Thursday, 29 April 2010

Not Goodbye but Au Revoir shitheads!

If the marriage of Cheryl and Ashley has taught us anything, apart from that even the most dramatic splits get tedious if dragged out long enough, it’s that all things must come to an end, and much like their relationship and the career of Lindsey Lohan this gorgeous column is facing it’s final curtain, or at least taking a break until after Edinburgh.

What a year and a half? What a privilege! We’re wandered together you and I, like Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin through The Hundred Acre Wood of the Celebrity Unwell; break ups, overdoses and personal disaster, together we’ve listened, learned and mainly laughed at them all.

But then everybody is replaceable. Much as I’d like to imagine you staring at the bottom of a whiskey tumbler, sleeping pills in one hand, old photo in the other like Rita Sullivan who’s just found out that Alan Bradley was back.

But let’s be honest, pretty soon there’ll be another celebrity journalist with an unhealthy interest in Suri Cruise to win over your shallow fickle swinging bricks and I’ll be yesterday’s Heat front cover. Think of poor Christina Aguilera, taking time out from wearing arseless chaps to have baby; she probably thought her job was safe. Sod it she thought, I can actually sing and Britney is turning into Syd Barret in a push up bra, I’ll have another mojito thanks. Then she finally returns to work to find Lady GaGa, like the replacement temp from hell, writhing around her corner desk, her plants un watered, her files completely rearranged and her own career suddenly irrelevant.

Oh Christina the shame! You didn’t hoof your way through Disney Club with Britters claiming Mickey Mouse was talking to her to be replaced by a posh kid from New York City. It’s almost as if people have forgotten how dirty, sorry dirrrty you were! We watched her grow from wannabe in a bottle, to I’ve been tangoed bad black hair dye washing isn’t sexy , to her final transformation into a Marilyn Monroe drag queen. Constant reinvention being the requisite for all self respecting popstars nowadays; honestly Madonna has a lot to answer for.

Throughout all her personas there was always something flintily unlikeable about the girl. Yes she had a voice that could knock down buildings but she never seemed like the type of girl who’d hold back your hair if you were vomiting, more like the one who’d spiked your drink in the first place. She looked like she’d sell her own granny for a lead vocal whereas Lady Gaga acts like she’d stab her own mother for the sheer theatricality. Oh Christina, we’ve tasted the real thing now and compared to the perfect full flavoured pop madness of Gaga, you remind us of the flat coke dodgy landlords try to get away with serving .

Though it’s not Gaga I worry about, or even Christina, it’s the little ones I lose sleep over-like wee Lee Ryan from Blue. That’s why I’ve started a new charity; Lee Aid. Do you know for just three pound a month you can sponsor somebody to follow the ex Blue star around and check everything that comes out of his mouth. For five pound you get to be that person.

Poor old Lee, like Father Dougal with a permanent erection, the sudden boom in communication hasn’t helped him. The singer has a veritable blazing squad of illegitimate children, cheerfully divulges threesomes with fellow band members, and when trying to crack America responded to the recent terrorist attacks with the now legendary “"Who gives a f**k about New York when elephants are being killed".

He has really met his Waterloo in the form of Twitter. Maybe the site should be forced to add a security question “Are you Lee Ryan formerly from Blue” and like clicking that you are indeed under 18 for other websites, if you click yes, you’re immediately directed to a Disney website.

Lee has been a busy boy. He’s used the website to call various members of the public pig faces, threaten others with violence and attempt to sell a film script to Tom Cruise. He quite sweetly signed the message LEE RYAN!!! X. AS if to reassure Tom, that his eyes weren’t deceiving him, it was the All Rise star himself.

While Blue's cover of the Elton John song suggested it was “sorry” for me it's “good bye” that is the hardest word. Thank you so much for joining me on my scavenging through the rubbish bins of celebrity gossip. Hopefully we’ll see each other again, and know, much like the crazy characters Jennifer Connolly met in “Labyrinth”, whenever you need me I’ll be there. However, unlike them, you won’t find me creepily looking over your shoulder every time you look in the mirror (which must be getting very annoying for Jennifer by now - move Hoggle I’m trying to put my contacts in!)No, I’ll be at your nearest newsagent or the magazine section of large supermarkets. Rifling through the gossip mags and not paying for any of them.

