There’s only one thing worse than being talked about, dying alone riddled with syphilis but apart from that not being talked about comes a close second. So Ashley and Cheryl Cole must be feeling relieved as their split replaces bullying prime ministers as everyone’s conversation of the day. Ashley, like some misbegotten character from a Thomas Hardy novel is reaping the ill wind of his bad deeds; attempted house break in, ankle sprained, his woman done gone and left him. He’s like a cross between a country and western song and a Burberry baseball cap.
With indecently fabulous haste, Cheryl has stopped fighting for her love, dumped him by text and is now in LA being comforted by a professional dancer. As Oprah would say, this can be a learning moment; if you insist on getting married to a cheating, arrogant footballer make sure you have a fantastic career of your own or you could end up like Mrs. Terry, clinging to your man like some relic from the 1950s.
Is there a more skin crawlingly, irritating sight that that of a grinning wife smugly posing for the cameras with the cheating husband she’s proudly standing by? It’s almost as stomach churning as the thousands of wannabe wags enviously studying the pictures and silently respecting her for holding onto her man. In terms of misguided pride it’s up there with the surly smug girls pouting in R and B videos as they jadedly hump somebody dressed like Fred Elliot drunk in the jewellery section of Argos. Other women aren’t jealous of you love; you’re wandering around a busy supermarket, packed with fully clothed people, in a g string; you just look cold, go put some clothes on and apologise to your mother.
To rub salt into Cheryl’s marital wounds her X Factor boss Simon Cowell has proposed to his girlfriend of six months, makeup artist Mezghan Hussainy. How gutted must poor old Terri Seymour be, the ex he went out with for eight years who still lives in a quasi granny flat at the bottom of his LA mansion? And what about poor old Sinitta? Poor ex girlfriend, recently divorced wandering around his garden in her palm leaves Sinitta, losing out to the help? Oh the shame.
Also hitting Splitsville, population, you, you big loser is the Romeo and Juliet of the “At risk” register, it’s Kerry Katona and Mark. The former Iceland star has apparently been doing more than just press ups with a trainer at her fitness camp. Despite intense talks at a nearby industrial estate (would that I were making it up...) the pair seem to be no more. Now I want you listen very quietly for the second. That dead buzzing silence you hear is the sound of the entire world giving a poopsie about any of it.
Kerry and Mark splitting the same week as Cheryl and Ashley? In celeb terms that’s like inviting your friends around for some left over beans on toast the same night they’ve been invited to Elton John and Lady Gagaga’s surprise engagement party. Even the former Coles had the sense to delay the inevitable news of their divorce until the fuss about John Terry and his wandering penis had calmed down; they’re not silly.
Kerry has fallen from loveable reality star, to car crash TV to the lowest rung in the celebrity food chain; a boring irritant. Oscar Wilde said there’s nothing more ridiculous than the feelings of someone you’ve ceased to care about and there are no break ups more final than when the public grow bored of a former favourite- just ask Katie Price. What more could Kerry do to tempt our interest? We’ve seen her fat, thin, fat again, thin again, drunk, sober, heartbroken, incandescent with joy. She is like a raggy doll we can’t think up anymore games for. Sorry, Kerry but I think it’s definitely over this time.
The one flickering light of hope in our broken hearts is the news that Robert Pattison is definitely dating “Twilight” co star Kristin Stewart. Now, I know this makes me seem like Ian Hislop on HIGNFY when he smugly pretends he thinks Britney Spears is a type of French root vegetable ( and really swap French for American and he’s nearly there), but that whole vampire movie phenomenon has passed me by.
Kristin always looks as if someone has just asked her to tidy her room and I only know Robert as Cedric from “Harry Potter “ an appearance that provoked such lustful thoughts that I was on the cusp of voluntarily signing myself onto to some register until I remembered he was just playing a schoolboy . Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for the pair of them, but let’s not kid ourselves; they’re no Stacey and Bradley. Sob.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Wednesday, 17 February 2010
SSHH! John Mayer please stop taking...
It hasn’t been a great month for the celebrity male; reviled, distrusted, abused, only Katie Price is keeping the battle of the sexes in check. This week we learned more about the texting habits of Ashley Cole than we perhaps, in hindsight, ever needed to know. The sometime footballer and full time bounder and cad married to pop’s own Caramel bunny was caught sending text message to a mysterious blonde secretary and there’s talk the Cole marriage is finally over.
