There are three signs that something is no longer cool, Firstly if your Mam knows about it, and secondly if part of that trend is on sale at a family department store. It was during the school holidays of 1992, my mother attempted to buy a pair of smiley face adorned Eclipse baggy jeans from Primark, the uniform of every self respecting raver in my town thus, in one mindless action, ruining dance music for me for ever. I would never look at Two Unlimited in the same way again. I was reminded of that feeling of embarrassment and confused rage when Dave Cameron made his appearance on Christian O’ Connell’s radio show recently. The leader of the opposition faced this formidable broadcaster, seen by many as the next Jeremy Paxman, if everybody in the world suddenly died, for what was sure to be a battle of wits; come on, we’d all seen the grilling O’Connell had given David Hasselhoff. It turns out the Eton educated Tory leader knows exactly how the people feel, we’re pissed off with politicians, Twitter is well whack and people who twittered too much were twats, yeah get me bruv? Yes that’s right, he swore on radio! He cares so much about young people today he just let rip, went crazy and showed us the real Dave,Street Dave. Wow, he’s mad, bonkers even, I bet he even listens to Dizee Rascal on his ipod and thinks, that’s right Dizee, I’m just trying to lead parliament, ain’t nothing crazy about me. And in that moment her ruined swearing for me, forever, because that’s the third sign that something is no longer relevant, when a politician does it in an attempt to appear cool to younger voters. Blair did it with Britpop and now Cameron has done it with an entire way of speech. Thanks Dave. What will be next in his attempt to patronise, I mean appeal to young voters? Is he going to rename the opposition, the Conservative Brethren? Referto his constituency as his manor? Threaten to knife Gordon Brown during Parliamentary Questions? Thanks Dave, you’ve just made knife crime un cool as well, thanks.
But then, no one likes getting older. Not anybody over eighteen anyway but until recently it wasn’t a fireable offence. Or so Arlene Philips would have assumed until the Strictly Come Dancing judge got booted of the BBC show for the unforgivable sin of not being dead, the only alternative to getting older that I know of. The sixty six year old dance veteran has been replaced by last year’s winner Aleisha Dixon, which is a bit like Simon Cowell being replaced by Ray Quinn. Being a woman on television nowadays is like a cross between “Logans’ Run”, where everybody over the age of thirty is killed and HG Wells “The Time Machine” where the world has split into frolicking lovelies swanning about above ground and ugly trolls toiling underneath. In TV’s case, they’re either bland blondes simpering into auto cues or old hags popping up every now and then on Loose Women. This week has also seen Jo Whiley, respected music journalist, replaced from her mid week slot by Fearne Cotton, whose knowledge of music extends as far as having met some at a party. That’s right, Fearne probably brags about having met some music at a party. I think Old Father Time herself, forty four year old Jo should take advantage of her androgynous name and continue presenting the show with a deeper voice; it could buy her another five years at least.
But at least she’s not Jessica Simpson, spare a thought for the poor girl. Go on any thought. Even if it’s “Oh, I think it's going to rain again”. The poor girl’s been given the heave ho, the old elbow, been let go from her relationship with her most recent beau, American football star Tony Romo, the day before her 29th birthday. The big bash, which had been given a Barbie and Ken theme, had to be swiftly cancelled when it emerged that Barbie was now facing the world alone. The reason given for the split was txt messages from Jess’ ex John Mayer found on her mobile. That’s the same John who Jennifer Aniston dumped because of his constant twittering. John Mayer is a bit of an enigma, not really known outside of the US, he is a respected and talented musician yet mainly known for dumping gorgeous women empirically out of his league. One wonders where he finds the time for music with all the heartbreaking and general abuse of modern technology he seems to get up too. Let’s hope John Mayer never finds out that Dave’s been up too, insulting his beloved twitter. He’d either thump him, or worse get Dave to fall madly in love with him and then dump him cruelly and publically. Be careful Dave, you don’t want young people’s vote that much.
Thursday, 30 July 2009
Wednesday, 15 July 2009
Team Price
Is Katie Price, the next Princess Diana? I know we thought it was Jade Goody was for a while and then we got all distracted by Jacko for a bit but I think this might be the one. There were definitely echoes of that famous Martin Bashir interview on Saturday when Katie issued her personal message to her people, like a modern day missive from St.Katie to the Corinthians; and the Lord said you should never cry over a man. Whereas Diana fluttered from under her navy eyelashes, Katie, eyes lacquered like some ageless She Who Must Be Obeyed stared straight at Piers Morgan like he was fly and she was feeling peckish. Diana just had three in her marriage, Katie and Pete had an entire production crew.
Times have changed though, at least Bashir, unlike Morgan didn’t ask Diana to defend her self from the label “slapper”, licking him lips as he savoured the word, like an old drunk slowly eating a bacon sandwich. Who even uses words like that anymore? He presumably means the type of skantily clad women tabloid editors like Morgan fill their newspapers with. Look at her wearing the clothes that she knows we find sexy, and a mother of three - she’s a mother and a whore, I’m confused, I hate her, I want her- ahh – Mum!
And wither now for Pete?-in love with Katie but unable to live with Jordan. He has been seen out and about with fellow zeleb Chantelle Houghton of Celeb Big Brother “fame”. The fact that Peter and Chantelle share the same agent and Chantelle is attempting to relaunch herself, is I’m sure a happy coincidence. You’d think post her marriage to Preston, the ex- Paris Hilton look alike would have had enough of selling her soul for a photo shoot in Now magazine, but old habits, it seem, die hard. Chantelle has been hailed as the next Jordan so it makes sense that she would inherit him. If theirs is a genuine meeting of minds then I’m the real mother of Michael Jackson kids. She’s given an interview denying the romance, where she poses in her undies, so you know she really means it; nothing says sincerity like visible bra straps. The magazine editors have been canny enough to get her to pose in white underwear though, so that means she’s the good one. It could be worse Peter, I think your agent represents Calumn Best as well, so count your blessings. Katie, Chantelle, Peter, it’s like “All About Eve” sponsored by Nuts magazine, although if Katie Price promised everyone a bumpy night, it would sound more like a sexual threat than a witty one liner.
