen the case from the Sun’s male viewpoint and the Star’s hermaphrodite stance, the Mail evens things up by claiming the ruling as a ‘£1.8m victory for women’.
And if you doubt that, you can take matters up with Anne Diamond, who rounds off her piece by saying how Karen ‘has helped society put a higher value on marriage itself’.
Silly us for thinking Karen just wanted to make her cheating former husband bleed in public when, in reality, she was just championing married life.
As the Mail reminds us, last year the High Court awarded Karen Parlour a £250,000 lump sum, £12,500 a year for each of her and Ray’s three children, £250,000 a year for herself and two mortgage-free homes worth in excess of £1m.
But it wasn’t enough. So she appealed. And she won.
Noting that original offer, it’s hard not to side with the Sun’s belief that footballer Ray has been fleeced.
Although what Karen would want with his ginger pelt is anyone’s guess – she’s already stripped it of most of the golden bits…’
Saga Holiday
‘WHEN Calista Flockhart fell for Harrison Ford, she was entitled to believe she was in for a life of pampering and luxury.
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| ‘I can still bench-press five Calistas’ |
One of Hollywood’s elite, Ford has raked in a fortune from his appearances in some of the biggest grossing films of all time.
So what that he is older than her – he is also more famous than her and richer than her (although he has, as the Mail says, just paid out £50m to second wife Melissa Mathieson in a bitter divorce). Things would work out just fine.
But the age gap is a big one. Although she’s a pencil-thin 39, the Express reminds us that he’s a rather more jowly 62.
And that’s an age when men like to take things at a slower, more sedate pace.
So while other thirtysomething starlets are being fawned over on the south of France or living it up at an exclusive Caribbean fleshpot, the paper notes that young Calista is spending part of her summer hols cruising a canal in North Wales.
In ‘RAIDERS OF THE LOST BARGE’ (the Mirror has ‘Indiana Jones And The Last Cruisade’), the Express hotfoots it to the four-star Bryn Howel Hotel at Llangollen, where Ford and his younger girlfriend have stopped for some comfort.
And there it catches up with the hotel’s manager Ashraf Elsergany, who is in talkative mood.
Having told the paper how ‘gorgeous’ Flockhart looked, the host moves onto Ford, with whom he’s on first name terms.
‘Harrison is a very gentle man, very handsome and talks with respect,’ says Elsergany.
‘He was not arrogant at all and was down on the floor playing with his son [Calista’s three-year-old adopted son Liam]. He is also very strong and carried him in one hand.’
Let’s hear it for Harrison, muscular standard-bearer for the over-60s.
And don’t forget to give it up for Calista, whose selfless work with the aged brings her to Wales and, who knows, perhaps even a home for convalescing geriatrics in Devon.’
Parlour Games
‘HAD Tony Blair called for ‘edudacation, edudacation, edudacation’, the word would have made it into the new Concise Oxford English Dictionary (COED).
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| ‘I am a well edudacated man’ |
If someone says something enough times, however absurd, the word or phrase soon forms part of the vernacular of the day and then, after a period, earns a place in the word bible.
But Tony never said edudacation, nor did George Bush (give it time and he will), which means that the word is not now in the new COED.
But other new words are. And the Sun lists some of the 2,000 that are now acceptable to form from your Scrabble tiles.
The most noticeable of the lot is va-va-voom, as in Thierry Henry’s car has ‘va-va-voom’.
According to the COED, va-va-voom means ‘the quality of being exciting, vigorous, or sexually attractive’.
Other words now included are: mini-me (‘a person closely resembling a smaller or younger version of another’), congestion charge (‘a charge made into an area that suffers heavy traffic’) and mentalist (‘an eccentric or mad person’).
All very good. But how are these words chosen? Thankfully, Judy Pearsall of Oxford University Press is keen to explain all.
‘Words,’ says Julie, ‘are collected from various sources – from websites and journals to books and even comics.’
So, mindful of that, here’s a new word we want you all to use and so get into the COED’s next edition.
And the word is ‘parloured’ – to be taken to the cleaners by your ex-wife.’
Cry Me A Water Feature
‘GIVEN the ocean of tears shed over the death of Princess Diana, it was always right and proper that she’d be remembered in something wet.
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| ‘So the water goes round and round without doing very much?’ |
However, the water at the new Diana, Princess of Wales Fountain doesn’t cascade and crash like one of her emoting fans did at her funeral seven years ago; it simply bubbles and blubs its way through a course of what looks like granite guttering.