The entire Fleet Street has become Cheryl’s over involved big sister, glowering at Ashley and pointedly sighing and leaving the room whenever he shuffles in. Presented as such a rotter, I expect him any day in a News of The World exclusive, caught in a cape twirling his moustache tying the X factor judge to the nearest rail track, all for shits and giggles.
However, there are more things fishy about this story than an Old man and the Sea convention. Firstly, Ashley claims that the pictures were taken while bored in a hotel room. How fed up could a multi millionaire footballer get in a luxurious suite that the most entertaining way he could think of passing the time was taking moody pictures of his pants on his spare mobile? Secondly, how many millionaire footballers are pay as you go? Perhaps that’s the cause of half of their problems; all the wives they should have rang, all the mistresses they should have warned, maybe all those sleazy mishaps were just down to having no credit.
Ashley then, forgetting there were pictures of his willy on it, gave this phone to an unnamed, unscrupulous friend who repaid this bizarre gift of kindness by forwarding the pictures on to the mysterious lady in admin. The riddle in the Sphinx approached the press with the pictures but didn’t want to go public for fear of losing her job. Yes, that would be a great worry for a woman on an administrator’s salary, all that money, attention and instant fame. A shy demure type who has one night stands with married footballers would melt under that pressure. She only has to look at the likes of Rebecca Loos and Abi Titmus, with all their instant wealth, and thank her lucky stars that she has a life of diary management to look forward to.
And what of Cheryl? All of this terrible press attention coming coincidentally at the incredibly difficult time of her first solo Brit appearance and public voted nomination for best single. I know- shame on my cynicism, after all it’s a real relationship we’re talking about, it’s not like someone paid them to get married. Oh wait, actually...
The inevitable Brits controversy began early about this year with Leona Lewis complaining about the event serving foie gras. Wow, I know, and some people call her boring. The star was fresh from appearing in the charity single for the Haiti disaster. Its heart warming to see all the different countries pulling together to help out; the Irish have been organising comedy nights, Britain’s been releasing fundraising records and America’s been stealing children.
First the island is devastated by earthquake, now it’s receiving aftershocks of celebrities popping up asking if anyone would like a cup of tea. They’ve had John Travolta on his plane, Angelina Jolie on some sort of peace keeping mission, and even Alexandra Burke is promising to pop over for a while. I’m sure they’re thrilled, “Yes, my house has collapsed, I haven’t eaten for days and all my family’s dead but “Bad Boys” is so catchy!”
Meanwhile the entire US of A have yet again been clasping their face in the manner of Moe from The Simpsons at the words coming out of blues guitarist John Meyer’s mouth. Imagine the crazy wanderings your mind take when you’re either half asleep, drunk or controlled by an evil alien from another planet who quest to ruin your career and reputation forms part of a grander plan to take over the planet’s minerals. Maybe John Meyer is in fact the earth’s first alien Avator and pretty soon we’re going to have another one sounding like Ripley from “Alien” trying to learn our ways.
In an interview with esteemed periodical “Playboy”, the centrefolds weren’t the only ones making tits of themselves. Jessica Simpson was like napalm in the bed apparanlty, he loved Jennifer Aniston but just couldn’t imagine ending up with her and in the most controversial part explained the absence of any black women in his romantic CV by explaining that John junior had a segregationist policy and was not interested in non whites. I think maybe he and Ashley Cole should both start booking their plane tickets to Port au Prince pretty darn quickly. But Ashley leave the mobile at home yeah?
The entire Fleet Street has become Cheryl’s over involved big sister, glowering at Ashley and pointedly sighing and leaving the room whenever he shuffles in. Presented as such a rotter, I expect him any day in a News of The World exclusive, caught in a cape twirling his moustache tying the X factor judge to the nearest rail track, all for shits and giggles.
However, there are more things fishy about this story than an Old man and the Sea convention. Firstly, Ashley claims that the pictures were taken while bored in a hotel room. How fed up could a multi millionaire footballer get in a luxurious suite that the most entertaining way he could think of passing the time was taking moody pictures of his pants on his spare mobile? Secondly, how many millionaire footballers are pay as you go? Perhaps that’s the cause of half of their problems; all the wives they should have rang, all the mistresses they should have warned, maybe all those sleazy mishaps were just down to having no credit.
