Robbed of Truth

Last weekend on ITV's The X Factor live show, guest artist was Robbie Williams, mentoring the hopefuls and performing his comeback single Bodies.

The so-called mentoring was what it always is, a few glib by-the-book offerings about making the song your own, being true to the lyrics and the melody etc, keenly absorbed by sad little wannabes with their tongues hanging out.

Then came Robbie's eagerly-awaited appearance on the live show itself. Chatting onstage afterwards to host Dermot 'Never Seen with a Woman but I'm Not a Poof' O'Leary, Williams appeared to be off his face on some stimulant or another. It was impossible to miss, probably because Rob was doing what celebrities do, pulling out all the stops in an effort to ramp up publicity.

But it worked, since the public are clowns and the press are always ready to feed the alligators.

After a day's speculation about Rob's high-as-a-kite demeanour, the newspapers went on to convey the official excuse. Robbie had been nervous about his first foray into the spotlight for years. Then when it came time to perform his new song, the stage door failed on him, and he had to use brute strength (his words, not mine) to force open the pesky door and begin his set.

Hence, as he and the sycophantic O'Leary chewed the fat, Williams looked as though he'd just been chased up a hillside by an outraged grizzly bear.

I laugh when I imagine the oh-for-fuck's-sake faces of Simon Cowell and co, when Robbie showed up buzzed. I laugh even more at the cringemaking bullshit stuck-door scenario they cooked up at short notice.

The rest of the show was shite, by the way. I'd love to shag Stacy Solomon, though.

Oh! And this week's X Factor controversy was Whitney Houston's (or Euston, as Dermot likes to call her) wardrobe malfunction. She bust a strap on her dress. Wow. And producer Clive Davis received an orgasmic response from the studio audience, despite none of them having heard of him.


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Bag o' Shite!

Last week, not very far from where I live and blog, a generous donation to a charity shop sparked a minor sensation.

The Cancer Research UK store in Pitlochry, Perthshire, came by an extraordinary item. A genuine and good-as-new Hermes 'Kelly' - as in Grace Kelly - handbag, accessory of the rich and famous, retailing for £2000 or more.

Unsurprisingly, the charity shop's manager, Mary Butchart, was inundated with every-five-minutes telephone queries about the bag. Is the rumour true? Is the bag real? How much? Who donated it? What else did they leave behind?

There were attempts at queue-jumping too, a la my-wife-has-cancer-she'd-simply-adore-such-a-bag. One word - cringe! In the end, the bag was sold to an unnamed customer for an undisclosed four-figure sum.

It seems generous locals regularly donate expensive garments and accessories, but the Hermes superbag took everyone by surprise.

I'm a little suspicious, though. A bag worth thousands, still bearing its snob-bait store tags, turns up in a backwoods charity shop? Hmmm. I suspect this might be a stunt carried out by a university faculty somewhere. A sociology/psychology experiment. Throw a tasty morsel in a small pond and study the feeding frenzy.

As for the bag itself, its design dates from the Thirties, and it shows. Less than eye-catching, unless of course you're a shallow fashion slave, and have more money than sense.

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Gatelygate

Boyzone's Stephen Gately died earlier this week, at his holiday home in Majorca, aged just 33.

Details were scant at first, but it was quickly announced that Gately had choked on vomit in his sleep, following an hours-long booze binge. Also at the apartment were Gately's other half, Andrew Cowles, and a third man, a Bulgarian student the couple had encountered at a club, and who found Gately's body in the morning.

Soon afterwards, we learned that the singer/actor's death had been attributed - by the Gately family mouthpiece - to the convenient catch-all 'natural causes.'

There's the big contradiction. Natural causes. Did Mother Nature pour booze down Stephen Gately's neck all night, then conspire to choke him as he slept?

Moir in the Mire

The star's death was all over the news, of course, and one particular article whipped up a storm. For the Daily Mail, Jan Moir tackled the story in her Femail column. Her piece, entitled A Strange, Lonely and Troubling Death... rather than simply echo the rhetoric found elsewhere, questioned the verity of reports that Gately's death had been in any way natural. The piece ended: Healthy and fit 33-year-old men do not just climb into their pyjamas and fall asleep on the sofa, never to wake up again.

Indeed they do not.