Little wonder then that, with this similarity evident to all, the Queen used yesterday’s official opening of London’s newest water feature to commend the design team and those ‘who have realised their concept with such care and craftsmanship’.
But we are all in the gutter, as Oscar Wilde once said, and yesterday the Queen was looking not down to the mud through which her family have been dragged over the Diana legacy but up to the 1,000-strong crowd and dignitaries in attendance.
The Mail says Her Majesty even took care to write the speech herself, striving to ensure that her words in praise of her deceased daughter-in-law would not be not deemed ‘superficial’.
And, in case any Mail readers missed the exhortation, the paper reproduces it in its entirety.
Liz talks of Diana’s ‘shrewd ability to size up those she met’, ‘the happiness she gave to my grandsons’, and how she was a ‘remarkable human being’.
Words delivered with no hint of frost or grudge, but with what sounded to the Mail like heartfelt feeling.
She even stopped in front of Earl Spencer, Diana’s loving brother, who shamelessly used Diana’s funeral to have dig at the Windsors, to ask: ‘I hope you feel satisfied with that?’
‘Yes, Ma’am, more than satisfied,’ came his reply.
Which makes us wonder what’s changed in the intervening years since Diana’s death to soften the Queen.
Perhaps she’s right when she simply says that ‘memories mellow with the passing of the years’.
However, she might have been just happy to have had the final laugh. After all, a piece of guttering is, if not apt, then at least so very amusing…’
Smack ‘n’ Tickle
‘IT’S in pretty poor taste that, in light of the Government’s purge on smacking, the Sun should produce a page entitled: ‘HOW TO SMACK YOUR CHILDREN.’
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| ‘What about spanking?’ |
Surely the paper means to tell us how ‘NOT’ to smack your children. But, amazingly, we are wrong and the story bears out the original headline.
With help from Allan and David Spicer of the British Association For The Study Of Child Abuse And Neglect, the Sun’s readers are treated to a master-class in the right way to smack your child, and, we suppose, anyone else’s child on whom you want to try out these new moves.
We should all take note. Especially the likes of TV broadcaster Janet Ellis and radio presenter Jenni Murray who line up to tell the Mail why they have smacked their children.
‘So do they really deserve to be made criminals?’ asks the Mail alongside their case notes.
In short, we say that they do. Ellis, Murray and their ilk should be hung upside down by their ankles and have tomatoes (big, green, ripe hard ones) thrown at them by good people opposed to violence.
But what about the rest of us?
Well, according to the Spicer boys, you can slap the back of the child’s hand. Alan says you can do this and ‘nobody will prosecute’. David concurs – but, if it does cause ‘bruising or redness’, you could be in trouble.
You can also smack the child’s bottom. This is acceptable – indeed, in some public schools, it’s even deemed to be enjoyable.
However, to be safe, you should use your hand and not a baseball bat or jumbo-sized false hands of the type once favoured by Kenny Everett.
You cannot slap the back of the child’s head, pull an ear or punch them – all things considered to be inappropriate by Allan and David.
Engaging in discipline considered to be too violent could lead to a date in court and a criminal conviction – oh, and a nasty swelling over your eye when the little sod smashes you in the face with a brick…’
Cutting Your Cloth
‘WHEN Lawrence Llewelyn-Bowen can make it as a TV star on the BBC, you know your licence fee is being well spent.
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| ‘Redecorate, redecorate!’ |
But Lawrence is at risk. According to the Mail, the BBC is pledging to cut £100m from its spending as part of its bid to look less wasteful and so retain the licence fee.
While we kickstart our campaign to save Lawrence with a sponsored fun run (to be screened live on the BBC and fronted by the excellent Sue Barker), other BBC stalwarts edge closer to extinction.
The Sun says that the new BBC series of Dr Who will have no Daleks.
And fans of the show are up in arms. Lib Dem MP Bob Russell says: ‘I applaud any attempt to get the Daleks back. A Dr Who series without them would not be the same.’
And George Bush, President of the free world and large tracts of sand, agrees – well, his staff do.
A spokesman for Bush tells the Sun: ‘The universe would be a safer, but sadder, place without the Daleks. I’m sure many Americans would be sad to see them exterminated.’
Including Bush, who may see glimpses of something recognisable in those monotone, heavily-armoured harbingers of doom.
But we can’t save everything, not in one go. So you can help us to decide who will live long on the BBC and who will die.
You can save the Daleks. Or you can save Lawrence. Or you can get the Daleks to shoot Lawrence…’
Frock The Kasbah
‘ANOTHER day and, with the new dawn, another chance to see what Posh and Becks are up to in their secret African hideaway.