Ashley then, forgetting there were pictures of his willy on it, gave this phone to an unnamed, unscrupulous friend who repaid this bizarre gift of kindness by forwarding the pictures on to the mysterious lady in admin. The riddle in the Sphinx approached the press with the pictures but didn’t want to go public for fear of losing her job. Yes, that would be a great worry for a woman on an administrator’s salary, all that money, attention and instant fame. A shy demure type who has one night stands with married footballers would melt under that pressure. She only has to look at the likes of Rebecca Loos and Abi Titmus, with all their instant wealth, and thank her lucky stars that she has a life of diary management to look forward to.
And what of Cheryl? All of this terrible press attention coming coincidentally at the incredibly difficult time of her first solo Brit appearance and public voted nomination for best single. I know- shame on my cynicism, after all it’s a real relationship we’re talking about, it’s not like someone paid them to get married. Oh wait, actually...
The inevitable Brits controversy began early about this year with Leona Lewis complaining about the event serving foie gras. Wow, I know, and some people call her boring. The star was fresh from appearing in the charity single for the Haiti disaster. Its heart warming to see all the different countries pulling together to help out; the Irish have been organising comedy nights, Britain’s been releasing fundraising records and America’s been stealing children.
First the island is devastated by earthquake, now it’s receiving aftershocks of celebrities popping up asking if anyone would like a cup of tea. They’ve had John Travolta on his plane, Angelina Jolie on some sort of peace keeping mission, and even Alexandra Burke is promising to pop over for a while. I’m sure they’re thrilled, “Yes, my house has collapsed, I haven’t eaten for days and all my family’s dead but “Bad Boys” is so catchy!”
Meanwhile the entire US of A have yet again been clasping their face in the manner of Moe from The Simpsons at the words coming out of blues guitarist John Meyer’s mouth. Imagine the crazy wanderings your mind take when you’re either half asleep, drunk or controlled by an evil alien from another planet who quest to ruin your career and reputation forms part of a grander plan to take over the planet’s minerals. Maybe John Meyer is in fact the earth’s first alien Avator and pretty soon we’re going to have another one sounding like Ripley from “Alien” trying to learn our ways.
In an interview with esteemed periodical “Playboy”, the centrefolds weren’t the only ones making tits of themselves. Jessica Simpson was like napalm in the bed apparanlty, he loved Jennifer Aniston but just couldn’t imagine ending up with her and in the most controversial part explained the absence of any black women in his romantic CV by explaining that John junior had a segregationist policy and was not interested in non whites. I think maybe he and Ashley Cole should both start booking their plane tickets to Port au Prince pretty darn quickly. But Ashley leave the mobile at home yeah?
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Oh, boys eh?!
Vernon Kaye, until recently, was hard to place. He was just the annoying man on the television with the stupid Lego man hair who married the blonde who looked like the result of a drunken encounter between Cat Dealy and a frog.
An impoverished man’s Dermot O Leary, he was a hangover in human form on T4 , before taking the helm of “Family Fortunes”, joining the ranks of Amanda Holden in making you realise that you’d perhaps underestimated Les Dennis. It was hard to have an opinion on him, just like it’s difficult to find someone with a strong opinion on Habitat, The Lightning Seeds or the feeling of being mildly depressed you get at about 3 o’clock. That was before he became the grinning face of everything that is wrong with modern man.
The thirty five year old married man was caught sending explicit texts and Twitter messages to several glamour models. When, in a shock move that no one could have seen coming, one of the girls went to the press, he was forced to admit his digital dalliances in a grovelling press release. The newspapers joked he would definitely “be in the doghouse for the next few weeks”. Oh yes, they smirked, his other half won’t half give him grief, the cheeky monkey! The reports emphasised that nothing physical ever happened which is unlikely to be much consolation to his wife. “Listen babes- No fluids were exchanged, I just made it obvious in a very public manner that given the chance I most definitely would, if I wasn’t fettered by your Victorian values and the bloody Daily Mail” Men are biologically programme to cheat, pundits argued, it’s comes from their caveman roots. It’s interesting that they’ve managed to evolve the ability to digest cooked meat and use a Nintendo Wii but not keep it in their trousers isn’t it?