The lady herself has just returned from a holiday in Ibiza amidst talk that her drunken shenanigans, desperate need for a new bloke and general bad behaviour could cost her millions in advertising revenue and possibly custody of her children. It certainly puts your last Saturday night escapades in perspective doesn’t it? The papers didn’t explain how a recently dumped mother of three should take her very public rejection but I’m sure we’d all love to know. Katie’s problem is that she comes from a generation of women bred to act like they don’t care. Her’s was the first to experience the joys of alcopops, laddettes, drink till you vomit and then collapse underneath somebody, as long as you don’t act like you care then that’s ok. Independence, self reliance, indifference your only defence from a world that you had already decided didn’t care. Kate has been labelled cold, nasty, and cruel to Peter. She always struck me as someone terrified by how much she actually needed him. What is she to do, a woman who proudly wears her toughness like an armour of orange fake tan, when the man that finally sees the real Katie, pale vulnerable and real, rejects her?
Her questionable revelations about a recent miscarriage may stick in my women’s throat as an ugly attempt to counsel sympathy, or the desperate act of a woman wanting to be seen as a person rather than a tabloid sentence. Even her monotone description of her heartbreak seemed hollow. We didn’t want to see her glowing and groomed, we wanted snot, messy hair, why did he leave me sobs, not cold defiant self confidence. Like Kate McCann had learned before her, we like our heroines vulnerable. Katie Price isn’t nice, she’s far from sweet and her attacks on Pete; the bitter swipes and accusations, have all the necessary ugliness of survival. Because make no mistake, unlike that other Princess, the coy vulnerable victim that demurely batted away the tears, this one will most definitely survive.
Times have changed though, at least Bashir, unlike Morgan didn’t ask Diana to defend her self from the label “slapper”, licking him lips as he savoured the word, like an old drunk slowly eating a bacon sandwich. Who even uses words like that anymore? He presumably means the type of skantily clad women tabloid editors like Morgan fill their newspapers with. Look at her wearing the clothes that she knows we find sexy, and a mother of three - she’s a mother and a whore, I’m confused, I hate her, I want her- ahh – Mum!
And wither now for Pete?-in love with Katie but unable to live with Jordan. He has been seen out and about with fellow zeleb Chantelle Houghton of Celeb Big Brother “fame”. The fact that Peter and Chantelle share the same agent and Chantelle is attempting to relaunch herself, is I’m sure a happy coincidence. You’d think post her marriage to Preston, the ex- Paris Hilton look alike would have had enough of selling her soul for a photo shoot in Now magazine, but old habits, it seem, die hard. Chantelle has been hailed as the next Jordan so it makes sense that she would inherit him. If theirs is a genuine meeting of minds then I’m the real mother of Michael Jackson kids. She’s given an interview denying the romance, where she poses in her undies, so you know she really means it; nothing says sincerity like visible bra straps. The magazine editors have been canny enough to get her to pose in white underwear though, so that means she’s the good one. It could be worse Peter, I think your agent represents Calumn Best as well, so count your blessings. Katie, Chantelle, Peter, it’s like “All About Eve” sponsored by Nuts magazine, although if Katie Price promised everyone a bumpy night, it would sound more like a sexual threat than a witty one liner.
The lady herself has just returned from a holiday in Ibiza amidst talk that her drunken shenanigans, desperate need for a new bloke and general bad behaviour could cost her millions in advertising revenue and possibly custody of her children. It certainly puts your last Saturday night escapades in perspective doesn’t it? The papers didn’t explain how a recently dumped mother of three should take her very public rejection but I’m sure we’d all love to know. Katie’s problem is that she comes from a generation of women bred to act like they don’t care. Her’s was the first to experience the joys of alcopops, laddettes, drink till you vomit and then collapse underneath somebody, as long as you don’t act like you care then that’s ok. Independence, self reliance, indifference your only defence from a world that you had already decided didn’t care. Kate has been labelled cold, nasty, and cruel to Peter. She always struck me as someone terrified by how much she actually needed him. What is she to do, a woman who proudly wears her toughness like an armour of orange fake tan, when the man that finally sees the real Katie, pale vulnerable and real, rejects her?
Her questionable revelations about a recent miscarriage may stick in my women’s throat as an ugly attempt to counsel sympathy, or the desperate act of a woman wanting to be seen as a person rather than a tabloid sentence. Even her monotone description of her heartbreak seemed hollow. We didn’t want to see her glowing and groomed, we wanted snot, messy hair, why did he leave me sobs, not cold defiant self confidence. Like Kate McCann had learned before her, we like our heroines vulnerable. Katie Price isn’t nice, she’s far from sweet and her attacks on Pete; the bitter swipes and accusations, have all the necessary ugliness of survival. Because make no mistake, unlike that other Princess, the coy vulnerable victim that demurely batted away the tears, this one will most definitely survive.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
I love Jennifer Hudson
So, that was it-what a final show. Now when Michael bumps into Princess Diana in that great big eighties theme night in the sky and during a Duran Duran slow set the topic of funerals comes up, MJ can hold his head up high. Yes, Diana may have been coronated the Queen of Hearts and serenaded by an Elton John with a twitchy eyebrow but Jackson has just been ordained saviour of the world.
