Tabloid newspapers often publish pictures of attractive famous, semi-famous, infamous, someone we have never heard of women in skimpy outfits. No problems so far.
But would they please stop putting a quote from "an onlooker". Yesterday's News of the World's gossip column had a pic of Desperate Housewives star Nicollette Sheridan in a bikini. "An onlooker said: 'None of the guys could take their eyes off Nicollette.'" No, they didn't. We all know these are made-up so please stop insulting our intelligence.
Showing posts with label Media. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Media. Show all posts
Monday, 31 December 2007
Friday, 7 December 2007
Vicky does care...
At last - Vicky Beckham comes clean.
In an interview with the American edition of Elle, she says: "It became very obvious from the start that I was never going to be the best singer or the best dancer or the best actress. You know, I've never been that good at anything, to be completely honest."
You will find no one to disagree with you there, Vic.
However, she goes on to make one statement that I think is not quite as honest as the above. She says: "I don't give a fuck what anybody thinks."
I think she cares very much what people think - or she wouldn't have put on such a ridiculous front in the aftermath of her husband's affair with Rebecca Loos, all that rictus grinning and togetherness on the ski slopes.
Or was that just to protect the earning potential of Brand Beckham?
In an interview with the American edition of Elle, she says: "It became very obvious from the start that I was never going to be the best singer or the best dancer or the best actress. You know, I've never been that good at anything, to be completely honest."
You will find no one to disagree with you there, Vic.
However, she goes on to make one statement that I think is not quite as honest as the above. She says: "I don't give a fuck what anybody thinks."
I think she cares very much what people think - or she wouldn't have put on such a ridiculous front in the aftermath of her husband's affair with Rebecca Loos, all that rictus grinning and togetherness on the ski slopes.
Or was that just to protect the earning potential of Brand Beckham?
Friday, 12 October 2007
Stop the love-in
There are few people in the public eye now that can be described as "best-loved". In days gone by Britain's best-loved sitcom was Only Fools and Horses; best-loved magician Tommy Cooper; best-loved double act Morecambe and Wise and best-loved royal Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother.
Now people are liked rather than loved. Tolerated for a brief time until they are no longer wanted.
This doesn't stop publishers referring to "best-loved". I have already commented on Julian Clary who is not one of Britain's "best-loved entertainers" despite what his publishers may think.
Two more incidences arise. Richard Hammond is "one of Britain's best-love television presenters" and Graham McCann is apparently "Britain's best-loved showbiz writer".
This is plainly nonsense.
As with Clary, when was the last time you heard someone say, "We must watch telly tonight Richard Hammond's on"?
And Graham McCann is not "Britain's best-loved showbiz writer" for two simple reasons: one, Britain does not have a best-loved showbiz writer, and two, no one has ever heard of him.
Enough of the luvvieness.
Now people are liked rather than loved. Tolerated for a brief time until they are no longer wanted.
This doesn't stop publishers referring to "best-loved". I have already commented on Julian Clary who is not one of Britain's "best-loved entertainers" despite what his publishers may think.
Two more incidences arise. Richard Hammond is "one of Britain's best-love television presenters" and Graham McCann is apparently "Britain's best-loved showbiz writer".
This is plainly nonsense.
As with Clary, when was the last time you heard someone say, "We must watch telly tonight Richard Hammond's on"?
And Graham McCann is not "Britain's best-loved showbiz writer" for two simple reasons: one, Britain does not have a best-loved showbiz writer, and two, no one has ever heard of him.
Enough of the luvvieness.
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
Enough with the Elton John obsession
I like GQ. At the moment it is probably my favourite magazine. However, the obsession with Elton John in the November issue is wearing a little thin.
The edition celebrates the GQ Man of the Year Awards, a ceremony which was hosted by Elton John - so it is fair that he is mentioned there.
I am sure that Sir Elton is a very nice man. However, is it really necessary for Simon Kelner to tell us what "Elton and David's favourite restaurant" is during an interview with Christian Slater?
Or for Nick Foulkes to mention the singer several times in the opening paragraphs of his story about watches?
Frankly, I don't care where "Elton and David" eat. I couldn't give a monkey's about the "jeweller to the court of Sir Elton".
GQ is supposedly an aspirational mag for thirty- and fortysomethings. Sir Elton is in his sixties and rich beyond the dreams of avarice. More to the point, I believe that 90 per cent of the readers don't aspire to be like him... 
The edition celebrates the GQ Man of the Year Awards, a ceremony which was hosted by Elton John - so it is fair that he is mentioned there.
I am sure that Sir Elton is a very nice man. However, is it really necessary for Simon Kelner to tell us what "Elton and David's favourite restaurant" is during an interview with Christian Slater?