His wife Tess Daly had not only just given birth to his second child but was also just releasing a book about her pregnancy experiences. I’m sure the next edition will have a whole chapter on discovering your husband is a complete tool. What’s depressing is not just the sleazy, juvenile manner of his cheating it’s the women he has been lavishing all this attention on. Tess, his wife, is a stunner; a tall willowy blond, with a successful career who seems approachably down to earth. Women can identify with her, if only because we’ve all experienced some sexual harassment in the workplace and at least ours wasn’t broadcast live every Saturday night and involving Bruce Forsyth.
Yet the women that he was willing to risk his career, family and wife’s heart over are the plastic blondes most women hope men grow out of once they hit puberty. He met Rhian Sugden the twenty three year old page three girl, at a night club in Bolton and her claim to fame thus far was having once experienced Russell Brand. When a grown man chooses someone whose entire wardrobe seems to be wipe clean over a sexy woman in her prime, it’s depressing to put it mildly.
Also misunderstood by our moral standards is footballer Jon Terry, who can’t understand why given the fact that he’s very good at kicking a ball around a field, it doesn’t give him the right to stick his premier league into any fixture he likes. He was caught playing away from home with his teammates ex girlfriend Vanessa Perroncel, devastating his wife and humiliating his teammate.
His PR team deserve some sort of manipulation award for the way they’ve handled the story. They’ve bought her silence and there have been hints that other ladies who’ve also shown their support for their national side in a very physical way have also been kept quiet with money. Vanessa has been portrayed as a confused, vulnerable woman desperate to protect her son and get back with his father. This has mainly been achieved with lots of shots of her looking confused in an anorak. Meanwhile, Terry has been sold as a silly lad, fundamentally good, keen to get back with his childhood sweetheart, who he will definitely never ever cheat on again. It seems if you’re good at certain important things; football, TV presenting, it allows you to behave like a toddler. It doesn’t extend to other professions, you’ve never heard someone shrug their shoulders and opine “Well, what do you expect he is one of the world’s top dentists after all”. Recently, the poster boy for self indulgence, Gazza, was arrested twice in one day after spectacularly falling off the wagon. If only he’d just been a really good at something less important, say badminton or brain surgery, he might actually have had the chance to learn how to behave like a grown up.
An impoverished man’s Dermot O Leary, he was a hangover in human form on T4 , before taking the helm of “Family Fortunes”, joining the ranks of Amanda Holden in making you realise that you’d perhaps underestimated Les Dennis. It was hard to have an opinion on him, just like it’s difficult to find someone with a strong opinion on Habitat, The Lightning Seeds or the feeling of being mildly depressed you get at about 3 o’clock. That was before he became the grinning face of everything that is wrong with modern man.
The thirty five year old married man was caught sending explicit texts and Twitter messages to several glamour models. When, in a shock move that no one could have seen coming, one of the girls went to the press, he was forced to admit his digital dalliances in a grovelling press release. The newspapers joked he would definitely “be in the doghouse for the next few weeks”. Oh yes, they smirked, his other half won’t half give him grief, the cheeky monkey! The reports emphasised that nothing physical ever happened which is unlikely to be much consolation to his wife. “Listen babes- No fluids were exchanged, I just made it obvious in a very public manner that given the chance I most definitely would, if I wasn’t fettered by your Victorian values and the bloody Daily Mail” Men are biologically programme to cheat, pundits argued, it’s comes from their caveman roots. It’s interesting that they’ve managed to evolve the ability to digest cooked meat and use a Nintendo Wii but not keep it in their trousers isn’t it?
His wife Tess Daly had not only just given birth to his second child but was also just releasing a book about her pregnancy experiences. I’m sure the next edition will have a whole chapter on discovering your husband is a complete tool. What’s depressing is not just the sleazy, juvenile manner of his cheating it’s the women he has been lavishing all this attention on. Tess, his wife, is a stunner; a tall willowy blond, with a successful career who seems approachably down to earth. Women can identify with her, if only because we’ve all experienced some sexual harassment in the workplace and at least ours wasn’t broadcast live every Saturday night and involving Bruce Forsyth.