Still, no sooner was Moir's article in the public domain, than she was pelted from all directions, by fellow journalists and know-nothing web wannabes alike. Sickening, disgusting, disgraceful, inappropriate, homophobic, gay-hater, bitch, so-called journalist... ad nauseum. I wonder how many of the detractors had bothered to read the article.

The namecalling listed above has a very familiar ring to it. These are the buzzwords of the liberal left media, and of the generations of drones whose 'opinions' are spoonfed to them by the liberal left media. It is widely supposed that our media output reflects the general sweep of public opinion, and is therefore right and good. I think not. Rather, for God only knows how long, the opposite has been true. Our opinions are not our own, they have been shaped very deliberately, carefully and methodically through newspapers, television, and now the Internet. Make no mistake, the egg came before the chicken, and the tail is wagging the dog.

Aren't They Curious?

I can't speak for the Gatelys, but if my son had died suddenly overseas, apparently asphyxiated, in the presence of a virtual stranger, I wouldn't be content to believe, and to let the public believe, that no further probing was necessary, content to draw the natural-causes line under the matter, bring him home and bury him. Perhaps it's an Irish Catholic thing, outward appearances are paramount. Who knows.

No-one else seems to be troubled by the mystery either. They're too busy hurling insults at Jan Moir.

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Menace No More

On the same day, news reports that comic favourite Dennis the Menace has been emasculated by the BBC, and Lycra swimming trunks have been banned from Alton Towers.

Dennis first, and Beeb bosses have pulled his teeth big-time for a new animated series to be shown on CBeebies. Gone are his catapult, pea-shooter and other tools of death, in favour of alternative 'mayhem,' like turning dogs into cleaning machines.

I used to collect issues of The Beano as a kid. Back then, it seemed a big deal that both it and The Dandy were published right here in my hometown Dundee. I loved the bright colours, odd characters, and the innocent fun.

Yes, innocent. Dennis, his friends Curly and Pie Face, and dog Gnasher, spent their days harassing neighbourhood wuss Walter and his fellow 'softies'. Walter and Co. were routinely soaked, painted, tarred and feathered, that sort of thing. They asked for it by wearing bow ties, being teacher's pets, and indulging in girly pastimes like flower-pressing.

I don't remember any real violence. So far as I know, Walter was never beaten up, gang-raped or robbed at knife point. Dennis' pea-shooter stung softy bottoms, his catapult might have broken the odd window or knocked off a teacher's hat, but that's as nasty as he got.

Indeed, The Beano and The Dandy were subject to ridicule from near-the-knuckle adult comic Viz, which poked fun at the kiddie comics' comparative innocence. Viz even came up with its own spoof versions of publisher DC Thomson's heroes.

DC are Not Amused

Thomson didn't see the funny side, threatening legal action over a number of Viz characters, like Wanker Watson (a nastier incarnation of The Dandy's Winker) and Biffa Bacon (Bully Beef). So presumably now they have no problem with the Beeb's tinkering.

Not to be outdone, Viz created a new character: DC Thomson, the Humourless Scottish Git.

Starter for Ten

I doubt that the Dennis debacle will be the last of the screwing around with comic characters who make it to the small or big screen. Maybe in years to come, Minnie the Minx will appear on kids' television sporting a yashmak then later a burqa. Or perhaps Scrapper will see the error of his ways, leaving Beanotown for a new life as a UN peacekeeper. Danny's Tranny will return as Danny is a Tranny, letting little boys know that crossdressing or gender reassignment is always an option.

Beano may even change its name after 70 years. After all, a beano is a beanfeast, sometimes known as a jolly boys' outing, which is sexist and disgraceful.

Stretching Credibilty

Speaking of disgrace, the powers that be at family theme park Alton Towers, have slapped a ban on Lycra swimming trunks, citing that they are too revealing, and that they may frighten children. Yeah, sure thing. Nemesis - no sweat! Oblivion - piece of piss! Man in trunks - oh shit, there goes the neighbourhood.

How long have men been wearing Lycra trunks? Years and years. How many kids have been traumatised by the sight of them? None. Any complaints must have come from parents whom, instead of enjoying a day out, were looking out for things to get uptight about.

In any case, what does 'revealing' mean? So long as a man's trunks aren't see-through, and the mouse stays in the house, who gives a shit?

The story was treated as a smirky sidebar on this evening's TV news, but to me it's no joke. It's more boiling-frog bullshit, something else we mustn't do.