Or for Nick Foulkes to mention the singer several times in the opening paragraphs of his story about watches?
Frankly, I don't care where "Elton and David" eat. I couldn't give a monkey's about the "jeweller to the court of Sir Elton".
GQ is supposedly an aspirational mag for thirty- and fortysomethings. Sir Elton is in his sixties and rich beyond the dreams of avarice. More to the point, I believe that 90 per cent of the readers don't aspire to be like him...
Friday, 24 August 2007
The funniest piece on journalism I have read for a long time...
From: Gentleman Ranters
I knew Eric Wainwright
By Colin Dunne
Goodness knows, those 30-odd years in Fleet Street produced very little for me by way of achievement, fame or trophies. All I’ve got to show for it are a few divorce court appearances, arteries as congested as Shoe Lane, and a collection of anecdotes that can never be told. Why not? Because normal people would never believe them.
But I do have one claim to distinction of which I’m seriously proud, and it’s one that very few old Mirror men can make…
For I knew Eric Wainwright.
Oh yes, there are plenty who are familiar with the legend of Invisible Eric, the ghost of the Fourth Floor Features. But I doubt if any of them ever actually set eyes upon him. And fewer still who heard, first-hand, his explanation of why he found it necessary to wear his St James’s Street hat while seated upon the lavatory.
But I did. I knew him quite well. And his hat. And I’m glad I caught his show while it was still – just – in town.
It happened at a time in my life when I was obliged to spend Sunday mornings – and quite possibly bits of Saturday night – in the Holborn office. We do not need to go into the reasons. Some sort of domestic dislocation, I seem to recall – you know how difficult women can be. Anyway, after breakfast in the canteen, by mid-morning I’d be sitting with a coffee and the Sunday papers at my desk on the fourth-floor.
I always had it to myself. Until one morning when in bowled this dapper chap. Although clearly startled at having to share the room, he gave a jovial wave and sat down at a typewriter. The telephone rang. ‘No,’ he said, with complete conviction, ‘there’s no-one hear called Dunne.’
At this point, I thought it wise to introduce myself. He apologised for not knowing me. In fact, he didn’t seem to know anyone. ‘Who’s the features editor now?’ I said it was Bill Hagerty. ‘Is he a little blond chap with a moustache?’ I said no, he was a tallish dark chap with a clean upper lip. He nodded. ‘Bit out of touch these days,’ he said. ‘I try to keep out of the way.’
At that he was triumphantly successful. His contact with the office was his monthly visit, on a Sunday morning when the place was deserted, to do four weeks’ expenses.
A little cautiously, I said that I hadn’t seen his by-line recently. ‘No, old boy, haven’t had a piece in for six years.’ I murmured something about how upsetting it must be to have all that copy spiked. He looked at me as though I was insane. ‘Lord no, haven’t written anything for six years.’
At this point, we need a little history. In the mid-seventies, the Mirror features department had reached its zenith with a splendid one-way employment policy: new writers were shipped in, but no old writers went out. One idle day (there were about 342 a year) I counted the number of feature writers and gave up when I passed 40. They were a mixed bunch. Former girlfriends of long-gone editors, executives who’d forgotten what they were executing, columnists who’d misplaced their columns, foreign correspondents returned home, and some people who I think just came in for the warmth. There were even one or two who wrote features. This wasn’t encouraged.
Passing the time could be a problem. Some took to the drink. Some took to adultery. Some took to both, and not always in the right order. Don Walker set up a music stand and taught himself classical guitar. Paula James made restaurant reservations. George Thaw was Scottish all over the place. Don Gomery sighed a lot. Occasionally we’d move the desks and have a badminton tournament.
Several of the writers, like Eric, became no-shows. His sports jacket – Daks, of course – was left over his chair, so that if anyone asked for him we could say he’d popped out to the bank and we would ring the number he’d left. The number, someone said, was for a drinking club in Soho in which he was a partner. We never rang it. No-one ever asked for him.
Years slipped by, and he became a sort of invisible yet indestructible folk hero. Once he put in a memo asking to be made Pub Correspondent. Tony Miles, the editor, asked someone to check with accounts to see if he was still on the staff. He was. ‘What the hell does he do?’ Someone said he spent most of his time in pubs. ‘In that case,’ said Miles, ‘he might as well have the title.’ So he achieved his ambition, and, true to the last, he never wrote a story.
Mike Molloy once called a conference which was a must-attend for writers. Bars and bedrooms all over London emptied and by the time he’d begun, the room was packed. At that point in walked this distinguished figure with his rolled umbrella and perched himself at the front. Mike was saying the new policy was to attract young readers when Eric spoke. ‘Delightful little boozer just outside Guildford,’ he said. ‘Lots of young people in there. Shall I pop down and have a look?’ A minute later he’d gone. It remained one of the great unwritten stories of our time.
