Rooneygate and more news about dicks
I want to start this by looking at the justification for the latest Wayne Rooney stories. It's pretty much the same justification that we all remember from the Tiger Woods tales about what he'd been up to and what he'd been doing with his dick.
News about dicks - the same old story. Except we're meant to believe that there's a reason for all this, beyond the giggling prurience and the intrusion into someone's private life. You can see the figleaf over at the News of the World's original story:
Rooney's earlier brush with scandal came in 2004 when he confessed to visiting a seedy massage parlour in a rundown area of Liverpool for £45-a-time sex, including a romp with a 48-year-old grandmother nicknamed Auld Slapper - the first time he was caught cheating on devastated childhood sweetheart Coleen.
Since then Rooney, who played for England on Friday night at Wembley, has crafted a brand of happy family life that's helped win big-money sponsorships and endorsements.
But the tawdry truth is just a year ago he was at it again.
But interestingly enough, that defence is torpedoed by Max Clifford in today's Sun:
Publicist Max Clifford believes football fans won't be bothered by the allegations surrounding Rooney's private life — as long as he keeps on scoring goals.
Mr Clifford said: "The only thing Wayne Rooney has to worry about is his wife, whether she, like all the others, is prepared to accept her husband's alleged infidelities.
"Nobody in football gives a monkey's as long as he's winning on the pitch. Will it stop people drinking Tiger Beer? No. Will it stop people buying Coca Cola? No. Will it stop parents buying Nike for their children? No."
Well, of course it won't. But the gleeful press attempted to scramble up to the moral high ground during the Tiger Woods revelation by claiming that it was Tiger Woods's family-friendly image - and not the fact he's one of the most spectacular golfers in history - that was responsible for his ever-growing list of endorsements. Some of them are doing the same, this time - but others are being a little more honest.
Because this isn't about exposing the hypocrisy between a person's public image and private life - this is pure and simple about digging dirt. Rooney's past transgressions didn't stop him from getting endorsements, and nor will this, so long as the goals keep going in. I don't remember Avram Grant having a load of picture spreads in Hello! magazine with his wife, but that didn't stop the papers ferreting around in his private business last year.
Perhaps the most telling paragraph in all of this business is to be found in the Sun's coverage today:
Wannabe glamour model Natalie, whose dad is Wayne's uncle John, also said: "Other footballers have girls begging to have sex with them. He pays for it. Lost all my respect for him now! He's obviously got more money than sense."
I'm no prude, but there are times when even I start yearning for a gentler time before all of this stuff was considered fair game. I don't think there should be rules preventing it from being published; I just wish people, no matter how famous, could be allowed to have private lives, and there wasn't a market for this grubby kind of story. I don't have a huge amount of sympathy for Rooney at all, of course, given what he's done. But that doesn't mean I think it's a worthwhile story for the papers to be covering. But cover it they have, and not just the red-tops:
I don't care what Wayne Rooney does with his dick, just as I don't care what William Hague does or doesn't do or did or didn't do with his. Maybe that puts me in the minority, but so be it. It's always a different justification... it's about the taxpayers' money, it's about the endorsements, it's about the hypocrisy... no. No it isn't. It's about digging up sleaze, that benefits no-one, but titillates a few. That is all it has ever been about.
Equal opportunity bullying
A while ago I wrote about how it wasn't just women who get low-level bullying from newspapers and magazines - James Corden was slagged off for daring to be overweight and be seen in public without a t-shirt (meaningless or otherwise), and commenter Thomas on the post 'I'm disappointed rather than angry' points out how the Mail took the piss out of Eamonn Holmes for going to a bakery and buying cakes.
Today there's another example that reminds us that it's not just people who are deemed too chubby who feel the force of this quest for perfection in celebrity images - if you're seen as being too thin, then that's just as much reason to make fun of you. Black or white, thin or fat, male or female, they don't discriminate - well actually, they do, of course; but the point is, they'll pick on anyone. Essentially, we're back in the playground trying to find something to make fun of.
So here comes an article about radio presenter Johnny Vaughan:
Apparently he looked 'a shadow of his former self' and 'skinny and dishevelled'. Are you ready for the picture that shows the true extent of this horror? Shield your children's eyes from this awfulness:
Oh. Is that it? It just looks like, well, some normal enough-looking man, in his 40s, who's lost his hair a bit, who hasn't shaved, and doesn't appear horrifically skinny to me. But of course the main thing you want from a radio presenter is for them to be clean shaven:
Cringe-making: Vaughan even appears unshaven in a cheesy new ad campaign with co-host Lisa Snowdon for Belvita breakfast biscuits
Imagine that! Unshaven in a TV advert! Horrors! Clearly it's the beginning of the end for Vaughan, who might as well be put to sleep immediately, to spare us having to watch his further decline.