Thursday, 22 April 2010

Somebody please make it all go away.

I’m not usually a bitter person but when I read about Kerry Katona moving into a million pound Brighton mansion I start wondering if I should have ditched my English degree and got married to someone from Westlife instead. Even Jedward is beginning to look like a better option.

The exiled Queen of Iceland has declared war on ex Brian McFadden; branding him a bad father in a recent tabloid interview. Her first husband and father to the younger batch of her brood is currently living in Australia and is a judge on “Australia’s Got Talent” which is like Gordon Brown being a judge on a “Why am I so Adorable?” or David Cameron on “ Britain’s Got Sincerity” or Nick Clegg on “I give it another Week, tops”. Brian has the bittersweet privilege of being the Pete Best of Westlife. He left the band in a flurry of hubris, ready to launch himself as the next Robbie Williams, as if the world hadn’t enough problems, and like an Emmerdale actor earnestly declaring they were off to Hollywood, was never heard of again.

Kerry, now managed by Katie Price’s old management team has been cleaning up her image; out goes the leaching husband and drunken TV appearances and in comes play dates with Peter Andre and washing herself. As a way of setting the story straight, because in this time of economic depression nothing adds more to the folly of the nation, she’s been revealing the sweaty ins and greasy outs of her grubby marriage.

With an honesty that we’re supposed to applaud rather than be physically repulsed by, she describes whole weeks lost to coke and online bingo. Oh, the glamour-forget the golden parties of Old Hollywood; Drinks at the Copacabana, Errol Flynn chasing after underage girls, Joan Crawford beating her kids around the head with wire clothes hangers; we have the image of Kerry alone in a darkened bedroom, the blue light of the monitor flickering over her tear swollen, kebab encrusted face, googling herself and sobbing.

It’s the kids I’m happiest for. Whereas before, they lived with an attention seeking coke child, now they have a Mum selling her most sordid secrets for cash. Days left alone in front of the telly while Mum rustled about upstairs replaced by nights in alone as she attends parties to prove how she’s turned her life around. So every trip to the zoo will now be accompanied a camera crew to prove what a great Mother she is? At least they’re getting outside the house.

I honestly think I preferred her when she looked like a cabbage patch kid on crystal meth, at least there was an honesty to it. The sanctimonious, shrill confidence that if you bleat loudly enough about your mistakes you are not only automatically entitled to forgiveness, but should in some way be respected for it, is a particularly irritating sound.

Speaking of dodgy parent’s, Michael Douglas is rueing a few of his life choices after his son Cameron narrowly escaped a lengthy year jail term for drug dealing. The youngest member of the acting dynasty fell into drugs at thirteen and after his family refused to fund his habit, the thirty one year old began drug dealing. I don’t know what would be more confusing, your Dad choosing “A Chorus Line” over spending time with you or waking up to discover that Catherine Zeta Jones in your new Mum.

However bad Michael might be feeling compared to Jack Tweedy he is positively Christ like. Tweedy is in court at the moment accused of raping a teenage girl he picked up at a nightclub. The professional widow has embraced the Lidl fame left to him by his late wife Jade Goody.

A kingdom of easily impressed young girls, drugs, crazy parties and arrogant recklessness was his for the tasting. Who can blame him for living the MTV dream; easy up for it woman, blinging big cars and being the King of every Wag wanabee infested nightclub this side of Essex? Even if the pimpled reality is a drunk terrified teenager allegedly raped in the toilets of a rented suburban house in the tired early hours of the morning,

The pictures of Tweedy and his co accused friend, entering and leaving the court are a stomach churning study in smugness. How can we be blamed for anything they seem to whine; look how expensive my sunglasses are? Chill out! Fame has a magnifying affect on the personality, like very old age, getting drunk or the mumblings first thing in the morning, it strips away to the your true personality. When Jade Goody first found fame, she seemed truly grateful, like a child who had just been adopted. Unfortunately not all personalities bear up to such close scrutiny.