Over the months, I got to know him well. With his slick of silver hair, florid face and drawing-room accent, he was of a type that even then was rapidly running out of fashion. He was – there’s no other word for it – a gent: British warm overcoat, yellow chamois gloves and tightly-furled umbrella with a whangee handle, he was clearly an ex-officer from some smart regiment. Only he wasn’t.
The story was that he was a Canadian who’d come over here with the Canadian air force and stayed on. There were rumours of military heroics. At one time he’d made a living as a cartoonist (some of his cartoons were on the walls of the Stab). Even more incredibly, he’d dressed up as a huge, ugly, half-wit woman called Cynthia who was the silent stage stooge for a northern comedian called Hylda Baker. ‘She knows, y’know’, Hylda would say, elbowing Eric in the ribs.
It was the sort of CV that could only end one way - in the Mirror features department. Long before those Sunday morning meetings, he’d built up quite a name for doing first-person pieces under the by-line Danger Man. He was terrific. He rode a motor-bike through a hoop of fire. He went into a cage full of lions armed only with a chair. He even went to the photographers’ Christmas party… no, no, that was a joke, he wasn’t that crazy.
He was what he himself would have called a genial sort of cove. Full of good spirits, full of good stories. Around noon, he would slip over the Stab, and return a couple of hours later, even fuller of good spirits. He would slump down in his chair and ring all his friends around the world. Occasionally, the odd snippet would drift over to me, and what collectors’ items they were…
‘Yerrs, still got the same old place out in Bucks. Thatched roof, y’know. Trouble is, bloody squirrels in the thatch. Gnawed through the bloody water pipe. Drips through the ceiling. Bloody nuisance. Have to wear a hat when I’m on the lav.’
With the writer’s true eye for detail, Eric knew this required further definition. ‘Y’know,’ he said, ‘the one I got at Lock’s of St James’s.’
There were stories that in his younger days he was an accomplished pub fighter. Someone who once saw him in action said he used the pub furniture like they do in cowboy films. To me he was never anything other than charming, apart from the day Roy Harris upset him. Roy, who was, I think, deputy features editor, sat in on a Sunday, and when Eric presented his expenses, he ventured a mildly casual inquiry about one item. Eric was furious. He went immediately to the Stab. He stayed longer than usual. When he came back, he was purple with, among other things, rage. He asked my advice. What was the silliest story I’d ever done? A talking dog, I said. Where was the furthest point from the office? Land’s End. With finger-jabbing anger, he typed away, took it downstairs and slammed it down in front of Roy. It was for a trip to Land’s End to interview a talking dog. It involved well over a thousand miles’ travel, several overnights, lots of entertaining and taxis. All with no bills. The final, some might have said contemptuous, item was the one that caught Roy’s eye. ‘Bone for dog - £10.’
Roy, who was not a big man, shivered in the shadow of the figure looming over him. ‘Must have been a big bone,’ he whispered weakly.
Eric slammed his hand on the desk and roared: ‘It was fucking big dog.’
Roy’s signature fairly skidded over the paper.
Someone somewhere must have let me back in, because my Sunday mornings in the office came to an end. I missed them. I missed Eric. With him, I felt as though I was catching the last act of a wonderful long-running comedy.
About a year after I left the Mirror, Don Walker rang me up. I knew it was some sort of spoof because he was trying not to laugh. Eric was leaving, he said. They were having a farewell party for him. And would I go along because I was the only person who knew what he looked like.
Just me.
Sadly, Eric isn't around any more. Any more? What am I saying?
Colin Dunne was a Daily Mirror feature writer from 1968 to 1978 when he left to freelance and write books.
I knew Eric Wainwright
By Colin Dunne
Goodness knows, those 30-odd years in Fleet Street produced very little for me by way of achievement, fame or trophies. All I’ve got to show for it are a few divorce court appearances, arteries as congested as Shoe Lane, and a collection of anecdotes that can never be told. Why not? Because normal people would never believe them.
But I do have one claim to distinction of which I’m seriously proud, and it’s one that very few old Mirror men can make…
For I knew Eric Wainwright.
Oh yes, there are plenty who are familiar with the legend of Invisible Eric, the ghost of the Fourth Floor Features. But I doubt if any of them ever actually set eyes upon him. And fewer still who heard, first-hand, his explanation of why he found it necessary to wear his St James’s Street hat while seated upon the lavatory.
But I did. I knew him quite well. And his hat. And I’m glad I caught his show while it was still – just – in town.