So it's not just women who get teased and picked on by these magazines and newspapers; and not just for being overweight - people who don't really appear to be unhealthily underweight, yet who look slightly different from how they might have looked several years ago, are fair game as well. But if you look at the comments, even the readers are bemused as to what they're meant to be thinking about all this, with many disagreeing that there's anything wrong with the picture at all. I guess that's the only positive to take out of it.
Every celebrity I’ve ever seen
Here is every celebrity I've ever seen. This excludes celebrities seen in locations where you might expect to see celebrities, e.g. at a football match, theatre, comedy gig, etc. My friends seem to have better luck than me - a friend once saw Rod Hull sitting on his own in a Happy Eater. If there's a better description of pathos than that then I have yet to see it.
1. Dennis Waterman, Wimbledon, c 1988.
I'd gone to Wimbledon to buy a new joystick for my ZX Spectrum, and there was Denis Waterman, in a brown leather jacket and slightly tinted glasses. Just walking down the road, like any normal person might be. I think he was doing panto at the time which might explain why he was there. We didn't exchange any words. He just walked by. But I was a bit starstruck.
2. Paul Coia, tube station (possibly Tottenham Court Road), c 1991.
I think I was on my way to Tower Records or something. And there was Paul Coia, host of many now-forgotten TV quiz shows, just standing there. I did not see Debbie Greenwood. To be honest I was not as starstruck as when I saw Denis Waterman. It felt like my celebrity spotting was on a downward trajectory.
3. Roland Rivron, some garage in Sutton, possibly Shell, c 1993.
The 'Raw Sex' star was at the night pay window, asking for a pint of milk.
4. Mmloki Chrystie, outside Baker Street tube station, 1995.
That was better. Just standing there, on a bricky early mobile phone IIRC, outside the tube station, was the bloke out of Press Gang.
5. Jesse Birdsall, some bar possibly near Wardour Street which for some inexplicable reason had a Swiss theme (in fact it might have been called St Moritz), 1996.
I'd been to see a mate's band play to a crowd of about 10, which included the bloke out of Eldorado.
6. Chris Evans, accident and emergency department, UCL Hospital (I think), c 1998.
He'd broken his arm or had somesuch similar injury. He was wearing sunglasses. It was night-time. We all knew it was him but no-one went up to him. We were all hanging around with various injuries and illnesses. "Phone call for Christopher Evans?" said the receptionist, lazily. He walked up to the desk with a 'Yes, it's me' look on his face.
7. Tony Hawks, some pub in Wimbledon, about 2001.
It had been a fairly lean time of rubbing shoulders with the great and good. But when Tony Hawks (not the skateboarding man, the other one) sat at the next table and had a pint, that made up for it.
8. Jimmy White, dreadful pub somewhere, 2002.
He returned his burnt steak as he didn't like it. He was wearing a leather jacket and looked a little bit fed up.
9. James Brown, Dublin airport, 2004.
I was minding my own business in some tacky gift shop when I bumped into the Godfather of Soul. There he was! This is probably my biggest brush with celebrity to date.
10. Kevin McCloud, struggling with a pushchair in the Glastonbury mud, 2007.
I also narrowly missed seeing Charlie Brooker and Aisleyne Horgan Wallace as I was taking a shit in the long drop as they walked past. A regret.
So, there you have it. All the celebrities I've ever seen. I think in a lot of ways I've been lucky, in others I haven't. Maybe I missed Lemmy from Motorhead by a couple of seconds here, maybe I saw Paul Coia and was fortunate to do so. Who knows?
*update*
Since writing this I've remembered other celebrity spots from my past:
11. Graham Norton, somewhere near Covent Garden, about 2002. Looked a bit pissed off. Shorter than he looks on telly.
12. Phil Tufnell, on his way home from what appeared to have been a fairly nice evening out, at about 8am, near where I used to live, about 2003.
13. Mark Lamarr, at a Beautiful South gig back in about 1993.
14. Jonathan King, prowling around in what appeared, even in those days, to be quite an eerie fashion, Reading Festival, 1994.