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| ‘D’you think it would help if we shout?’ |
To set the scene, the Sun introduces Vicky (sunglasses, green mini dress) repeatedly embracing her husband (white Stetson hat, black vest).
They are seated beside the pool at the £1,500-a-night Amanjena Hotel, Morocco, sharing tender kisses and intimate jokes.
At this point we must ask you kindly to excuse the lack of detail but, what with this being a highly secretive retreat for the couple, even the Sun has only a few facts to go on.
But what we know, we know for sure, since the Star can confirm the Sun’s report that the Beckhams look to all the world like a pair of ‘love-struck’ teenagers (i.e. spotty and gauche).
And that while they had lunch, Posh threw pieces of bread at the sparrows that danced round them.
‘Ugly little things, aren’t they?’ said Posh, looking at the sparrows and not at her chest or the photos of the women who claim Becks has slept with them.
‘Come on, open up,’ she then ordered, before popping pieces of bread into her husband’s rictus.
And in case the cameras didn’t catch this magic and personal moment, Posh grabbed her own camera and snapped away at her husband.
The Star fails to tell us exactly how many pictures were taken, but do not be hard on the paper’s daring reporters for failing to deliver the facts on that matter.
As we say, the Beckhams are obsessed with secrecy and, in getting within a mile of them, let alone being able to hear every word she says, the paper has pulled off quite some scoop.
And then Posh pipes up again. ‘What’s Spanish for ‘hello’?’ she asks a waiter, as David munches on spring rolls and salad, while his linguist wife gorges herself on pineapple salad and lashings of carrot juice.
‘Steve,’ says Posh, calling over one of her security guards, ‘come and look at these photographs of Brooklyn’s birthday party. We had a lovely time, with fairground rides on the lawn.’
And then the story ends. Perhaps Steve, in searching for something else to do other than cooing over his employee’s children for the umpteenth time, spotted the Star’s reporter and threw him out.
We hope so, and we hope that Steve threw him all the way back to the sewer from whence he emerged. It’s high time we left this intensely private couple alone – for good.’
Going Nowhere
‘BEFORE we close the bedroom door on Posh and Becks and leave them to love and lust after each other under the privacy of their own duvet, we bring you news to shock.
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| Captain Kidd had already been told off for doing wheelies down the runway |
It seems that it was a good job scribes followed the Beckhams to Morocco after all because, had they not, we might not have known where they were and so not been able to rescue them when air travel grinds to a halt.
The Express reports that members of the TGWU at 17 UK airports, including Heathrow and Gatwick, have voted by a majority of four to one in favour of taking industrial action.
The Mirror has seen the news (‘SUMMER HELLIDAY’) and says that unless the baggage-handlers and check-in staff get more money they will walk out.
The paper claims that workers are ‘furious’ at the £2.5% pay rise being offered by their employers. As a spokesperson for the TGWU says: ‘It’s not even enough for a pint of beer.’
But it is enough. Indeed, in holiday hotspots the tabled offer of £1 a day before tax can buy a large bottle of gin, a packet of fags and one of those stuffed donkeys with a hat on.
And that’s good news for the stranded millions in their timeshares and hotels.
As it is for Posh and Becks, who may find themselves stuck in Morocco while the strikers protest.
As such, we hope the strike proves to be a long one. Posh and Becks need time together to heal the rift and, if the strikers can just hold out for, say, a couple of years, they should be happy again.
And so shall we…’
Terry Woebegone
‘IF Terry Wogan were a baggage-handler planning to strike over pay, he’d be delighted to hear that his industrial action would keep Posh and Becks out of the country.
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| ‘And as for that Eurovision rubbish…’ |
You see, Terry, who in his role as Eurovision Song Contest watcher-in-chief knows a bad singer when he sees one, is of the opinion that Vicky Beckham is ‘talentless’.
Speaking in Word magazine in an interview seen by the Mirror, the old chuckler launches a broadside on the TV schedules and fame.
‘We’ve had this ridiculous Hell’s Kitchen where people who can’t cook are supposed to produce food,’ says Terry. ‘What’s the point?’
By the same token, we could ask what’s the point in Eurovision, Terry’s one TV outing of the year, where we watch people who can’t sing produce music.
But Terry can consider that at his considerable leisure, and for now is prepared to go on.
‘Reality TV is a downward spiral,’ says he. ‘In the end we’re going to end up with – well, we’ve already ended up with soft porn – but hard porn.’