It happened at a time in my life when I was obliged to spend Sunday mornings – and quite possibly bits of Saturday night – in the Holborn office. We do not need to go into the reasons. Some sort of domestic dislocation, I seem to recall – you know how difficult women can be. Anyway, after breakfast in the canteen, by mid-morning I’d be sitting with a coffee and the Sunday papers at my desk on the fourth-floor.
I always had it to myself. Until one morning when in bowled this dapper chap. Although clearly startled at having to share the room, he gave a jovial wave and sat down at a typewriter. The telephone rang. ‘No,’ he said, with complete conviction, ‘there’s no-one hear called Dunne.’
At this point, I thought it wise to introduce myself. He apologised for not knowing me. In fact, he didn’t seem to know anyone. ‘Who’s the features editor now?’ I said it was Bill Hagerty. ‘Is he a little blond chap with a moustache?’ I said no, he was a tallish dark chap with a clean upper lip. He nodded. ‘Bit out of touch these days,’ he said. ‘I try to keep out of the way.’
At that he was triumphantly successful. His contact with the office was his monthly visit, on a Sunday morning when the place was deserted, to do four weeks’ expenses.
A little cautiously, I said that I hadn’t seen his by-line recently. ‘No, old boy, haven’t had a piece in for six years.’ I murmured something about how upsetting it must be to have all that copy spiked. He looked at me as though I was insane. ‘Lord no, haven’t written anything for six years.’
At this point, we need a little history. In the mid-seventies, the Mirror features department had reached its zenith with a splendid one-way employment policy: new writers were shipped in, but no old writers went out. One idle day (there were about 342 a year) I counted the number of feature writers and gave up when I passed 40. They were a mixed bunch. Former girlfriends of long-gone editors, executives who’d forgotten what they were executing, columnists who’d misplaced their columns, foreign correspondents returned home, and some people who I think just came in for the warmth. There were even one or two who wrote features. This wasn’t encouraged.
Passing the time could be a problem. Some took to the drink. Some took to adultery. Some took to both, and not always in the right order. Don Walker set up a music stand and taught himself classical guitar. Paula James made restaurant reservations. George Thaw was Scottish all over the place. Don Gomery sighed a lot. Occasionally we’d move the desks and have a badminton tournament.
Several of the writers, like Eric, became no-shows. His sports jacket – Daks, of course – was left over his chair, so that if anyone asked for him we could say he’d popped out to the bank and we would ring the number he’d left. The number, someone said, was for a drinking club in Soho in which he was a partner. We never rang it. No-one ever asked for him.
Years slipped by, and he became a sort of invisible yet indestructible folk hero. Once he put in a memo asking to be made Pub Correspondent. Tony Miles, the editor, asked someone to check with accounts to see if he was still on the staff. He was. ‘What the hell does he do?’ Someone said he spent most of his time in pubs. ‘In that case,’ said Miles, ‘he might as well have the title.’ So he achieved his ambition, and, true to the last, he never wrote a story.
Mike Molloy once called a conference which was a must-attend for writers. Bars and bedrooms all over London emptied and by the time he’d begun, the room was packed. At that point in walked this distinguished figure with his rolled umbrella and perched himself at the front. Mike was saying the new policy was to attract young readers when Eric spoke. ‘Delightful little boozer just outside Guildford,’ he said. ‘Lots of young people in there. Shall I pop down and have a look?’ A minute later he’d gone. It remained one of the great unwritten stories of our time.
Over the months, I got to know him well. With his slick of silver hair, florid face and drawing-room accent, he was of a type that even then was rapidly running out of fashion. He was – there’s no other word for it – a gent: British warm overcoat, yellow chamois gloves and tightly-furled umbrella with a whangee handle, he was clearly an ex-officer from some smart regiment. Only he wasn’t.
The story was that he was a Canadian who’d come over here with the Canadian air force and stayed on. There were rumours of military heroics. At one time he’d made a living as a cartoonist (some of his cartoons were on the walls of the Stab). Even more incredibly, he’d dressed up as a huge, ugly, half-wit woman called Cynthia who was the silent stage stooge for a northern comedian called Hylda Baker. ‘She knows, y’know’, Hylda would say, elbowing Eric in the ribs.
It was the sort of CV that could only end one way - in the Mirror features department. Long before those Sunday morning meetings, he’d built up quite a name for doing first-person pieces under the by-line Danger Man. He was terrific. He rode a motor-bike through a hoop of fire. He went into a cage full of lions armed only with a chair. He even went to the photographers’ Christmas party… no, no, that was a joke, he wasn’t that crazy.