Wednesday, 14 April 2010

Reality is overrated

It must be great being a celeb; free stuff, being able to get away with murder, figuratively and literally and best of all, completely unsolicited advice from other famous people you’ve never met. I can’t count the amount of times in moments of difficulty; I wished I was important enough for Nikki from Big Brother to mention me her weekly column. How reassuring it must be for Sandra Bullock or Nicole Kidman, as they flick through the glossies under a dryer at the hairdressers, to know that at least Alex Curran cares and is well gutted about their recent problems.

Thankfully, with the wonders of modern networking sites, celebs are no longer limited to gossip periodicals to address their nation. Thanks to the wonder of Twitter, a direct line to the masses has been installed for the entire showbiz family. Demi Moore can castigate Kim Kardashian for her use of the term “pimping”, Kirstie Alley can dispense diet advice, Perez Hilton can insult everyone, while the rest of us, their digital privy council, can follow their tweets, hung over at work and trying to look like we’re busy. The general rule of thumb is you can say whatever you like as long as you put LOL at the end.

Twitter is the ultimate form of expression for Generation Text; take the most intimate observations and in jokes usually reserved for those nearest and dearest and share them with the entire online planet. Perfect for an age bracket that only feels alive if they’ve been retweeted. We have evolved from sealed envelopes to town criers, desperate to let entire digital universe know we’ve just had a hob nob.

So a perfect platform for attention seeking and crow barred jokes, but completely ruined when some get carried away and start over sharing.( I’m lying of course, over sharing is when Twitter truly catches the light). Jim Carrey recently used his twitter account to announce the end of his seven year relationship with Jenny McCarthy and give his thoughts on the Tiger Woods saga. Defending the golf star, he argued that the sportsman had effectively sold his childhood to please his demanding Dad and that his wife must have known about his infidelity and was willing to accept it, for the financial rewards of being the wife of the world’s number one golf star.

Tiger Woods has been in a few emotional sand bunkers of late. Not only did he loose the American Masters after a distracted performance but the winner Phil Mickelson, dedicated the victory to his devoted cancer stricken wife. Despite struggling through treatment, she made a romantic, unexpected appearance to be by her husband’s side. Would you like more salt for your wounds Tiger? Yes, just in case you were wondering, the universe is having a massive laugh at your expense. The institution of marriage has taken a bashing of late: the Coles, Tiger’s shenanigans, Katie and Alex, the world of celeb seems determined to make the idea of long term commitment look as ridiculous as possible.

It was only a matter of time before the great Earth Mother of Matrimony began to let her wrath be felt and rumbling up like an avenging Boudicca ready to protect her turf, Elizabeth Taylor is preparing to walk down the aisle again. Considering she’s now confined to a wheel chair and most people vaguely thought she was already dead, you know she’s really pissed. Make no mistake, she loves getting married; she’s done it eight times, which is two ahead of Henry VIII. Her starter marriage was to a Hilton, her third husband died in a plane crash, she stole another off Debbie Reynolds, married Richard Burton twice, a US senator, a construction worker, had a diamond named after her, won two Oscars and then spent most of the nineties hanging around with Michael Jackson. She makes Lady Gaga look as exciting as The Isle of Man.

To balance out, some legends prefer the single life like TV Queen Oprah Winfrey. A recent unofficial book about the chat show star has been published claiming that Oprah has not been entirely honest about her private life. The book claims that Oprah’s early years; the almost mythically grim childhood of deprivation and abuse that inspired so many and made her incredible success all the more life affirming wasn’t quite as horrific as she suggested. It also claims that Steadman, rather than being the perfect partner ready let his lady bask in her success, is nothing but a stooge to hide her work obsessed asexuality. Which begs the question; who bloody cares? If we want the prosaic, blow by blow tedious reality we can just Google Fiona Philip’s twitter page. The public can only bare so much reality and the light is so unflattering, true stars create legends.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

Can't Stand You Now.