Turns out he was not only the greatest entertainer ever known, best friends with Brooke Shields and a lover of KFC; he was also the most generous humanitarian of his generation. Yes, the man who blew his fortune on the type of crap you’d usually see for sale in pound shops except it cost millions was actually a charity man. The money he donated to hospital wings , the foundations he established, the secret donations he slipped in impoverished bank accounts, like a moon walking Father Christmas, was probably nearly, nearly as much as he spent on private funfairs, personal zoos, big vases and awkward lawsuits. His philanthropy to the legal professions must mean he has at least a library dedicated to him by now somewhere, albeit in a very, very specific legal field. And that is before we get onto the innovations his patronage funded in the field of cosmetic surgery. Where were their representatives? I think in honour of their role in his life they should have taken his beautiful gold casket at the start of the performance and then in a big reveal at the very end, brought it back completely and utterly bashed up, misshapen and unrecognisable; it’s sadly what he would have paid for.
Cynicism aside, it was heart warming to see so many celebrities singing their devotion to him. He was loved, they trilled, they’d be there, they warbled, he was not alone, they promised, I’m sure the singer who died, let’s be honest, most definitely alone-ish, surrounded by paid yes men, drugged up the eyeballs and broke would have appreciated the sentiments.
What was missing in consistency was made up in sheer God Bless America, Uncle Sam, this is the best goddam country on Earth chutzpah. There was nothing reserved, quiet or reticent about this affair. Get the cute pictures of him as a kid, book the gospel choir and finish with his daughter sobbing that she loved her Dad, we are going to have emotions and we are going to enjoy then. Mariah was there, clearly moved and actually fully dressed so you know she meant business, then there was Usher, proving what a talented singer Michael was by boring us to death with his version of “Gone too Soon”, then there was the mighty Jennifer Hudson, The “Dream Girls” star who’s let’s remember entire family had been murdered in the past year, brave, beautiful, belting out a classic and oh my days pass the tissues, heavily pregnant. I now love Jennifer Hudson, with a sincerity I thought only Jo Wood could inspire. She makes me wish I could turn into a one woman gospel choir and just follow her all the time around just bigging her up. She summed up what the service had that was so thrilling- big old embarrassing, non ironic, sincere emotion. People wanted to love Michael, and now dead, it no longer matters what he was really like, he can become whatever they want him to mean. If a broken, lost man can be reclaimed as a symbol of love and inspiration to millions, than so be it. I just wouldn’t like to be the little boys that accused him of molestation or their families as they watch his canonisation.
I cannot imagine the same thing working in the UK. The British just don’t do non ironic displays of emotions and passionate declaration in their faith in God. Americans have Kanye rapping about Jesus, the UK has everybody wishing Cliff Richard shut up. Even with Princess Diana, we were more upset that she had been messed about in her life than we were celebrating her magnificence. In the US, they know for certain that MJ is enjoying salvation in the Lord, in the UK we knew for certain that Prince Charles would be feeling like a complete shit. MJ’s bother urged us to smile through our fear and sadness, Diana’s started laying into the Queen. When Britain’s closest pop equivalent, Paul McCartney dies, which he will one day, those perky aloft thumbs won’t save him forever, the most he can expect is a BBC special, a barrage of Heather Mills jokes and possibly a drum solo from Ringo. Keep munching those vegetables Paul.
Turns out he was not only the greatest entertainer ever known, best friends with Brooke Shields and a lover of KFC; he was also the most generous humanitarian of his generation. Yes, the man who blew his fortune on the type of crap you’d usually see for sale in pound shops except it cost millions was actually a charity man. The money he donated to hospital wings , the foundations he established, the secret donations he slipped in impoverished bank accounts, like a moon walking Father Christmas, was probably nearly, nearly as much as he spent on private funfairs, personal zoos, big vases and awkward lawsuits. His philanthropy to the legal professions must mean he has at least a library dedicated to him by now somewhere, albeit in a very, very specific legal field. And that is before we get onto the innovations his patronage funded in the field of cosmetic surgery. Where were their representatives? I think in honour of their role in his life they should have taken his beautiful gold casket at the start of the performance and then in a big reveal at the very end, brought it back completely and utterly bashed up, misshapen and unrecognisable; it’s sadly what he would have paid for.
Cynicism aside, it was heart warming to see so many celebrities singing their devotion to him. He was loved, they trilled, they’d be there, they warbled, he was not alone, they promised, I’m sure the singer who died, let’s be honest, most definitely alone-ish, surrounded by paid yes men, drugged up the eyeballs and broke would have appreciated the sentiments.
What was missing in consistency was made up in sheer God Bless America, Uncle Sam, this is the best goddam country on Earth chutzpah. There was nothing reserved, quiet or reticent about this affair. Get the cute pictures of him as a kid, book the gospel choir and finish with his daughter sobbing that she loved her Dad, we are going to have emotions and we are going to enjoy then. Mariah was there, clearly moved and actually fully dressed so you know she meant business, then there was Usher, proving what a talented singer Michael was by boring us to death with his version of “Gone too Soon”, then there was the mighty Jennifer Hudson, The “Dream Girls” star who’s let’s remember entire family had been murdered in the past year, brave, beautiful, belting out a classic and oh my days pass the tissues, heavily pregnant. I now love Jennifer Hudson, with a sincerity I thought only Jo Wood could inspire. She makes me wish I could turn into a one woman gospel choir and just follow her all the time around just bigging her up. She summed up what the service had that was so thrilling- big old embarrassing, non ironic, sincere emotion. People wanted to love Michael, and now dead, it no longer matters what he was really like, he can become whatever they want him to mean. If a broken, lost man can be reclaimed as a symbol of love and inspiration to millions, than so be it. I just wouldn’t like to be the little boys that accused him of molestation or their families as they watch his canonisation.