He was what he himself would have called a genial sort of cove. Full of good spirits, full of good stories. Around noon, he would slip over the Stab, and return a couple of hours later, even fuller of good spirits. He would slump down in his chair and ring all his friends around the world. Occasionally, the odd snippet would drift over to me, and what collectors’ items they were…
‘Yerrs, still got the same old place out in Bucks. Thatched roof, y’know. Trouble is, bloody squirrels in the thatch. Gnawed through the bloody water pipe. Drips through the ceiling. Bloody nuisance. Have to wear a hat when I’m on the lav.’
With the writer’s true eye for detail, Eric knew this required further definition. ‘Y’know,’ he said, ‘the one I got at Lock’s of St James’s.’
There were stories that in his younger days he was an accomplished pub fighter. Someone who once saw him in action said he used the pub furniture like they do in cowboy films. To me he was never anything other than charming, apart from the day Roy Harris upset him. Roy, who was, I think, deputy features editor, sat in on a Sunday, and when Eric presented his expenses, he ventured a mildly casual inquiry about one item. Eric was furious. He went immediately to the Stab. He stayed longer than usual. When he came back, he was purple with, among other things, rage. He asked my advice. What was the silliest story I’d ever done? A talking dog, I said. Where was the furthest point from the office? Land’s End. With finger-jabbing anger, he typed away, took it downstairs and slammed it down in front of Roy. It was for a trip to Land’s End to interview a talking dog. It involved well over a thousand miles’ travel, several overnights, lots of entertaining and taxis. All with no bills. The final, some might have said contemptuous, item was the one that caught Roy’s eye. ‘Bone for dog - £10.’
Roy, who was not a big man, shivered in the shadow of the figure looming over him. ‘Must have been a big bone,’ he whispered weakly.
Eric slammed his hand on the desk and roared: ‘It was fucking big dog.’
Roy’s signature fairly skidded over the paper.
Someone somewhere must have let me back in, because my Sunday mornings in the office came to an end. I missed them. I missed Eric. With him, I felt as though I was catching the last act of a wonderful long-running comedy.
About a year after I left the Mirror, Don Walker rang me up. I knew it was some sort of spoof because he was trying not to laugh. Eric was leaving, he said. They were having a farewell party for him. And would I go along because I was the only person who knew what he looked like.
Just me.
Sadly, Eric isn't around any more. Any more? What am I saying?
Colin Dunne was a Daily Mirror feature writer from 1968 to 1978 when he left to freelance and write books.
Monday, 13 August 2007
The truth about Madeleine McCann that no one dare speak
The elephant in the room in the McCann case is that, sadly, Madeleine is almost certainly dead and probably died a day or two after she was kidnapped.
The police know this, the press this and the McCanns must also know this.
The couple are both doctors, middle-class, educated and presumably not naive yet there are news reports today that they are annoyed that the police did not tell them that they (the police) think their daughter is no longer alive.
Although, obviously, they want to cling to a hope - however forlorn, that Madeline is alive, they must realise that that is not the case.
The police know this, the press this and the McCanns must also know this.
The couple are both doctors, middle-class, educated and presumably not naive yet there are news reports today that they are annoyed that the police did not tell them that they (the police) think their daughter is no longer alive.
Although, obviously, they want to cling to a hope - however forlorn, that Madeline is alive, they must realise that that is not the case.
Saturday, 28 April 2007
Headline writers' dreams come true
Tomorrow the headline writers can almost construct the famous headline:
"Small earthquake - no one dead"
"Small earthquake - no one dead"
Sunday, 1 April 2007
Wednesday, 28 March 2007
Reviewing the literary situation
Here is the first in an occasional series of reviews.
Bridget Harrison - Tabloid Love (Bantam, £6.99)
Bridget Harrison is fit, funny and feisty - unfortunately, she is in a city where those qualities are not admired by men.
Few people would have the guts to give up a good job, a fun social life and a lover they hoped to marry to move to almost the other side of the world.
Harrison did just that. She was 29 when decided to live out her fantasy as a reporter on the New York Post. She knew very few people in the country and had never actually worked as a reporter but that didn't deter her. One of her first outings was to a Pimps, Players, Playboys and Prostitutes party in Brooklyn where she copped off with a fellow guest despite her long-term boyfriend back in London. When Angus, the boyfriend, arrived for a visit, Harrison knew the magic had gone and soon she was alone, trying to snag a boyfriend in a city when there are half a million more eligible women than men.
She went on dozens of dates in her search for Mr Perfect with hilarious results. One told her that she could look good if only she would make the effort. Another told her he only dated women who smoked pot and liked dogs. A third handed her a breath mint. Harrison lay in bed with a fourth who insisted on ringing his friend so he could hear a British accent. Unsurprisingly, Harrison made her excuses and left.