Yet the women that he was willing to risk his career, family and wife’s heart over are the plastic blondes most women hope men grow out of once they hit puberty. He met Rhian Sugden the twenty three year old page three girl, at a night club in Bolton and her claim to fame thus far was having once experienced Russell Brand. When a grown man chooses someone whose entire wardrobe seems to be wipe clean over a sexy woman in her prime, it’s depressing to put it mildly.
Also misunderstood by our moral standards is footballer Jon Terry, who can’t understand why given the fact that he’s very good at kicking a ball around a field, it doesn’t give him the right to stick his premier league into any fixture he likes. He was caught playing away from home with his teammates ex girlfriend Vanessa Perroncel, devastating his wife and humiliating his teammate.
His PR team deserve some sort of manipulation award for the way they’ve handled the story. They’ve bought her silence and there have been hints that other ladies who’ve also shown their support for their national side in a very physical way have also been kept quiet with money. Vanessa has been portrayed as a confused, vulnerable woman desperate to protect her son and get back with his father. This has mainly been achieved with lots of shots of her looking confused in an anorak. Meanwhile, Terry has been sold as a silly lad, fundamentally good, keen to get back with his childhood sweetheart, who he will definitely never ever cheat on again. It seems if you’re good at certain important things; football, TV presenting, it allows you to behave like a toddler. It doesn’t extend to other professions, you’ve never heard someone shrug their shoulders and opine “Well, what do you expect he is one of the world’s top dentists after all”. Recently, the poster boy for self indulgence, Gazza, was arrested twice in one day after spectacularly falling off the wagon. If only he’d just been a really good at something less important, say badminton or brain surgery, he might actually have had the chance to learn how to behave like a grown up.
With new guest writer!
Hello darlings! I think already you’ve noticed something different this week about this charming little column. Before you even started to read it, there was something changed, something more glamorous, more exciting, more sensual, no? I confound you? I confuse you?
For that I apologise but the reason is simple my darling, The usual young lady who writes it is sick, she is sweet but she has weak Irish bones whereas I am Czechoslovakian and strong. She could not have dragged herself from a childhood in a communist state through her skiing skills alone and established herself as one of Canada’s top fur models. Could she with only her glamorous beauty have entranced New York’s most powerful businessman and torn between the husband that adored her and this new powerful stranger with the funny hair, chosen a life of sophisticated parties and international hotel finance? I bet even her Home Shopping Jewellery range would have been awful. As I said to my good friend Dame Shirley Bassey only last week, these young girls may have the unlined faces but can they design reasonably priced costume jewellery suitable for any occasion? Shirley was drunk of course, she did not care.
Have you guessed yet my darlings? Why of course you have, who else could fill that last moment with such romance and elegant passion? It is I, Ivana Trump, fresh from my wonderful stay in the British Big Brother house bringing you your showbiz news. They said to me but Ivana, how can you? You will be busy on your yacht with Michael Winner and your good friend Joan Collins? Why fax of course- I’m up to date with all the new things! Then I put my earing back in my ear, hang up and laugh.
And what fun I had. I proved to all my fans that I could be just like anyone else. I cooked. You saw that yes? I dressed myself every day. I do the cleaning and the washing. I had the fun, which I love the most. I am so glad that the Alex Reid won. It was strange because before we enter the house he seemed to be troubled by a strange puffy faced orange woman. She screamed at him because he made her very mad with his yapping and his talking. He was not allowed to say her name, make eye contact, mention her, or to talk about anything that had ever happened between them or her wrath would be very great. Then she slapped him across the face and he cry. But how wonderful to see young love triumph, as Alex left the house like a little boy who’d won a trip to Disney land because he had not much longer to live, it turns out that this angry woman was using bored disgust to hide her true love.
Like a Princess Stephanie of Monaco, if the rumours about her being a prostitute were true, she braved the flashing bulbs and camera crews just to be by his side. Now they have eloped and got married in Las Vegas with only a few witnesses and a film crew for company; it is like Romeo and Juliet, but without the missed messages and joint suicide; I hope!- fingers crossed for you guys! At the BB party afterwards I saw a sad little man in a cowboy shirt, quietly reminding people that he was married to her too for a while,but no one seemed to notice. I said to Stephanie Beacham “How sad!” but she was too drunk, she did not care.