I cannot imagine the same thing working in the UK. The British just don’t do non ironic displays of emotions and passionate declaration in their faith in God. Americans have Kanye rapping about Jesus, the UK has everybody wishing Cliff Richard shut up. Even with Princess Diana, we were more upset that she had been messed about in her life than we were celebrating her magnificence. In the US, they know for certain that MJ is enjoying salvation in the Lord, in the UK we knew for certain that Prince Charles would be feeling like a complete shit. MJ’s bother urged us to smile through our fear and sadness, Diana’s started laying into the Queen. When Britain’s closest pop equivalent, Paul McCartney dies, which he will one day, those perky aloft thumbs won’t save him forever, the most he can expect is a BBC special, a barrage of Heather Mills jokes and possibly a drum solo from Ringo. Keep munching those vegetables Paul.
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
Dedicated Follower of Farrah
If you’ve been waiting for a chance to invade another country, accidentally drop an atomic bomb or finally lodge that dodgy claims expense form this is the week to do it, because unless your second name is Jackson, nobody will care. Great news for prurient fans of the bizarre, but bad luck for everybody else including the golden girl of seventies television Farrah Fawcett, who also passed away last week. In a death as badly timed as Mother Theresa’s, the Charlies Angels star lost her battle with anal cancer on Wednesday with Ryan O’Neill, her long time partner, and their son by her side. She first found fame in "Charlies Angels" but left after the first series when producers ignored her request for more creative input and a percentage of the lucrative merchandising revenue. Proving that she was more than a haircut, she enjoyed a long successful career, becoming queen of the TV movie world, receiving numerous Emmy nominations, lauded stage appearances and working with directors like Robert Altman.
While she never had an iconic film role after Angels, her place in popular history was guaranteed with her legendary swimsuit poster, the biggest selling of all time that seemed to sum up the spirit of the seventies. Like a silent movie actress, Farrah, all toothy smile, tumbling hair and lean tanned limbs captured, confident,optimistic youth itself; healthy, happy, as sexy and joyous as a summer’s day. She wanted to finally marry Ryan on her death bed, the star she first started dating when the two were at the height of their blonde seventies pin up fame but sadly ran out of time and never regained consciousness.
Back at camp Jackson, because Michael’s still dead, and will be dead for as long as tabloids can wring front covers from the story, it’s been suggested that Michael Jackson’s children may not be his biological offspring. Yes that’s right, the great blond haired, white skinned elephant in the corner has been acknowledged; not only do his children look nothing like the late King of Pop, they look like they’re from an entirely different ethnic gene pool. In a further Virginia Andrews style twist to the tale, it’s also been suggested that Debbie Rowe, Jackson’s former nurse and wife may not even be the children’s biological mother but rather acted as a surrogate womb for anonymously donated sperm and egg. In Martin Bashir’s interview with Michael the star talked about their birth in the same way you or I would describe picking something up at Argos. The babies were born, he cut the umbilical cord and then literally, by his own admission, he ran out of the hospital. When a shocked Bashir asked when the mother got to finally meet her newborn child, Jackson, waffled, did a few verbal moonwalks and swiftly changed the subject.
It’s been suggested that Neverland will be soon turned into a sort of Graceland, a Michael interpretive centre if you will, for his legions of dedicated fans. Which sounds lovely until you remember that Neverland was also the scene of the alleged child abuse that ravaged his career and reputation. Surely turning a house where several young boys claimed to be groomed and sexually assaulted into a tourist attraction may seem to some as bad taste. Where as tourists visiting Elvis’s pad can marvel at the Jungle room where he swung with his entourage and giggling groupies, wouldn’t the Jackson version be a hell of a lot grimmer. "Yes, here’s the Macaulay Culkin suite where as you can see he covered the walls with lots of pictures of young boys, oh, all those hidden bottles of alcohol and stashes of porn, ignore them, now onto the Shirley Temple shrine…great!"
London seems to be coming up with it’s own organic tribute to the man with his music being played sporadically through out the sun baked city. Every now and then a car passes, blasting some disco classic and everybody feels like they’re in a scene from "Fame", like the city itself is having a seventies moment. So girls flick your hair for Farrah and grab your own Ryan O Neill, (because every boy secretly thinks they can do a mean Billie Jean) and celebrate the summer, the heat wave and being happy and healthy, and a golden time before everything started getting weird, broken and sad.
While she never had an iconic film role after Angels, her place in popular history was guaranteed with her legendary swimsuit poster, the biggest selling of all time that seemed to sum up the spirit of the seventies. Like a silent movie actress, Farrah, all toothy smile, tumbling hair and lean tanned limbs captured, confident,optimistic youth itself; healthy, happy, as sexy and joyous as a summer’s day. She wanted to finally marry Ryan on her death bed, the star she first started dating when the two were at the height of their blonde seventies pin up fame but sadly ran out of time and never regained consciousness.