On top of her reporting duties, Harrison was asked to write a dating column about her miserable love life for the paper's Sunday edition. Then she fell for her boss, Jack, and eventually they began an affair which she relayed in gory detail in her column, changing his name but the subterfuge fooled absolutely no one at work. At last, Harrison had found her man only to blow it through her own insecurities. Telling millions of readers the intimate details didn't help either.
Although there are tabloid tales: a restaurateur who had his head chopped off by one of his waiters, 9/11, and the sad story of an old man left widowed when his wife went out for a pizza on Christmas Eve and was killed in a hit and run accident, Tabloid Love is at its best and at its funniest when Harrison recalls her (many) dating disasters and complete inability to understand American men - or should that be men in general?
Thunderstruck - Erik Larson (Doubleday, £17.99)
One was an inventor, the other a north London dentist who murdered his showgirl wife and fled with his mistress. It would seem that little connected Marconi and Dr Crippen, except that Crippen was the first murderer to be caught by wireless telegraphy, the invention of Marconi. From this basic premise, author Larson weaves an unexpected but gripping tale. It's the story of two Edwardians and their passions - one for his invention, the other for his young girlfriend - but it is also the fascinating social history of a long gone age. The case is linked to another great murder - the man who caught Crippen was Walter Dew, who had been a detective on the unsolved Jack the Ripper murders.
Chart Throb - Ben Elton (Bantam, £17.99)
The blurb says: "Ben Elton, author of Popcorn and Dead Famous returns to blistering comic satire with a savagely hilarious deconstruction of the world of modern television talent shows". Up to a point Lord Copper. The novel is based around a "talent show" which isn't a real talent show because the makers fix it for the contestants who make good television.
There are three judges: Calvin Simms, who owns the show and appears on the American version; Rodney Root, the boyband manager and Beryl Blenheim, the earth mother with an irritating squeaky voice and a dysfunctional family. Now, what are the differences between that and The X Factor? Simon Cowell appears on the American version; Louis Walsh is a boyband manager; and Sharon Osbourne is the mother of an extremely dysfunctional family.
In the book Beryl throws and guess what - on television Osbourne throws water.
The host is Keely who is blonde and bubbly and on television Kate Thornton is blonde and bubbly.
There are some changes in the book: Beryl is a transsexual which obviously Osbourne isn't. Rodney Root sleeps with a female contestant which Walsh obviously didn't.
It is an entertaining read but "a savagely hilarious deconstruction of the world of modern television talent shows" it isn't.
Bridget Harrison - Tabloid Love (Bantam, £6.99)
Bridget Harrison is fit, funny and feisty - unfortunately, she is in a city where those qualities are not admired by men.
Few people would have the guts to give up a good job, a fun social life and a lover they hoped to marry to move to almost the other side of the world.
Harrison did just that. She was 29 when decided to live out her fantasy as a reporter on the New York Post. She knew very few people in the country and had never actually worked as a reporter but that didn't deter her. One of her first outings was to a Pimps, Players, Playboys and Prostitutes party in Brooklyn where she copped off with a fellow guest despite her long-term boyfriend back in London. When Angus, the boyfriend, arrived for a visit, Harrison knew the magic had gone and soon she was alone, trying to snag a boyfriend in a city when there are half a million more eligible women than men.
She went on dozens of dates in her search for Mr Perfect with hilarious results. One told her that she could look good if only she would make the effort. Another told her he only dated women who smoked pot and liked dogs. A third handed her a breath mint. Harrison lay in bed with a fourth who insisted on ringing his friend so he could hear a British accent. Unsurprisingly, Harrison made her excuses and left.
On top of her reporting duties, Harrison was asked to write a dating column about her miserable love life for the paper's Sunday edition. Then she fell for her boss, Jack, and eventually they began an affair which she relayed in gory detail in her column, changing his name but the subterfuge fooled absolutely no one at work. At last, Harrison had found her man only to blow it through her own insecurities. Telling millions of readers the intimate details didn't help either.
Although there are tabloid tales: a restaurateur who had his head chopped off by one of his waiters, 9/11, and the sad story of an old man left widowed when his wife went out for a pizza on Christmas Eve and was killed in a hit and run accident, Tabloid Love is at its best and at its funniest when Harrison recalls her (many) dating disasters and complete inability to understand American men - or should that be men in general?