Then we bumped into the lovely Lady Sovereign and I Slept with Ronnie Wood. Lady Sovereign she is this strange punky girl who like to make herself ugly. Why not put on a dress I ask her? Look sexy, but no she is a rapper from the projects of Wembley and she likes to look like a boy. She laugh and tell me that I know nothing and perhaps she’s right. I slept with Ronnie Wood had been taking the pictures in the underwear all day and now she not want to talk much.I understand, when I was running Trump Towers and tring to keep that bitch Marla Marples from under my cheating husband I too was fatigued. I offer to show her some moves, some tips from my modelling days, posture, over the shoulder sexy, jaunty nautical, but she, she did not care. I was too old she says and she join in the laughing.
For a moment I was sad but then out of the corner of my eye who should I see? It’s Roger Moore and he has champagne and I realise that I too am now drunk and do not care! Have a wonderful week readers. Please don’t be sad that you are not Ivana trump. I am Ivana Trump, use me for inspiration instead. Ciao!
For that I apologise but the reason is simple my darling, The usual young lady who writes it is sick, she is sweet but she has weak Irish bones whereas I am Czechoslovakian and strong. She could not have dragged herself from a childhood in a communist state through her skiing skills alone and established herself as one of Canada’s top fur models. Could she with only her glamorous beauty have entranced New York’s most powerful businessman and torn between the husband that adored her and this new powerful stranger with the funny hair, chosen a life of sophisticated parties and international hotel finance? I bet even her Home Shopping Jewellery range would have been awful. As I said to my good friend Dame Shirley Bassey only last week, these young girls may have the unlined faces but can they design reasonably priced costume jewellery suitable for any occasion? Shirley was drunk of course, she did not care.
Have you guessed yet my darlings? Why of course you have, who else could fill that last moment with such romance and elegant passion? It is I, Ivana Trump, fresh from my wonderful stay in the British Big Brother house bringing you your showbiz news. They said to me but Ivana, how can you? You will be busy on your yacht with Michael Winner and your good friend Joan Collins? Why fax of course- I’m up to date with all the new things! Then I put my earing back in my ear, hang up and laugh.
And what fun I had. I proved to all my fans that I could be just like anyone else. I cooked. You saw that yes? I dressed myself every day. I do the cleaning and the washing. I had the fun, which I love the most. I am so glad that the Alex Reid won. It was strange because before we enter the house he seemed to be troubled by a strange puffy faced orange woman. She screamed at him because he made her very mad with his yapping and his talking. He was not allowed to say her name, make eye contact, mention her, or to talk about anything that had ever happened between them or her wrath would be very great. Then she slapped him across the face and he cry. But how wonderful to see young love triumph, as Alex left the house like a little boy who’d won a trip to Disney land because he had not much longer to live, it turns out that this angry woman was using bored disgust to hide her true love.
Like a Princess Stephanie of Monaco, if the rumours about her being a prostitute were true, she braved the flashing bulbs and camera crews just to be by his side. Now they have eloped and got married in Las Vegas with only a few witnesses and a film crew for company; it is like Romeo and Juliet, but without the missed messages and joint suicide; I hope!- fingers crossed for you guys! At the BB party afterwards I saw a sad little man in a cowboy shirt, quietly reminding people that he was married to her too for a while,but no one seemed to notice. I said to Stephanie Beacham “How sad!” but she was too drunk, she did not care.
Then we bumped into the lovely Lady Sovereign and I Slept with Ronnie Wood. Lady Sovereign she is this strange punky girl who like to make herself ugly. Why not put on a dress I ask her? Look sexy, but no she is a rapper from the projects of Wembley and she likes to look like a boy. She laugh and tell me that I know nothing and perhaps she’s right. I slept with Ronnie Wood had been taking the pictures in the underwear all day and now she not want to talk much.I understand, when I was running Trump Towers and tring to keep that bitch Marla Marples from under my cheating husband I too was fatigued. I offer to show her some moves, some tips from my modelling days, posture, over the shoulder sexy, jaunty nautical, but she, she did not care. I was too old she says and she join in the laughing.
For a moment I was sad but then out of the corner of my eye who should I see? It’s Roger Moore and he has champagne and I realise that I too am now drunk and do not care! Have a wonderful week readers. Please don’t be sad that you are not Ivana trump. I am Ivana Trump, use me for inspiration instead. Ciao!
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