Back at camp Jackson, because Michael’s still dead, and will be dead for as long as tabloids can wring front covers from the story, it’s been suggested that Michael Jackson’s children may not be his biological offspring. Yes that’s right, the great blond haired, white skinned elephant in the corner has been acknowledged; not only do his children look nothing like the late King of Pop, they look like they’re from an entirely different ethnic gene pool. In a further Virginia Andrews style twist to the tale, it’s also been suggested that Debbie Rowe, Jackson’s former nurse and wife may not even be the children’s biological mother but rather acted as a surrogate womb for anonymously donated sperm and egg. In Martin Bashir’s interview with Michael the star talked about their birth in the same way you or I would describe picking something up at Argos. The babies were born, he cut the umbilical cord and then literally, by his own admission, he ran out of the hospital. When a shocked Bashir asked when the mother got to finally meet her newborn child, Jackson, waffled, did a few verbal moonwalks and swiftly changed the subject.
It’s been suggested that Neverland will be soon turned into a sort of Graceland, a Michael interpretive centre if you will, for his legions of dedicated fans. Which sounds lovely until you remember that Neverland was also the scene of the alleged child abuse that ravaged his career and reputation. Surely turning a house where several young boys claimed to be groomed and sexually assaulted into a tourist attraction may seem to some as bad taste. Where as tourists visiting Elvis’s pad can marvel at the Jungle room where he swung with his entourage and giggling groupies, wouldn’t the Jackson version be a hell of a lot grimmer. "Yes, here’s the Macaulay Culkin suite where as you can see he covered the walls with lots of pictures of young boys, oh, all those hidden bottles of alcohol and stashes of porn, ignore them, now onto the Shirley Temple shrine…great!"
London seems to be coming up with it’s own organic tribute to the man with his music being played sporadically through out the sun baked city. Every now and then a car passes, blasting some disco classic and everybody feels like they’re in a scene from "Fame", like the city itself is having a seventies moment. So girls flick your hair for Farrah and grab your own Ryan O Neill, (because every boy secretly thinks they can do a mean Billie Jean) and celebrate the summer, the heat wave and being happy and healthy, and a golden time before everything started getting weird, broken and sad.
Friday, 26 June 2009
RIP Michael Jackson
Where were you when you found out the King of Pop had moon walked to that great fairground in the sky? It’s bizarre to think that Michael Jackson is dead. It’s a bit like learning that Mickey Mouse just died in a car accident or that Peter Pan passed away after a short illness. It’s baffling, the brain contracts as you try to imagine the two ideas in the same sentence, then you realise the problem, you had forgotten that Michael Jackson was actually real. He wasn’t from a cartoon or a character from a film you used to like in the eighties but an actual human being. He had morphed into a brand, a piece of pop culture, like a McDonald’s Happy Meal, you’d be forgiven for forgetting he had a heart, let alone one that could stop beating.
What are truly sad are the clips of the young Michael being shown on the news, the innocence, the desperate need to please. The jittery energy that at the time was endearing now seems unnerving and slightly haunting. In light of the physical and mental abuse we now know he was suffering from his father and the odd unsettling life we know lay in front of him, this image of the smiling big eyed boy manically singing for our entertainment is disquieting and slightly chilling. What a sad, lonely life the whoop, bopping boy had ahead of him, eventually dying exiled from his Neverland, in a rented house, attempting to revive a disgraced career with comeback gigs he was physically incapable of, exploited as ruthlessly is his fragile last days as he was in his younger years. In a career that soared from the sublime sound of Mowtown, swooped over the shameful era of black artists boycotted by MTV and ended in an America with a Black President in the Whitehouse, Jackson’s life bridged two different worlds.
Michael, the first black artist to play on MTV, was the African American male Middle America would let date their daughter. He was bland, he was safe he wasn’t the scary Blackman they saw on the news, huddled at the gates with an angry look in their eye. Instead of the intimidating alpha machismo of the racist stereotype he was an effete, high pitched androgynous No-Where man. In an America and Britain still reeling from race riots he was safe halfway between black and white, male and female, adult and child. It was this willingness to blend in, to acquiesce, that made him acceptable and paved the way for other black artists who would never have to dream of such compromises.
Michal could be seen as the personification of the American dream gone rotten. The soul, the sweat, the heart of the early Jackson Five magic, gradually morphing into the slickly produced mainstream pop of Reagan’s eighties, till Michael’s creativity became lost in a blizzard of expensive videos, overproduced emptiness and the soul corroding oblivion of spend spend spending. His music was the sound track for the "Greed is Good" eighties, buy Michael, buy Pepsi, buy America, buy happiness, and just as the banks and the dream of unrestricted consumption collapses around us Michael their poster boy dies frail, feeble, and broken, like the personification of the dream the decade he dominated promised.
He’ll be remembered as Michael the pop icon, the music, the videos, the money but that little boy dancing for our pleasure, what became of him?. What happens to the soul of a man who is never told no, who’s every whim is indulged, encouraged and sated, who spends an adult life never having to deal with consequences, responsibilities even morals because he is making the people around him so much money. The dark, disturbing excesses a human being is capable of descending to was glimpsed during the accusations of child abuse that money and expensive lawyers silenced. His life turned into a cautionary gothic fable about what happens when one’s every wish and desire is granted, the result is unsettling, horrifying and disturbing.
In The portrait of Dorian Grey, the anti-hero’s record of madness and excess is revealed in a hidden portrait in an attic; Michael Jackson wore the consequences of his life unchecked on his horrifically butchered, betrayed face. It is a portrait for our times, of what happens when you sell everything and know the value of nothing. His face became a grinning skull of an empty man and empty generation who sold their soul a long time ago.