Thunderstruck - Erik Larson (Doubleday, £17.99)
One was an inventor, the other a north London dentist who murdered his showgirl wife and fled with his mistress. It would seem that little connected Marconi and Dr Crippen, except that Crippen was the first murderer to be caught by wireless telegraphy, the invention of Marconi. From this basic premise, author Larson weaves an unexpected but gripping tale. It's the story of two Edwardians and their passions - one for his invention, the other for his young girlfriend - but it is also the fascinating social history of a long gone age. The case is linked to another great murder - the man who caught Crippen was Walter Dew, who had been a detective on the unsolved Jack the Ripper murders.
Chart Throb - Ben Elton (Bantam, £17.99)
The blurb says: "Ben Elton, author of Popcorn and Dead Famous returns to blistering comic satire with a savagely hilarious deconstruction of the world of modern television talent shows". Up to a point Lord Copper. The novel is based around a "talent show" which isn't a real talent show because the makers fix it for the contestants who make good television.
There are three judges: Calvin Simms, who owns the show and appears on the American version; Rodney Root, the boyband manager and Beryl Blenheim, the earth mother with an irritating squeaky voice and a dysfunctional family. Now, what are the differences between that and The X Factor? Simon Cowell appears on the American version; Louis Walsh is a boyband manager; and Sharon Osbourne is the mother of an extremely dysfunctional family.
In the book Beryl throws and guess what - on television Osbourne throws water.
The host is Keely who is blonde and bubbly and on television Kate Thornton is blonde and bubbly.
There are some changes in the book: Beryl is a transsexual which obviously Osbourne isn't. Rodney Root sleeps with a female contestant which Walsh obviously didn't.
It is an entertaining read but "a savagely hilarious deconstruction of the world of modern television talent shows" it isn't.
Thursday, 22 March 2007
A quizzical evening
Tuesday night and it was off to the inaugural Barnardo's charity ball. Organised by Rachel Richardson, the showbiz editor of the News of the World and hosted by Richard Bacon, it was held in the ballroom of the Riverbank Plaza on Albert Embankment.
Around 400 journalists and PRs turned up in various teams such as ITV, BBC, Channel 4, Turner Broadcasting, Talkback Thames, Sunday Mirror, Daily Star, thelondonpaper, Cosmopolitan, Cohn and Wolfe, Sky One, Henry's House and The Sun.
There were eight rounds of five questions and I was quietly confident I could produce a good showing.
Quietly confident that is until the questions started and I stared blankly around. Fortunately, my colleagues were equally blank.
Around 400 journalists and PRs turned up in various teams such as ITV, BBC, Channel 4, Turner Broadcasting, Talkback Thames, Sunday Mirror, Daily Star, thelondonpaper, Cosmopolitan, Cohn and Wolfe, Sky One, Henry's House and The Sun.
There were eight rounds of five questions and I was quietly confident I could produce a good showing.
Quietly confident that is until the questions started and I stared blankly around. Fortunately, my colleagues were equally blank.
One question was "Which actress admitted to taking cocaine in April last year?" KG said, "Jessie Wallace" but the TV and Film Editor confidently stated it was Claire King. A youthful member of the team, mishearing, said, "Yes Carole King." I said, "No, she didn't take cocaine she just said it would rain until September" and was met by a completely blank face. Oh, the perils of getting old.
Another question was: "Who is the odd one out: Caprice, Amy Winehouse or Elle McPherson?" This produced several answers: McPherson, the other two are Jewish; Winehouse, the other two have lingerie lines; McPherson, the others have released records; Winehouse, she is the only one who used to work for me, etc, etc. The answer written by Rachel was McPherson - she is the only one who has been in rehab.
In the end we came seventh and scored a creditable 26 out of a possible 40 and this is our team, minus me (camera-shy person that I am).
Wednesday night and it was back to my usual pub quiz night and we won beating off more than a dozen teams to score 57/60, a nine-point lead over the second team. Now, that's the way to do it...
Friday, 2 February 2007
Who are they aimed at?
Earlier this week I bought a copy of the latest edition of Arena. It describes itself as "the world's smartest men's magazine". The first 20 pages or so were full of fashion advertisements for the likes of Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, etc.
I do wonder why virtually every model in those advertisements looked gay. (The ones after that section did not look gay.) Now, I don't care if they are gay or not but I do wonder why fashion houses or advertising agencies employ gay-looking models when their target audience is (presumably) heterosexual men.
Eva Longoria from Desperate Housewives, who as far as I know is not a gay icon, is on the cover and inside wearing skimpy outfits or, in one pic, only some chains to cover her modesty. These are not, I would imagine, likely to appeal to gay men.
I can imagine the ads going down well in Attitude, Boyz or ReFresh but a mag aimed at straight men? Can anyone enlighten me?