The amazing psychic powers of Closer magazine
I don't often write about those brightly-coloured magazines you see forlornly scattered and dogeared on dentists' waiting room tables - I'd rather spend an afternoon looking up the goatse man's arsehole or gazing at the exploded entrails of a recently-run-over badger - but the front cover of Closer magazine this week really caught my eye:
You'll see from the headline at the bottom that Cheryl has apparently cracked and turned to a psychic to help - next to a photo of her looking pensive, possibly wondering whether she's left the iron on, or, more probably, why there's some bastard with a fucking enormous camera following her around everywhere she fucking goes, whether she likes it or not, wondering whether she'll ever be able to have a normal life again, forlornly recalling those times when she could pretty much exist like a normal person without men with enormous fucking cameras chasing her around, taking pictures of her looking slightly pensive so they can be placed next to complete cobblers about her calling in a psychic for some bloody reason or other. But if she did call in a psychic, I wonder why she didn't just ask Closer magazine instead, seeing as they can actually look inside people's brains.
The bit I'm talking about is the bright yellow stuff next to Charlotte Church - and a photo of her on a holiday - or HEARTBREAK HOLIDAY as it's described. (Don't know about you, but I wouldn't go on a heartbreak holiday myself. Think I'd probably prefer a Warner Mini Break. Or a night in Prestatyn. Fuck it, even half an hour in a Travelodge would be better than a Heartbreak Holiday.) Now it's not a heartbreak holiday because she's trying to relax on a beach, but knows there's some cunt on a boat / in some bushes / hiding somewhere else with a massive camera taking pictures of her in a bikini so that mags like this can take the piss out of her bingo wings, or tits, or whatever it is about her body that's too fat / too thin this time around. No, it's because of her recent relationship split.
And look, she's comforting herself with cigs and white wine! Imagine that! An adult human being drinking alcohol - white fucking wine, at that - and smoking cigarettes. Jesus! Call social services! Call the police! Human being in "drinks and smokes" shock! Not just that, though. Not only do we know, somehow, that Church is drinking and smoking to comfort herself on her Heartbreak Holiday, but:
Secretly fears: "Who'll have me now?"
What the hell...? I wonder why the scientific community haven't been informed of the powers of Closer magazine to get inside someone's brain, just by looking at long-lens paparazzi pictures of them while they're on vacation, and find out what they're secretly fearing. Not just fearing - I mean that would be amazing enough a breakthrough, to be able to pinpoint someone else's emotions - but secretly fearing. Secretly! Just by looking at a picture of someone on a beach, you can tell what they're secretly fearing, Closer magazine? Bloody hell!
Maybe next week's Closer will have a picture of me, sat at my keyboard typing this, snapped by someone who's sneaked onto the roof of the building opposite. VOWL COMFORTS HIMSELF WITH COKE ZERO AND A FUCKING TWIX! VOWL GETS OVER LUNCHBREAK MISERY WITH BLOG WRITING AND MAYBE A CUP OF COFFEE OR SOMETHING ROUND ABOUT THREEISH!
Or even VOWL SECRETLY THINKS CLOSER MAGAZINE IS A CROCK OF FUCKING MADE-UP BULLSHIT!
A truly unpleasant experience
I've left the papers alone for a while because there are times when it becomes too polluting to keep feasting on the rancid brain sausage they keep serving up. But I read something the other day that was so truly unpleasant that I couldn't leave it alone; it turns out that I'm drawn to these things like a bluebottle to shit.
There's something about these stories that is at the same time both searingly intimate and intrusive, yet utterly cold, without empathy or understanding of the consequences of things, or even bothering to consider that if - and it's really an if - this person did try to kill herself, then do we think it's in the best of taste, or entirely ethical, or understandable, or adds anything to our understanding of anything ever, for us to speculate as to what the causes might be? Maybe we know nothing of these people's lives; maybe it's not our right to know, just because someone is a model, or an actor, or a celeb of some kind, every detail about their private lives.
But no. It's all reduced to a sordid little priapic guessing game while a woman recovers from an overdose. Was it because of this man, or this man? And the speculation just carries on:
I don't know, is it? Well, you won't be amazed to discover that we don't really learn the truth in this article. We learn what 'friends' and 'sources' say about what has happened. Isn't it always lovely that 'friends' of someone going through a trauma, instead of rushing to that person's side to help and support them, do the much more decent thing and pick up the blower to the tabloid press to make sure they stick the knife in? That is, of course, if these people quoted really exist at all. You be the judge:
‘Noemie is extremely worried about Carl and has been suffering extreme angst,’ said another source in Paris.
‘Her relationship with Claude Makelele is important to her, but only because he is the father of her child. The real love of her life at the moment is Carl.’