What's it gonna take before the public wakes up and gets angry?

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Vincible

Yes, shock of shocks, Michael Jackson - Wacko Jacko, the King of Pop, the biggest star of his generation and arguably of all time - has moonwalked off this mortal coil. His heart stopped, and he was pronounced dead at 2.26pm Thursday, California time.

I was never a Jackson fan, too much of a kook for my taste, but I was just as gobsmacked as everyone else when I heard he'd died. Fifty years old.


My first thought was of a quote attributed to MJ over twenty years ago, wherein he stated that he'd like to be the first human ever to live for 150 years. Sorry that didn't work out for ya, Mike.

What Next?

It would be naive to think that the superstar's death marks the end of the Jacko saga. Now comes the inevitable surge in back-catalogue album sales. Then perhaps the revelation that Michael died intestate, followed by family infighting over who gets what.

More interesting is the possibility - a strong one in my opinion - that one or more of Jackson's famously devoted and now grieving fans, will go after Jordan Chandler, whose family pressed child molestation charges against Jackson in 1993. It was alleged that the singer had indulged in kissing and masturbation with the then 13-year-old boy.

Following months of legal and civil proceedings, and a media storm, the charges were dropped and the Chandlers were suddenly $22m richer. No-one but Jordan Chandler and Michael Jackson knows for sure whether there was any truth to the sex-abuse allegations, or if the plaintiffs were simply shaking Jackson down for money. Unfortunately, the episode is as much a part of Jacko's legacy as any of his achievements.

Pop Icon

In an era where the word iconic is woefully misused, that's what Michael Jackson was and is. He dominated the pop world throughout the Eighties, his record sales easily topping a half-billion. He was never out of the news for long. Sometimes the newspapers trumpeted his successes, more often his eccentricities. Unsurprisingly, he all but retired from public life, a virtual recluse. Still, it would be difficult to find a single person in the English-speaking world who has never heard his name.

Love him or loathe him, the world will be a duller place without Michael Jackson.


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Halt! Verboten!

Tory leader David Cameron stands accused of being unwise in affecting a German accent in public.

The so-called gaffe took place in Norwich on Monday evening, where Cameron was outlining his opposition to New Labour's national identity card scheme. Presumably likening the ID-card idea to the stuff of Hitler's Germany, he used the phrase Where are your papers? in a cartoon Germanic accent.

Then an audience member stated that she questioned the wisdom of his using a German accent.

LOL! What's German for Get a life! ?

Babies and bathwater. To anyone with a sense of humour (a great many Germans included, I'll wager), Cameron's Gestapo analogy was both relevant and funny. The woman at the Norwich event may simply be a nobody journalist, or a local politician trying to get noticed. In any case, her concerns are no more worthy than those of Lucie Kim, the idiot activist who sued Miley Cyrus for pulling a chink-eyes face while fooling around with friends.

Priorities

Damnit, look out of the window - the sun still shines, the Earth is still spinning. What's more important? Major Government policy decisions, or a few uppity individuals looking to score points against the Tories?

Reading about the Norwich meeting, I learned that the Conservatives have allied themselves to the right-wing Law and Justice party in Poland. I haven't read up on that lot yet, but any move away from lefty nonsense is a good thing in my book.


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Method for Mo

Veteran actress Julie Walters has decided to shave her head, to bring realism to her turn as deceased British politician Marjorie 'Mo' Mowlam.

Since Mowlam had a hand in brokering Northern Ireland's Good Friday Agreement, and since she's been brown-bread for a few years, someone has decided it's time to honour her memory and her achievements with a biopic.

And if said film makes a few quid, hey, all the better.

Mowlam's hair fell out at one point, following treatment for a brain tumour, and Mamma Mia star Walters, super trouper that she is, has opted to lose the locks instead of wearing a skullcap for the role.

So-called method actors get on my nerves. Walters getting a buzzcut to play a bald MP, DeNiro got fat to play a slob boxer, Dustin Hoffman took up jogging to play a jogger in Marathon Man, etc, etc...

For Christ's sake, it's called acting for a reason. Pretending makes it easier!

Maybe Julie Walters will do Long John Silver in panto this Christmas. Let's see if she'll saw off a leg and scoop out an eye. 'Cos it's all about realism.

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Unlucky, Kentucky!

A story from my neck of the woods.