What are truly sad are the clips of the young Michael being shown on the news, the innocence, the desperate need to please. The jittery energy that at the time was endearing now seems unnerving and slightly haunting. In light of the physical and mental abuse we now know he was suffering from his father and the odd unsettling life we know lay in front of him, this image of the smiling big eyed boy manically singing for our entertainment is disquieting and slightly chilling. What a sad, lonely life the whoop, bopping boy had ahead of him, eventually dying exiled from his Neverland, in a rented house, attempting to revive a disgraced career with comeback gigs he was physically incapable of, exploited as ruthlessly is his fragile last days as he was in his younger years. In a career that soared from the sublime sound of Mowtown, swooped over the shameful era of black artists boycotted by MTV and ended in an America with a Black President in the Whitehouse, Jackson’s life bridged two different worlds.
Michael, the first black artist to play on MTV, was the African American male Middle America would let date their daughter. He was bland, he was safe he wasn’t the scary Blackman they saw on the news, huddled at the gates with an angry look in their eye. Instead of the intimidating alpha machismo of the racist stereotype he was an effete, high pitched androgynous No-Where man. In an America and Britain still reeling from race riots he was safe halfway between black and white, male and female, adult and child. It was this willingness to blend in, to acquiesce, that made him acceptable and paved the way for other black artists who would never have to dream of such compromises.
Michal could be seen as the personification of the American dream gone rotten. The soul, the sweat, the heart of the early Jackson Five magic, gradually morphing into the slickly produced mainstream pop of Reagan’s eighties, till Michael’s creativity became lost in a blizzard of expensive videos, overproduced emptiness and the soul corroding oblivion of spend spend spending. His music was the sound track for the "Greed is Good" eighties, buy Michael, buy Pepsi, buy America, buy happiness, and just as the banks and the dream of unrestricted consumption collapses around us Michael their poster boy dies frail, feeble, and broken, like the personification of the dream the decade he dominated promised.
He’ll be remembered as Michael the pop icon, the music, the videos, the money but that little boy dancing for our pleasure, what became of him?. What happens to the soul of a man who is never told no, who’s every whim is indulged, encouraged and sated, who spends an adult life never having to deal with consequences, responsibilities even morals because he is making the people around him so much money. The dark, disturbing excesses a human being is capable of descending to was glimpsed during the accusations of child abuse that money and expensive lawyers silenced. His life turned into a cautionary gothic fable about what happens when one’s every wish and desire is granted, the result is unsettling, horrifying and disturbing.
In The portrait of Dorian Grey, the anti-hero’s record of madness and excess is revealed in a hidden portrait in an attic; Michael Jackson wore the consequences of his life unchecked on his horrifically butchered, betrayed face. It is a portrait for our times, of what happens when you sell everything and know the value of nothing. His face became a grinning skull of an empty man and empty generation who sold their soul a long time ago.
Wednesday, 17 June 2009
Gordon Ramsey is a cock
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a lazy writer in need of a good opening line can always rely on a bit of Austen. Luckily for me, it also a truth universally acknowledged that a celebrity in need of some publicity is also in need of a good celebrity scrap, so that’s alright then
. From the first nudge lining up for nursery to the full blown Venetian court of intrigue that is secondary school, a bit of "did you hear what she said about you" a little drop of "I shouldn’t say this but" has always been relished. It’s natural, it’s healthy, it’s good. That’s why I cheered at news that "rivals" Cheryl Cole and Dannii Minouge are to be reunited for the next series of "X Factor" with pay disputes adding fuel to the acrylic fire. Dannii has reportedly only signed for the next show if she got paid the same amount as the Girls Aloud star and Cheryl is reportedly fuming that her social inferior is earning as much her. Watching them fight over their relative status is endearing, like watching two toddlers scrap over a favourite blanket. Since their role on the show seems to be nodding blankly and trying to look concerned at the sad bits, I’m surprised they don’t just pay them their bus travel and lunch in the canteen. Has anybody in the entire history of the planet ever lost sleep wondering what Dannii Minouge thinks of them and I include Dannii’s family and ex husband in this, let alone considered her pearls of wisdom worth a reported half a million pounds? There are judges in Texas that don’t earn that and they have the power to give the death penalty. Actually maybe, that is the excitng new change to the format Simon Cowell has been hinting act. I can see it now, Cheryl, blinking back the tears as she reveals "Sorry, I love you but I’m going to have to put you down babes" as the contestant slowly walks towards the lethal injection room with Leona Lewis belting out "Run" in the background, I would watch that.
Of course, I hope that they genuinely do loath each other rather than it being another dreary publicity stunt and way of pitching women against each other yet again. Piers Morgan and Simon Cowell can work together and be mates but whenever two women are in the room together we assume they’re plotting each others down fall like bad Jackie Collins characters, It’s reported that the show’s producers are terrified of the pair bumping into each other behind the scenes. That’s right, not worried, not a bit concerned that it might be a bit wierd, they live in actual terror of such an event unfurling. Much like the simmering tension of the Cuban Missile crisis, or maybe the knawing forboding of trench live in World War One, that’s what X Factor producers live with every time these two women enter the same building. Age shall not waery them , or years condemn, those brave brave media men and women.
However, if there is a genuine Alexis Colby/ Krystal Carrington style malevolence between the two I demand to see that on air. Cut the boring singing bit and just have lots of shots of the girls tapping their acrylic nails and glaring at each other. Or maybe they could have their own ITV2 costume drama spin off series where they could sit stiffly beside each other like two Oscar Wilde heroines, but with better tans, trading witty barbs while delicately drinking tea. "When I see a spade, I call it a spade Cheryl" "Well when I see it a spade, I telll it how amazing I think it is Dannii" They could call it "The Importance of Being Orange".