Is it true or not? Did someone really say it? Is it just a feeding frenzy of speculation, without any consideration of the reality of what might be happening, of the traumatic events involved for the person at the centre of it, and their family and loved ones? Or isn't that important, if this is the woman from the M&S adverts and you get to show a lot of pictures of her in her pants, so we all understand exactly what she might look like in her pants, in case we weren't aware of what she might look like in her pants?
The Mail has form with these things, of course. Who can forget the delightful muckraking over the events surrounding TV presenter Mark Speight's disappearance, with readers allowed to pitch into the debate over his character and suitability as a human being when he was - as it turned out - feeling suicidal? Don't worry: the ill-informed kneejerkers who read the story about Noemie Lenoir have been able to have their say, as well, to really enlighten us and lift our understanding of this most sensitive of issues:
Those were the worst rated comments when I read the story. But sometimes the best rated comments don't appear to be a whole world better.
I think the thing is that no comments are really right for this story, because the story isn't right either. Even if someone does try to kill themselves, isn't that a private matter, even if they're a celebrity? (There is one well known example of a politician's family member attempting suicide and newspapers agreeing not to publish details. Why do that for them, but not for other people in the public eye? Who decides who gets privacy and who doesn't?) Does it really need to be feasted upon by people who don't know these people, and who drift into meaningless speculation about what's happened and why it might have happened; then for readers to pitch in with their views on how they've lost all respect for this person due to what they've supposedly done?
It's tawdry, and demeans every single thing around it. These newspapers are like rats on the slaughterhouse floor, licking the blood off their whiskers and revelling in the stench of it all. They couldn't care less about this celebrity's life, or about the million and one complex things which can come together in a person's mind to make them feel suicidal - if this is even what happened, and there's no way of knowing for sure. They couldn't care at all. They're just hoping we click on the picture of the pretty lady in her knickers, or find the page first on a search for 'Noemie Lenoir suicide' (and it's top of the Google search results right now, so trebles all round for a job well done!), and that's all there is to it. They really don't care about the humanity of the people in these stitched-together little tales at all. They're just meat for the grinder.
There are real issues with detailing 'suicide bids' and mental health issues - and it's not just the Mail who are the big culprits when it comes to this. They're pretty much all in a dead heat when it comes to stuff like this. It's a question of being as graphic as possible, as sleazy as possible, of digging up as much dirt as possible in as short a space of time as possible - and sure, if there isn't quite someone there to speak to on the record, because for some reason those close to the person involved care more about them than getting into the papers, then fear not... you can always rely on a 'friend' or a 'source' to come up with the perfect quote to fit into your story. Chop it up, slap it together, and let everyone throw a bit of shit at someone who's come close to death.
It's low. It's miserably tawdry and intrusive. And it's depressingly predictable.
See also: Septicisle - Callous, unfeeling scum.
Simply the best at misleading you
Have a look at this front page. What do you think the story is?
Does it read to you like Cheryl Cole was pregnant and she had a miscarriage? The fact that it's referred to as 'HER BABY' might make you think that. If you glanced at the online version, you could be forgiven for coming to the same conclusion:
It's referred to there as a 'LOST BABY', which is a fairly common idiom for a miscarriage. But that's not it at all:
CHERYL Cole was planning to start a family with estranged husband Ashley when he was exposed as a love cheat.
According to her brother Andrew Tweedy Cheryl Cole, 26, was working out how to combine her career with motherhood just before they split.
So, that's no baby that ever existed at all. The baby wasn't really lost in the sense of how most people would understand 'lost baby'; it was 'lost' in the sense of a lost opportunity to perhaps have children if the couple had stayed together, which they didn't.
It reminds me of this previous attempt from the 'Simply the best' Daily Star:
When the implication was that they'd had a secret reunion - something you might have suspected through the use of the phrase 'secret reunion' and a paparazzi picture. But the photo turned out to be years old and the 'secret reunion' was something that hadn't even happened, just something that had been suggested.
You might ask why this story about the baby that never was got onto the front page of the Star in the first place. Well, I have the answer to that:
That wouldn't be the 'Star' magazine published by the Daily Star's owners Northern & Shell, would it? Why yes, it would.
My favourite bit of the whole thing, though, is the refreshing honesty in putting 'news' in inverted commas. More 'news' here... if you can call it that. Just about the most accurate thing in the whole story.
A new approach in celebrity death stories?
When looking back over the Jan Moir / Stephen Gately atrocity, a lot of people have concluded that the outrage over the abysmal and nasty article written by Moir didn't do any good. She's still in a job, and the PCC rejected the complaint - so all that anger on Twitter and elsewhere didn't achieve anything, did it?