Friday, 26 January 2007
We have lost a sense of proportion
Today we learned that at Exeter Crown Court, paedophile 46-year-old Keith Morris, from Newton Abbot, Devon, escaped jail after pleading guilty to three offences of causing a person under 16 to engage in sexual activity without consent and one of sexual activity with a child under 16.
Judge Graham Cottle released Morris, facing a maximum of 14 years in jail, on bail pending a pre-sentence report because of prison overcrowding. "If this case had been here last week it would have been over by now and he would be in Exeter Prison," Judge Cottle told the court.
Also today, journalist Clive Goodman was sentenced to four months in prison after pleading guilty to intercepting phone messages. On 29 November 2005 Goodman pleaded guilty to conspiracy to intercept communications without lawful authority, under the Criminal Law Act 1977.
The charges related to three members of the royal household (Helen Asprey, the personal secretary to Princes William and Harry, Jamie Lowther-Pinkerton, the princes' private secretary, and Paddy Harverson, Prince Charles's communications secretary), but the investigation found that targets also included David Blunkett, then home secretary, the minister David Miliband, the footballer Sol Campbell, and The Sun editor Rebekah Wade.
Home Secretary John Reid has recently told judges to jail only the most dangerous and serial offenders to ease prison overcrowding. Or possibly, Mr Reid reiterated sentencing guidelines.
I would not seek to defend Clive Goodman's actions which have cost him his reputation, his livelihood and, today, his liberty as well his boss, Andy Coulson, his job as well.
However, will the public interest be served by jailing a tabloid hack and letting a paedophile walk free?
Judge Graham Cottle released Morris, facing a maximum of 14 years in jail, on bail pending a pre-sentence report because of prison overcrowding. "If this case had been here last week it would have been over by now and he would be in Exeter Prison," Judge Cottle told the court.
Also today, journalist Clive Goodman was sentenced to four months in prison after pleading guilty to intercepting phone messages. On 29 November 2005 Goodman pleaded guilty to conspiracy to intercept communications without lawful authority, under the Criminal Law Act 1977.
The charges related to three members of the royal household (Helen Asprey, the personal secretary to Princes William and Harry, Jamie Lowther-Pinkerton, the princes' private secretary, and Paddy Harverson, Prince Charles's communications secretary), but the investigation found that targets also included David Blunkett, then home secretary, the minister David Miliband, the footballer Sol Campbell, and The Sun editor Rebekah Wade.
Home Secretary John Reid has recently told judges to jail only the most dangerous and serial offenders to ease prison overcrowding. Or possibly, Mr Reid reiterated sentencing guidelines.
I would not seek to defend Clive Goodman's actions which have cost him his reputation, his livelihood and, today, his liberty as well his boss, Andy Coulson, his job as well.
However, will the public interest be served by jailing a tabloid hack and letting a paedophile walk free?
Thursday, 28 December 2006
Christmas Day at the Office
As most people were busy opening presents and/or preparing far too much food for Christmas lunch, I was waiting for my car to take me into work.
The office was paying but I must say that I expected an old mini-cab or the like. Imagine my surprise when a limo pulled up and I clambered into the back to be whisked to work in luxury. It’s probably the only time that I will know what it’s like to be a national newspaper editor (whenever I have been an editor – four times so far, in case you are interested – it has been on a magazine and I have had to use the Tube like everyone else).
I was rather surprised to see a family of six looking disappointed to find that McDonald’s was closed on the day. I don’t want to be churlish but a) Who on earth has their Christmas lunch at McDonald’s? and b) How thick do you have to be not to realise that it will be shut on 25 December?
There was a skeleton staff producing the newspaper and the canteen was supplying what they called “a limited menu”, albeit free. It’s the first time I have had bacon, sausages and baked beans for Christmas dinner. Unlike the McDonald’s family, I got my fast food and still had the limo home to look forward to.
Then the company got the bill - £254! But I'm worth it!!
The office was paying but I must say that I expected an old mini-cab or the like. Imagine my surprise when a limo pulled up and I clambered into the back to be whisked to work in luxury. It’s probably the only time that I will know what it’s like to be a national newspaper editor (whenever I have been an editor – four times so far, in case you are interested – it has been on a magazine and I have had to use the Tube like everyone else).
I was rather surprised to see a family of six looking disappointed to find that McDonald’s was closed on the day. I don’t want to be churlish but a) Who on earth has their Christmas lunch at McDonald’s? and b) How thick do you have to be not to realise that it will be shut on 25 December?
There was a skeleton staff producing the newspaper and the canteen was supplying what they called “a limited menu”, albeit free. It’s the first time I have had bacon, sausages and baked beans for Christmas dinner. Unlike the McDonald’s family, I got my fast food and still had the limo home to look forward to.
Then the company got the bill - £254! But I'm worth it!!
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