Who knew Olivia Newton John, that lovely seventies pin up had so much in common with Gail Tilsley? No, she hasn’t been caught scrapping with Eileen Roberts outside Frescos, gorgeous Sandy from Grease has recently found out her ex- boyfriend didn’t drown on a fishing trip three years ago after all but faked his own death. At least Gail had the dignity of her husband actually drowning.

TV makers tracked Patrick McDermott to a small coastal resort in Mexico, where he had been working on tourist boats and living under an assumed name. As he continued to pay into his life insurance policy there was no financial reason for his escape, it seems he travelled to the other side of the world and created an entire new life identity just to get away from the “Let’s get Physical “star.

No matter how many girls’ nights out she goes on, it will take a pretty flattering haircut to get over that little revelation. I would love it if when she finally caught up with him and demanded to know what the flaming gula he’s been up to, he shrugged his shoulder s and said “You know, rocking and rolling and what not”. (For hardcore Grease fans only)

Poor old Lindsay of Lohan has been dumped again recently, this time by an entire fashion house. She was dropped by fashion label Ungaro, before Paris fashion week, after her first and now only collection as the house’s creative director received unanimously awful reviews. Her debut collection featuring sequins and nipple tassles was so bad, Emmanuel Ungaro himself , who no longer owns the fashion label, publically declared it a disaster.

Her recent behaviour has been so rambling, at one stage visiting three nightclubs in Hollywood in one night that even LA police have suggested that she seek help. Caught on the hop by the unexpected deaths of Heath and Brittany, newspapers have prepared obituaries for celebs at risk including Ms. Lohan. The former actress’s career has crumbled to such an extent, she has evolved into a bizarre version of Kenneth Williams. Content to wander onto any chat show that will have her, instead of displaying William’s shrill brittle wit, we’re encouraged to bleakly stare in the grinning face of imminent personal disaster. Maybe she should just go the whole hog and hook up with Pete Doherty.

Kate Moss’s ex has been creating some rock and roll high jinks recently by spitting water on a Five TV presenter. Yes, how hardcore is that? What next? Getting into a fight with Melinda Messenger? Flipping John Barrowman the bird? Crazy horse Doherty is reforming “The Libertines” with Carl Barat, after both their solo careers failed to produce one decent single and will perform at several festivals this summer.

Pete has been kicking off his live shows with appearances at London Fashion Week. Sid Vicious eat your syringe out, nothing says rock and roll anarchy like free clothes. I liked The Libertines music; it’s the too fragile for this world, emo- Christ, prattling on about Albion, fey posing of Pete that I find so irritating and boring. If Pete wants to wander round like a bloated self regarding Victorian chimney sweep, than I wish him well, I just wish he’s written at least one good tune since 2004.

He was recently questioned by police in connection with the fatal overdose of a young director making a documentary about him. Robyn Whitehead , a heiress from the famous Goldsmith family, was twenty seven year old when she was found dead in a flat frequented by Pete and his entourage. When Pete has a bad period, he gets interviews on Newsnight and broadsheets columnists bemoaning the waste of such a delicate talent. The vulnerable young women attracted to his darkly glittering lifestyle end up alone and dead in council flats.

There’s a long history of beautiful blonde waifs falling in with “geniuses” and it’s always the very people that glamorise self destructive behaviour that stay in control. Mick Jagger might have sold the idea of the swinging sixties but it was Marianne Faithfull who ended up living on a wall. Andy Warhol was happy to photograph Edie Sedgwick losing her mind but he ended up one of the most commercially successful artists of all time and she was dead by twenty eight.

Despite all the handwringing and profiles a verb away from being obituaries, Pete is still very much with us. After the arrests, the wandering into court actually in possession of drugs, the crashed cars and blood encrusted gigs, he has become the Queen mother of wasted youth, heading into his thirties, still managing to wake up somewhere safe. As always, when it comes to rock and rolls “lost boys” it’s a case of cherche les dead rich girls.