I'm not so sure about that, though I can understand why people would like to settle into that narrative like a comfy pair of old slippers. It means there's nothing to worry about. But I would like to hope - hope against hope - that the storm the Daily Mail found itself in after Moir's ill-judged and venomous article made them, in some small way, feel they were a little more vulnerable to the outside world, and their own readers, than they were before. It's easy to dismiss the rantings of a few pointless troublemakers like me, for example, but when it's several thousand people, and several thousand readers, that's a different matter.
It's worth pointing out here that the immediate swipes at Stephen Gately just hours after he had died were not a one-off. The Mail had previously delighted in the disappearance of TV presenter Mark Speight, gleefully poring over his personal life and allowing reader comments to insult him while he was missing and, as it turned out, suicidal. Missing chef Claudia Lawrence has had her personal life intruded into, also, supposedly in the public interest - though I fail to see how. The message has always been 'Don't let the corpse get cold', although it's also important to say that the Mail are by no means the only offender when it comes to this kind of behaviour.
Today, after the death of Kristian Digby, the Mail's article* is was calm and respectful. Now you can imagine this is for all sorts of reasons, none of which are connected to the Jan Moir article, and I'm sure most of them aren't - it shouldn't be a cause for celebration when a newspaper has published a decent article, should it? - but what's important to know is that there is another story here.
The Sun, who I won't link to, have been tipped off as to the cause of death. It is, if true, a fairly embarrassing one - and one which, incidentally, benefits no-one to know about, especially in the hours just after someone has died. I couldn't give a shit how this poor man died and it's largely up to the coroner to decide these things anyway; speculation is unhelpful, possibly distressing to family and friends, and doesn't tell us anything. As ever, some copper with a keen eye for making a fast buck off the back of someone else's death by selling info to the tabs has made the relevant phone call, and the Sun have revelled in the story.
I hope that the Mail, and other papers, don't follow the Sun's line on this. I had hoped this would be the case, but sadly not. And yes, I know. Many will say this information is now 'in the public domain' and that I'm frankly rather naive if I think that everyone else won't follow the Sun's lead and revel in the details. I'm not saying that anyone shouldn't be allowed to reveal these kind of things; just that sometimes it doesn't add anything to a story, other than a kind of prurient hand-rubbing at someone else's unfortunate demise, and that I find it entirely irrelevant. My life is not enriched or improved by knowing the exact way in which this poor man died, and I don't think anyone else's either. And spare me any argument about needing to be accurate and report the facts; funny how these arguments only turn up when it's a matter of intruding into someone's personal life and revealing embarrassing details, and never about real investigations into matters of genuine public interest.
This was a human being, after all, with friends and family who are all grieving right now. How does it benefit anyone, and how is it in the public interest, to speculate over the cause of death? And now answer me this: how the hell is it right to allow these kinds of comments just hours after someone has died?
Hilarious. Look, I may well be wrong, but I hope I'm not. It's just that there appears to be not quite so much appetite over at the Mail to 'not let the corpse get cold' or to come in with the other angle on Kristian Digby's death. I was wrong, unfortunately, but you've got to have hope. You've always got to try and be optimistic about these things, and hope that people will have high standards; I don't like being eternally cynical. I always have hope. So often it's proved wrong, but never mind. You have to have hope.
You have to hope, also, that some columnist doesn't use it as easy fodder for a pointless rant about people's lifestyles. You can hope, anyway, and I always do. You never know: perhaps this man's death can be treated with the dignity and respect it deserves. Not by the Sun, obviously, but perhaps by others.
Incidentally, it could be argued - and may even be argued by someone, somewhere - that it's in the public interest to let people know the details of deaths like this so that others don't have it happen to them. I would believe that a whole lot more if the very newspapers who do this didn't constantly argue that if school-age children are taught about sex education, they will automatically go out and have sex. Funny how other inquests about sudden deaths, not involving celebrities, don't attract that same public service journalism, then.
*updated updated* Apparently there was another story (see comments) with a big headline referring to the alleged manner of Kristian Digby's death, which has apparently disappeared. Maybe it's not too late to hope after all... or is it? Even so, they're still including it in their original story (at the time of writing, though that my change yet again).
* This may of course change, which is one of many reasons why I am often loath to link to Mail stories. They are often updated on the same URL and end up being entirely different. All I can say is, at the time of writing, this was what I found. And, silly me, it did go and change.


