That would be terrible, especially if it involved Big Brother’s Jason.
But what about celebrity, Terry?
‘Our attitude to fame is becoming more American, which is a shame. Posh and Becks is ridiculous. He’s a fair footballer, but the poor girl hasn’t any talent at all,’ says Terry.
‘Their whole life is predicated on fame. What’s going to happen when nobody wants to know?’
Well, since he asks, out guess is that Day-vid will have a string of affairs and finally leave his parasitical wife to run a pub in the New Forest, while she’ll be Britain’s Eurovision entry in around five years’ time…’
Daylight Robery
‘SINCE we never actually heard the Beckhams exchange vows, how can we be sure that he has cheated on her, as Rebecca Loos claims?
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| ‘No, I’m David Beckham’ |
We saw the single dove released at the moment Vicky and Dave were pronounced man and wife in 1999. We looked on in wonder at the thrones.
We even tucked into the buffet Twiglets, each knobbly biscuit hand carved by Indian tribesmen to be an exact to-scale representation of the bride.
But we never heard the vows. And for all we know they might not have included a clause promising that Day-vid would remain true to his wife – if she is his wife.
This time, however, no mistakes will be made, because Dave and Posh are in Morocco to renew their vows.
Renew or rewrite matters less than the fact that they are in Marrakech to give it one last shot at love.
But – wouldn’t you just know it – their romantic idyll has been invaded by the press.
We are almost reduced to tears as a friend of the couple tells the Mirror that the pair may even leave their hideaway for a more secure compound where they will not be so cruelly hounded.
They managed, the Star says, to keep their ‘several blazing rows’ away from the snappers and scribes, but such is their bad luck that, as soon as they try to patch things up with kisses, piggybacks and romance, the press gets wind of it.
So desperate are they to be ignored that, while Posh stepped from the discreet blacked-out limo in her usual attire, her husband sported a jellaba.
The long white garment, which covered everything but his eyes – which he only had for Posh, of course – meant he was completely incognito as he walked round the shops, blending in seamlessly with the Moroccan men dressed in traditional jeans and T-shirts.’
Hello, Dolly!
‘LOOKING at the pictures of La Posh in Morocco, we become less and less certain that the man in the jellaba is her Day-vid. Since we can only see his eyes, how can we be truly certain it’s him?
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| And she comes with a driving licence |
This man may be someone else entirely, an impostor whose presence simultaneously allows Dave to woo the women of Madrid and Posh to retain a shred of dignity.
But there is one problem with this notion of the Becks stand-in – what man in his right mind would do it?
And it got us thinking that the robed figure might be more mannequin than man, an inflatable one at that.
But do not mock because, as usual, Posh is toiling at the vanguard of fashion – soon we could all have a blow-up friend to go shopping with or take to the office.
The Mail brings news that special motorway lanes may be created which can only be used by cars carrying at least two passengers.
Drivers using the lanes with no passengers on board will be fined and/or charged a £5 toll.
To save this expense, would-be passengers – known a ‘sluggers’ – will surely do as they do in America and advertise their presence on websites and the like.
But drivers unwilling to share with someone who can’t afford a car and will most likely kill them can instead opt to buy a life-sized inflatable passenger.
Which kind of inflatable you choose is entirely up to you, although to avoid unnecessary run-ins with the police, try to steer yourselves away from dolls in full-length jellabas, black dolls or dolls wearing anything but an England football kit.’
Equal Rights For Hamsters
‘LOOK, kids, the funfair’s back.
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| ‘Okay, you get three darts’ |
That means Jackie the teenage mum can find out if her new baby’s dad still works on the Waltzer; little Steve can ask the man on the teddy stall for his money back after the spike holding the bear’s head on blinded him; and young Sam can lose his one remaining tooth on some peanut brittle.
But the funfair is not a riot of fun for everyone. And the Express tells us the RSCPA is calling for goldfish to be no longer offered as prizes at fairs. Apparently, the fish don’t like it.
And the Government may well take notice since it’s looking to amend the Pet Animals Act 1951 and raise the legal minimum age for children to buy or own a vertebrate pet from 12 to 16.
A leaked copy of the draft Animal Welfare Bill says: ‘When the child loses interest in the animal, its welfare may suffer or it may even be abandoned.’
Or, if it’s a turtle, pony or rabbit, eaten.
But not everyone is backing the scheme. And the Express hears from an unnamed Tory MP.
‘One wonders when the first official pet inspectors will be allowed to bust down the door looking to ensure the family cat is being properly looked after,’ says they.