Speaking of Australia (because we were just then kind of for a minute…stay with me) Gordon Ramsey has been causing a stir down under after a misguided attack on Tracey Grimshaw, one of the countries most respected broadcasters. After appearing on her show to publicise his tour, he launched a vicious and bizarre attack , comparing her to a pig and suggesting she was a lesbian. Refreshingly for a place that is often portrayed as what would happen if a can of Foster mutated into a country, the response was distinctly unimpressed. Akin to some foreigner arriving on our shores and slagging off dear Fern Britton (even with her endless weight loss stories ,you’ve lost weight, we get it,stop talking about it ,my brain hurts) the country rose up with such anger that the countries Prime Minister issued a statement defending her and condemning the TV chefs remarks. Which is wonderful, akin to Gordon Brown arriving at Fern’s doorstep and bowing "Madam, Recent Celeb magazines have gone too far, I fear you have been insulted, you have my sword my Lady". The lady in question responded by voicing her surprise since when she interviewed him, she never mentioned his alleged affair, the dodgy lies in his recent auto biography or his recent bankruptcy, thus neatly publicising all those very same things. Moronic Ramsey issued a swift apology, game, set, match, I would think. The message being, when it comes to a war of words, mess with an angry woman at your peril, something Jane Austen knew, Cheryl and Dannii know and Gordon Ramsey is slowly finding out.
. From the first nudge lining up for nursery to the full blown Venetian court of intrigue that is secondary school, a bit of "did you hear what she said about you" a little drop of "I shouldn’t say this but" has always been relished. It’s natural, it’s healthy, it’s good. That’s why I cheered at news that "rivals" Cheryl Cole and Dannii Minouge are to be reunited for the next series of "X Factor" with pay disputes adding fuel to the acrylic fire. Dannii has reportedly only signed for the next show if she got paid the same amount as the Girls Aloud star and Cheryl is reportedly fuming that her social inferior is earning as much her. Watching them fight over their relative status is endearing, like watching two toddlers scrap over a favourite blanket. Since their role on the show seems to be nodding blankly and trying to look concerned at the sad bits, I’m surprised they don’t just pay them their bus travel and lunch in the canteen. Has anybody in the entire history of the planet ever lost sleep wondering what Dannii Minouge thinks of them and I include Dannii’s family and ex husband in this, let alone considered her pearls of wisdom worth a reported half a million pounds? There are judges in Texas that don’t earn that and they have the power to give the death penalty. Actually maybe, that is the excitng new change to the format Simon Cowell has been hinting act. I can see it now, Cheryl, blinking back the tears as she reveals "Sorry, I love you but I’m going to have to put you down babes" as the contestant slowly walks towards the lethal injection room with Leona Lewis belting out "Run" in the background, I would watch that.
Of course, I hope that they genuinely do loath each other rather than it being another dreary publicity stunt and way of pitching women against each other yet again. Piers Morgan and Simon Cowell can work together and be mates but whenever two women are in the room together we assume they’re plotting each others down fall like bad Jackie Collins characters, It’s reported that the show’s producers are terrified of the pair bumping into each other behind the scenes. That’s right, not worried, not a bit concerned that it might be a bit wierd, they live in actual terror of such an event unfurling. Much like the simmering tension of the Cuban Missile crisis, or maybe the knawing forboding of trench live in World War One, that’s what X Factor producers live with every time these two women enter the same building. Age shall not waery them , or years condemn, those brave brave media men and women.
However, if there is a genuine Alexis Colby/ Krystal Carrington style malevolence between the two I demand to see that on air. Cut the boring singing bit and just have lots of shots of the girls tapping their acrylic nails and glaring at each other. Or maybe they could have their own ITV2 costume drama spin off series where they could sit stiffly beside each other like two Oscar Wilde heroines, but with better tans, trading witty barbs while delicately drinking tea. "When I see a spade, I call it a spade Cheryl" "Well when I see it a spade, I telll it how amazing I think it is Dannii" They could call it "The Importance of Being Orange".
Speaking of Australia (because we were just then kind of for a minute…stay with me) Gordon Ramsey has been causing a stir down under after a misguided attack on Tracey Grimshaw, one of the countries most respected broadcasters. After appearing on her show to publicise his tour, he launched a vicious and bizarre attack , comparing her to a pig and suggesting she was a lesbian. Refreshingly for a place that is often portrayed as what would happen if a can of Foster mutated into a country, the response was distinctly unimpressed. Akin to some foreigner arriving on our shores and slagging off dear Fern Britton (even with her endless weight loss stories ,you’ve lost weight, we get it,stop talking about it ,my brain hurts) the country rose up with such anger that the countries Prime Minister issued a statement defending her and condemning the TV chefs remarks. Which is wonderful, akin to Gordon Brown arriving at Fern’s doorstep and bowing "Madam, Recent Celeb magazines have gone too far, I fear you have been insulted, you have my sword my Lady". The lady in question responded by voicing her surprise since when she interviewed him, she never mentioned his alleged affair, the dodgy lies in his recent auto biography or his recent bankruptcy, thus neatly publicising all those very same things. Moronic Ramsey issued a swift apology, game, set, match, I would think. The message being, when it comes to a war of words, mess with an angry woman at your peril, something Jane Austen knew, Cheryl and Dannii know and Gordon Ramsey is slowly finding out.
Watch your bag, Lohan is about...