Global fast-food chain Kentucky Fried Chicken has been dealt a legal blow by the small man. Well, woman.

Last month, lawyers representing KFC tried to warn off the Titanic Pizza Co, of Carnoustie (near Dundee, Scotland) who have a meal deal bearing the name Family Feast. The tiny takeaway pizzeria has offered a pizza-based Family Feast since 1992, two years before KFC registered its own Family Feast™ - but the US giant sought to put an end to what they saw as an infringement of their trademark.

Titanic's owner replied defiantly to KFC, who then agreed to drop their lawsuit threat, citing Titanic's limited use of the offending term.

Gloria Esposito of Titanic reckons KFC 'felt silly' when they realised how small her business is. I think not. Rather, I believe that such conglomerates' policy is to attempt to discourage anyone who, knowingly or otherwise, uses wording already trademarked by themselves.

From the litigant's point of view, what happens if they don't act? That's a precedent KFC does not wish to set.

Not the First Time

Speaking of precedents, in recent years, McDonald's Corp. attempted to force a Scots cafe owner to drop the Mc element from his family business name, despite said business having existed for a hundred years.

Again, I believe this is an example of a hard-and-fast rule being applied across the board. Makes a teeny bit of sense from the plaintiff's viewpoint, but is maddening for the little guy.

Finally, in the KFC/Titanic matter, I'd like to know how KFC learned of the existence of Titanic Pizza Co. Maybe some kiss-ass employee of a local KFC thought he/she could curry favour by e-mailing Head Office!

(picture shows Titanic staff celebrating victory with a special pizza)

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What the Foxx Going On!?

I pissed my pants just now, reading that Jamie Foxx fancies himself to play legendary crooner Frank Sinatra, in Martin Scorcese's planned biopic.

Hahahahahahaaaaaaaaarff!

Is this a joke? If so, it certainly nailed me! Either Hollywood is taking its Frankfurt School we're-all-the-same crap to new heights, or Jamie Foxx has been taking loony lessons from his egomaniac pal Kanye West.

The Yahoo article began reporting Leonardo DiCaprio's own bid for the Sinatra gig, Leo going so far as to hire a voice coach, hoping to replicate Old Blue Eyes' distinctive tones.

DiCaprio is of Italian stock, but there his resemblance to Sinatra abruptly ends. If he hopes to land the part, Leo will have to do three more things. First, go to a hack barber for a comedy combover. Second, have his feet sawn off and reattached, leaving him six inches shorter. Finally, have a friend smash his handsome face in with a steam iron.

Even without such method acting, he's still a better candidate than Jamie friggin' Foxx! LOL! That's gonna keep me going all day!

Now I'm off to audition for the lead in Spielberg's Martin Luther King flick.

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Wife and Death

Screen star Ryan O'Neal is keen to wed ailing fellow star and long-time lover Farrah Fawcett.

The Love Story actor and the Charlie's Angels icon have been together since 1982, and the couple have a son. Fawcett is known to have been fighting cancer since the autumn of 2006, news of her health alternating between a joyous all-clear, and speculation that she is dying.

Now O'Neal has stated that he would love to make the relationship official, ending with a noncommittal 'you never know'. Presumably Farrah is not so keen.

Precedent

O'Neal's apparent eagerness to make an honest woman of the perhaps-dying Fawcett, is not solely a Hollywood thing. In recent months here in the UK, chav reality star Jade Goody wed her boyfriend Jack Tweed in a rush ceremony, Goody dying from cancer weeks afterwards.

And, as a child in the Eighties, I recall Tony Booth's (father-in-law of former PM Tony Blair) bedside marriage to Pat Phoenix, who played Coronation Street legend Elsie Tanner. Phoenix was terminally ill at the time of their wedding.

Doubtless there have been many other such rushed nuptials, of the famous and not-so-famous, where one of the betrothed is not long for this world.

Why Bother?

So what's the motivation? Could be a bride's wish to fulfil her girlhood dream of being the blushing bride. Could simply be both bride and groom wallowing in sentimentality. Or could it be religious superstition? Impending mortality putting pressure on God-fearing lovers to do the right thing? Utter nonsense, of course, but then grief leads people to do all sorts.

Fawcett's illness is reminiscent of the plot of O'Neal's career-defining 1970 movie Love Story. His missus dies from cancer in that too.


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