And that Tiddles hasn’t just been fed the goldfish…’
Lynne’s Off
‘THE repercussions of the great inflatable dragon disaster are still being felt around Albert Square, with half the cast still in hospital or suffering from post traumatic stress (although given the levels of some of the acting, the glassy eyed stares and wooden emotions are nothing out of the ordinary).
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| ‘It could be worse – it could be a mirror’ |
Ian and Lynne are still in hospital, suffering varying degrees of distress. Ians complaining that he cant open his chip shop with a broken leg and Lynnes trying to get over the death of her unborn daughter and the news that shell never be able to have another child.
Gary had to break the news to his wife that baby Viv died within minutes of being born although thats probably a blessing compared to a life in Albert Square.
Later this week, Lynne leaves Walford for good. I need to get away from all this misery, she tells her tearful husband. Indeed its enough to make you turn to drink.
Things are looking up for Ian, however, as the Centenary (ratings) disaster brings him a special new friend called Jane. This mystery woman, whos clearly deaf, dumb and blind, has taken a fancy to Ian after comforting him while he was trapped.
Ians still hankering after Kate, however, unaware that shes having an affair with Dirty Den (do you think they met on the internet?)
As the years/days go by, its becoming increasingly difficult to accept Den as the Squares sex symbol. Internet antics aside, he now resembles a pickled walnut in a blouson style leather jacket.
Son Dennis, however, is keeping the dream alive and is currently juggling not only a teenage lover but also his sister.
Sharontella Versace is trying to pretend that shes absolutely fine with Dennis sleeping with Zoe, but its clear from the way directors are insisting she always have a wine glass in her hand at the moment, that its not the case.
Zoe being so young and a Slater to boot – is blissfully ignorant of the emotional turmoil going on between her lover and his sister. I know es the one for me, she trilled to Sharon who at least had the grace to turn pink under her orange skin.’
A Big Noise
‘THERE are some jobs that dont seem that much like work and being a ball-boy at one of Maria Sharapovas Wimbledon matches may just be one of them.
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| Let’s hear it for Maria |
The 17-year-old Russian made it through to her first Grand Slam title yesterday when she grunted and groaned her way to a three-set victory over Lindsay Davenport.
And in doing so she gave the Mail yet another opportunity to plaster pictures of her long blonde hair and endless legs over its news pages.
Of course, however, its not Marias looks that the paper is interested in, but what comes out of her mouth.
No, dont be silly they dont want to hear what she has to say about her tennis.
It is apparently her ear-splitting shriek (illustrated with the requisite pictures) that has made her impossible to ignore.
The Mail was courtside yesterday with its very own grunt-o-meter to measure the grunts, yells and squeals produced by the girl who it has dubbed Queen of Scream.
At her loudest, in a tense second-set tie-break, she hit 86.7 decibels louder than a motorcycle revving, the equivalent of a diesel train roaring past 100 feet away but marginally quieter than, say, a pneumatic drill or the noise of male Mail readers salivating over their cornflakes this morning.
The Star also has its ears open for The Queen Of Grunt, claiming that Wimbledon officials have told her to tone down the noise.
It is dangerously close, it says, to the level medics say can harm the human ear.
Nor is it only Maria, her opponents and the officials that are affected the crowd could go deaf listening to a sound that is as loud as the mating scream of a gibbon.
And they could go blind looking at the pictures of her in the paper…’
Dirty Harry
‘IF, burst eardrums notwithstanding, being a Wimbledon ball-boy is one of the cushiest jobs in the world, then this must be one of the worst Abu Hamzas bottom wiper.
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| Hamza and his trademark dingleberry scraper |
The Muslim extremist dubbed Hook has no hands and is unable to look after his own personal hygiene in Belmarsh jail.
So, says the Mirror, he has got a £30,000-a-year nurse, called Harry, whose job it is to do it for him.
Hes known as Dirty Harry, a prison source says. This guy has got one of the worst jobs in the world. His main reason for being there is to clean Hamzas backside.
Everyones having a laugh about it, but Hamza cant be left unclean. It would be a health hazard.
Hamza has had his two metal hooks removed and been given two special £5,000 replacements because it was feared he could use the originals as weapons.
But how bad is the food in Belmarsh prison that Hook requires a full-time bum wiper?
And who is this mysterious Harry?
We imagine it is pure coincidence that this story should emerge the day after Prince Charles published his accounts in which there was no mention either of the Holder Of The Royal Sceptre (and Cupper Of The Royal Orbs) or of the Royal Bum-Wiper…’
