Lord Justice Leveson is bonkers. No, he must be because that nice David Cameron promised us that he would implement the recommendations in His Lordship’s report into the state of the Press “unless it was bonkers”. The Leveson enquiry heard loads of witnesses recounting how they had been hounded, harried, hacked and humiliated. It learned all about the coterie of journalists, coppers and politicians in and out of each other’s expense accounts and giving each other jobs (“no, no, after you“). And it got to read the text exchanges between Dave and flame-haired temptress and Murdoch henchwoman Rebekah Brooks, messages so nauseating that they would have embarassed a pustulating and priapic schoolboy.
At the end of 8 months of this stuff, His Lordship went away, thought about it and provided a 2,000 page opus. He decided that our tabloid Press mostly comprises a bunch of shits who would piss on their own grannies for a byeline and concluded that Press self-regulation doesn’t work, has never worked and will never work and that it needed some independent regulation underpinned, if necessary, by statute. In this he has hit the nail on the head. After all, you would not want the Krays to be in charge of the criminal justice system. You would not have the General Medical Council presided over by Doctors Shipman and Crippen. But the pillars of integrity from Fleet Street still insist that they should regulate themselves. For example there is Paul Dacre, editor of The Daily Mail which libelled an innocent Bristol man, Christopher Jefferies, who was falsely accused of murdering his tenant and whom the Mail branded a weirdo (based mostly, it appears, on his being a Liberal Democrat and, horror of horror WAS UNMARRIED). There is sleazebucket “Lord” Richard Desmond whose vile rag The Daily Express spent years insisting that the McCanns were complicit in their daughter’s disappearance. And then there is Rupert Murdoch, whose News of the Screws employees hacked the phone of the world and his wife, not to mention that of murdered schoolgirl Milly Dowler. You may remember Rupert tottering into the House of Commons’ Culture Media and Sport Select Committee in a passable imitation of a refugee from the Home for the Terminally Bewildered (© WTF’s old pal Jan Lewis) and declaring that this was the most humble day of his life. At that point he appeared to be on his last legs but went on to make the most remarkable recovery since the late and unlamented General Pinochet was shipped back to Chile as too ill to stand trial for war crimes and then sprang from his wheelchair and samba’ed across the runway. These are the people who are asserting their inalienable right to ruin people’s lives in the name of newsprint.
Barely had Lord Justice Leveson finished outlining his report to the World than Dave stood up in the House of Commons and said umm, err, it was all very difficult and we mustn’t rush into any form of statutory regulation or the next thing you know the Showbiz editor of The Sun will be strung up by his goolies in the middle of Wapping. It pains WTF to have to agree with Nick Clegg, a man so plastic that he has to step away from a scented candle, and it is still more galling to have to agree with super-smug Hugh Grant, for whom a slap around the chops is the only reasoned response of all right thinking people, but Dave has got it very wrong on this one. But then what can you expect from a man who thinks “LOL” means “lots of love”?
Let us open today’s proceedings with the dreadful Denise Welch,sometime actress and now presenter on Loose Women. Denise attended the Rio Ball in Manchester with her toyboy AND her cuckolded ex husband (mind you, he had his new woman with him, it was all very cosy) and looking quite, quite frightful.
Loose Women features a gaggle of ladies past the first flush of youth, in fact more hot flush than first flush, attempting to be risqué on lunch time television. Instead they just manage to be loud and annoying. WTF would rather dip her head in a bucket of shit than watch this dross although the effect would be about the same, as is looking at Denise flashing her all like a superannuated Carmen Miranda. LOOK AT ME!!!! No thanks, love. Yikes.
This week brought us the British Fashion Awards, and some ghastly ghastliness was inflicted upon devoted fashionistas who scan the newspapers and internet when they should be working or out doing good works amongst the poor. Here is Delilah, back after only a few weeks away, wearing a hideous concoction by Julien Macdonald.
WTF has not forgiven Julien since he put talentless but titsy Kelly Brook in a bit of tinsel at some film premiere and called it a dress. At the risk of sounding like her own grandmother, WTF observes that in the old days people used to walk the red carpet because they were in the bloody film and not because they had a large pair of knockers and flashed their arse for the paparazzi, but there it is. Anyway Delilah is attired like Miss Haversham and is displaying unwarranted amounts of tit, leg and stomach not to mention a train like a steamrollered ostrich.
Also present at the Awards was Stella McCartney who won an Award. WTF is getting seriously worried about Stella.
In Luke 24 it is recounted how Jesus said unto whoever it was He said it unto, “Ye will surely say unto me this proverb, Physician, heal thyself: whatsoever we have heard done in Capernaum, do also here in thy country”. He should have had a word with Stella, whose recent outfits have become ever more ridiculous. If you are going to get people to fork out a fortune for your wares, you really should not appear at a Fashion Awards event looking like a cross between one of the Seven Dwarves and a rhinestone scuba diver who has farted in her wetsuit.
We now have two young persons looking horrible. The one on the left is Jaime Winstone. The one of the right is Scarlett Etienne and they were both at the Cuckoo Club and Show Pony Pop Up Event at Grosvenor Place last Tuesday.
Jaime is the daughter of one-note-only actor Ray Winstone whose main contributions to the Arts consist of appearing in films and using the word fuck (and worse) as often as humanly possible or driving WTF to distraction by doing the voice overs in adverts for the-cockney-man’s-preferred-spending-options i.e. betting and white vans. Ray has appeared in Hollywood movies like The Departed where his attempt at sounding American landed him squarely in the Hall of Infamy for Shite Accents right up (down?) there with Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins and James Coburn as an Australian officer in The Great Escape. (They had to keep reminding the audience that James was supposed to be an Aussie by making repeated references to kangaroos). Anyway, I digress…. Jamie is an actress but spends more time getting pissed and wearing nasty outfits, of which this is a prime example. You could torture WTF with hot implements and she would still be unable to explain what that Turandot headwear is all about. As for Scarlett, her website informs us that she is highly sought after in the music business. If you say so, dear. Scarlett is dressed as Wonderwoman playing American Football in a dog collar leading WTF to ask herself whether she is not showcasing the new uniform for Church Of England lady vicars to try and win votes in their bid to be Bishops. WTF does not know why Scarlett is holding that plastic bag but perhaps it is to hand to onlookers to throw up in upon beholding the state of her and her mate.
But if you want to see emetic, here it comes in a big fat handful in the (rotund) shape of Gossip singer Beth Ditto. I am warning you, this is not at all nice. At all.
WTF has herself made substantial contributions into the bulging coffers of Sara Blakely, founder of the Spanx Power Panties empire, but that does not mean that she wants to see them worn coram publico by any woman of any size, let alone by Beth, whose thighs make the average Sumo wrestler seem under-nourished. Spanx are supposed to be worn UNDER clothes not AS clothes. There’s “good for her, she doesn’t give a damn” and there’s “fuck me that’s horrible”. This is not just “fuck me that’s horrible”, it has left “fuck me that’s horrible” five miles back down the road.
OK Readers, that’s your lot for this week. You were unutterably splendiferous with your contributions last week. Keep them coming by hitting the Comment button.