How much fun would it be to Lindsay Lohan’s best friend? Very fun. As much fun as walking into a crowded communal kitchen at work , opening up the fridge and using milk that does not belong to you, that’s how much fun. If you were ever bored, you could just pick up the phone give the erstwhile movie star a little tingle and enjoy the free entertainment of living vicariously through her life for the next half hour or so. You might never have to leave your house again, secure in the knowledge that you had a pretty good idea what falling asleep in your own hair matted vomit was like anyway.In the last six months Lindsay has split from her girlfriend/ stabilising influence Sam Ronson, lost half her body weight, turned to night club appearances as a way of raising cash and been accused of international diamond fraud. It sure beats the usual, oh you know, busy, fine, just working really…
The Freaky Friday star ( Do you remember? Ages ago, Jamie Lee Curtis was in it I think) was in London recently to take part in a photo shoot wearing Dior diamonds for Elle magazine (pay attention to this bit, like a good episode of Murder She Wrote, it’s importance will be revealed later). This sojourn in London coincided with a series of night club appearances her ex Sam Ronson was making in the city .Maybe it was a trip to London Dungeons, maybe it was a tour on an open top tour bus but something about the city worked some magic and now the pair are together again. They are back as each other’s top friends on Myspace, which is to a certain age group,is as good as engaged, and are returning to Hollywood in love. Unfortunately, Lohan is not returning with much else as her wild behaviour has made her virtually unemployable in the City of Angels. Lindsay Lohan is to annoying people what Susan Boyle is to singing Elaine Page songs and going a bit mad. The Herbie star ( do you remember? Herbie: Reloaded, ages ago, marked the sad day Matt Dillon was not longer fanciable) and has managed to annoy most of Hollywood, which is a pretty big achievement considering this is a town that still employs Russell Crowe . Back in her glory days, when she mixed some acting in with being photographed without her knickers ( who hasn’t gone commando once?Come on, I know I have but then I had just wet my pants and I was at primary school and I was five), she managed to be so obnoxiously disruptive on the set of "A Prairie Home Companion"( No sorry, not a clue) that the films producers sent a public letter to her lambasting her for her irresponsible behaviour. Yes, even Hollywood, the industry that glamorises guns, mainly produces movies based on comic books and is responsible for us knowing who Pauly Shore is, told Lindsay to grow up. She now resorts to public appearances in nightclubs and various fashion and business sidelines to raise cash. Have you ever opened your wardrobe and thought, damn what I really want to wear are some overpriced leggings, where are they, where are my Lindsay Lohan leggings? Have I left them with my Mischa Barton tank top in my "yer one from Dawson’s Creek" overnight bag- damnit my date with Tod is tonight! There’s also Lindsay fake tan, which from a pale freckly red head takes guts if nothing else.
It’s enough to turn a girl desperate, which brings us back to the Mean Girl’s photoshoot in Islington last month. The diamonds have gone missing, Dior are furious, Elle are embarrased and Lindsay is in LA. Freckles (her possible prison name prehaps?) has a history of forgetting to return the clothes on fashion shoots, and along with her convictions for drink driving , drug possesion and the stints in rehab, is barred from wearing certain fashion lines due to her absent minded fingers. What a gal, she’s like an Elizabeth Taylor on street crack. Don’t worry Li Lo, give Jessica Fletcher a dingle she’ll clear your name.The whole affair all like some big Hollywood movie, with the big obvious difference being of course that Lindsay Lohan is in it.
The Freaky Friday star ( Do you remember? Ages ago, Jamie Lee Curtis was in it I think) was in London recently to take part in a photo shoot wearing Dior diamonds for Elle magazine (pay attention to this bit, like a good episode of Murder She Wrote, it’s importance will be revealed later). This sojourn in London coincided with a series of night club appearances her ex Sam Ronson was making in the city .Maybe it was a trip to London Dungeons, maybe it was a tour on an open top tour bus but something about the city worked some magic and now the pair are together again. They are back as each other’s top friends on Myspace, which is to a certain age group,is as good as engaged, and are returning to Hollywood in love. Unfortunately, Lohan is not returning with much else as her wild behaviour has made her virtually unemployable in the City of Angels. Lindsay Lohan is to annoying people what Susan Boyle is to singing Elaine Page songs and going a bit mad. The Herbie star ( do you remember? Herbie: Reloaded, ages ago, marked the sad day Matt Dillon was not longer fanciable) and has managed to annoy most of Hollywood, which is a pretty big achievement considering this is a town that still employs Russell Crowe . Back in her glory days, when she mixed some acting in with being photographed without her knickers ( who hasn’t gone commando once?Come on, I know I have but then I had just wet my pants and I was at primary school and I was five), she managed to be so obnoxiously disruptive on the set of "A Prairie Home Companion"( No sorry, not a clue) that the films producers sent a public letter to her lambasting her for her irresponsible behaviour. Yes, even Hollywood, the industry that glamorises guns, mainly produces movies based on comic books and is responsible for us knowing who Pauly Shore is, told Lindsay to grow up. She now resorts to public appearances in nightclubs and various fashion and business sidelines to raise cash. Have you ever opened your wardrobe and thought, damn what I really want to wear are some overpriced leggings, where are they, where are my Lindsay Lohan leggings? Have I left them with my Mischa Barton tank top in my "yer one from Dawson’s Creek" overnight bag- damnit my date with Tod is tonight! There’s also Lindsay fake tan, which from a pale freckly red head takes guts if nothing else.
It’s enough to turn a girl desperate, which brings us back to the Mean Girl’s photoshoot in Islington last month. The diamonds have gone missing, Dior are furious, Elle are embarrased and Lindsay is in LA. Freckles (her possible prison name prehaps?) has a history of forgetting to return the clothes on fashion shoots, and along with her convictions for drink driving , drug possesion and the stints in rehab, is barred from wearing certain fashion lines due to her absent minded fingers. What a gal, she’s like an Elizabeth Taylor on street crack. Don’t worry Li Lo, give Jessica Fletcher a dingle she’ll clear your name.The whole affair all like some big Hollywood movie, with the big obvious difference being of course that Lindsay Lohan is in it.
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